Sweet Surrender (13 page)

This begs the question: what to do? Alcoholism is a serious problem in Australia and can be linked not just to illness, but to crime and family
breakdown. It's not something to be flippant or dismissive about. Yet in truth I can't see myself as a teetotaller. When I'm trekking I can go for days or weeks without a drink and it doesn't worry me in the slightest, but I simply can't imagine sitting at a table in France, eating fabulous food and sipping a glass of sparkling mineral water. Owning up to the fact that my drinking has sometimes had unhappy consequences is a good first step, and perhaps it will suffice. Time will tell.

I hadn't done a lot of writing during my trip to France in 2007 so I came home to the farm feeling a bit guilty that I had taken the time out at all. Even though he said very little, David was quietly seething. I had planned and booked the trip without consulting him first: I presented him with a fait accompli, and then jumped on the plane.

It's not unusual for me to avoid talking certain issues through with David, partly due to my avoidance of confrontation. I knew that if I had told him I wanted to go to France he would have put up objections and that would have resulted in an argument. So instead I booked a flight, then told him afterwards of my plans. My view is that as long as we own the house I want to keep going back. His view, as ever, is that we should sell. This is one reason why I conduct walking tours of south-west France every year, to help cover the costs of the place and reduce the financial strain, even if the other stresses of owning it must continue.

My first priority when I arrived home this time was to catch up with the family, so I drove over to Mudgee to celebrate Ella's seventh birthday. Aaron and Lorna had come a long way since the tense period of their initial separation, and things had really settled down, especially
from the children's perspective. In some ways I have also adjusted to the change, although there have been financial and emotional ramifications that have worried me deeply. Anyone who thinks that separation and divorce are the easy way out is kidding themselves.

After the trip to Mudgee, I had to get organised for a four-day photo shoot at the farm. The cookbook I was writing had an entire section devoted to living and cooking at the farm, and both the publisher and designer wanted to feature the place in the book. We threw the doors open to a stylist, a photographer and a home economist; the plan was to cook and photograph at least thirty-five of the featured recipes over a period of four days. They also asked if we could gather as many of the family members around as possible, so they could be captured at a typical, full-on family lunch. Miriam flew from Adelaide with the four boys especially for the occasion. It was an enormous undertaking, but a great deal of fun.

The home economist made lists and shopped for all the recipe ingredients. The entire length of the farmhouse's central hallway was soon filled with neat stacks of food, sorted into piles according to the recipe and in order of preparation. Our daughter-in-law Simone, who was doing a part-time chef's course at TAFE, wanted to be part of the action, and her contribution proved invaluable.

I have a variety of cooking options in our kitchen at Yetholme. There's an old wood stove that has both an oven and cast-iron cooktop; there's a gas cooktop that also has a wok burner; and there's a large, modern electric stove. All of these appliances were going at full burn throughout the shoot. We cut and sliced and diced and mixed and made everything from banana custard to David's favourite recipe for san choy bao.

The four boys, all hollow legs, had been told to keep out of the way. They hovered on the back verandah like hungry magpies, taking in all the wonderful aromas from our test kitchen. As each recipe was completed it was ‘arranged' by the stylist and then photographed
under natural light. When each shot was completed I carried the cooling food back to the kitchen, where it was promptly devoured by my eager grandsons. It was hilarious. They hoovered down broad bean salad, a vast tiramisu, a roast leg of lamb with all the trimmings, roast pork and crackling, scones, roast chicken with stuffing, melon and ham, salad Niçoise and a platter of rich French cheeses, all in the course of one afternoon. They had no concern for the order of service; desserts coming before main courses wasn't a problem for them, only that the food kept rolling off the production line.

The family lunch was a triumph, with all of our grandchildren jammed around our long dining table – except for Isabella who, sadly, was having a bad episode of stomach problems, and was in Katoomba Hospital on a rehydrating drip.

Work such as this, where the whole family gets involved, is always enjoyable. Even though I had explained to the children what it was all about, they didn't really understand it fully until the book was published and they giggled to see themselves as part of it – lighting the dining-room fire, setting the table and climbing the big old cypress tree in the front garden. I am constantly amused and reassured by my grandchildren's blasé attitude towards my work. During the time I was trapped in Sydney, doing
The Catch-Up
, I had regular phone conversations with my Adelaide grandchildren because it was impossible to visit them while I was working such a gruelling schedule.

Chatting to the oldest, Eamonn, I asked how things were going at school and what sport he was playing, then casually asked if he had seen my TV show.

‘What show?' he asked.

‘Hasn't Mummy told you I'm doing a daily television show?'

‘No,' was his uninterested response. End of topic.

Miriam later insisted that she told the kids about the show, but of course they would have been at school every day when it went to air, with no chance of ever seeing it. To me it was a very healthy sign that
he didn't give two hoots if his grandmother appeared on daytime TV. He was much more interested in knowing when I was next coming down to Adelaide to take them all out for a slap-up yum cha lunch. Any delusions I might have had about being famous were instantly, and quite charmingly, squashed.

Alzheimer's is a condition that people joke about. It's such an obvious target for humour, involving older, powerless people who are confused and vulnerable and can't fight back, but there's probably also an element of fear in the jokes. For it's a disease that results in total helplessness, as tangled fibres in the brain gradually strangle every last shred of memory, killing brain cells, and eventually shutting the whole body down. It's horrific, in every possible way.

Sometimes it seems to me that having found my sister, Margaret, after forty-nine years of separation, I lost her again within a moment. As a result of her Alzheimer's she has forgotten everything. Everything. She was born in August 1933, twenty months after her brother, Jon. Their mother, Veronica, took her own life when Margaret was six years old – nobody really knows why.

Jon and Margaret's lives were certainly brighter when Muriel entered the scene as their stepmother, but by the time the family returned home to Sydney from Dad's American posting, they were under a lot of stress. Muriel was caring for two teenagers as well as two children under the age of three. They lived in a small, upstairs flat with a glassed-in verandah which served as a bedroom for Margaret, and me and my
brother Dan (fourteen months younger than me) when we arrived on the scene. A teenage girl and two babies in one small room. The family had no car and no labour-saving devices; there was a dark, dingy laundry in the basement equipped only with a gas copper and wringer. Mum was soon exhausted from having two babies in rapid succession, and she lost interest in housework and keeping in touch with her friends and family. Dad was drinking heavily and she was drinking quite a bit too, in spite of her successive pregnancies. It was a recipe for domestic disaster.

Dan was an acute asthmatic in the days before drugs had been developed to control breathing difficulties. He was also highly intelligent and highly strung. I remember lying in bed at night listening to him rhythmically banging his head against his pillow and moaning until finally, exhausted, he fell asleep. I can't imagine why Mum didn't come to comfort him – I recall her telling me in detail about the nights she sat up with him when he was in the throes of a severe asthma attack, and I'm sure she did. However I believe his almost nightly need for attention was ignored and I have been told that his ‘head banging' could have been a sign of emotional neglect.

I was a healthy and cheerful baby, but from a very young age I was certainly frightened by our father's frequent explosions of anger, and often lay in bed listening to my parents' protracted and heated rows in the next room. Margaret must have been even more acutely aware of the situation. She was called on to help my mother with ‘the children', and I believe that before and after school she was my primary carer while I was a baby and toddler. Then she left. On her eighteenth birthday she simply packed her bag and left the family forever, never looking back. Doing her best, I am quite sure, to forget.

At first, Margaret lived with the family of a student friend from East Sydney Tech, where she had recently started a three-year course to qualify as an art teacher. She found a part-time factory job and supported herself until she graduated, then she taught art in various
country schools until leaving for the UK. She went on to Canada where she continued to work as a teacher while furthering her qualifications, completing not one but two master's degrees, and eventually being awarded a PhD in art education.

She made no attempt to contact the family, no doubt fearing that if she called our father might answer the phone. She knew how angry he was at her leaving, because there had been a terrible family row on the day of her departure. So she effectively closed the door on further communication.

In most circumstances a person who had reached Margaret's level of Alzheimer's would have been placed in a care home of some description. They would have been given a lot more anti-anxiety and sedating drugs to make them more passive and manageable. However, Margaret's husband, Ken, is devoted to her care and does all he can to ensure she remains at home for as long as is possible.

Once I had accepted Margaret's condition and the distressing downhill spiral of the disease, I determined that I should spend as much time staying with her and Ken at their farm as possible. I have a busy schedule at the best of times, with two walking tours a year and always a book on the boil, not to mention my own garden and family. However it became obvious to me that I could be of tremendous assistance, not just in a physical or practical sense, but in being able to lift the mood of the household and provide some on-the-spot respite for Ken, who is gradually recovering from his own medical problems. David has been fantastically supportive of my desire to spend time in Canada because he understands my deep emotional connection with my sister.

From my perspective I am grateful that I am able to go and help as often as I can. I try to go for six to eight weeks at a time, several times a year. In the not-too-distant future I will probably just go and stay indefinitely. My belief is that my sister had a pretty poor start to
her life. Her mother's death, her alcoholic father and the distressing atmosphere of her family home forced her to virtually run away as soon as she was able. As her only sister, I feel if I can help to make this part of her life a little happier or more comfortable and secure, then I will do everything in my power to do so.

By the time my cookbook was nearly finished, I was concerned about Margaret's deteriorating condition. I had regular phone conversations with Ken at the weekends, and also exchanged emails with Margaret's best friend, Fran, another teacher who had travelled with her to Canada in the 1960s. Both of them warned me I would be shocked when I saw my sister again, that she had lost a lot of cognitive function and had started suffering from anxiety, a normal factor in advanced Alzheimer's cases.

Here it was, late October, and so much had happened my in life and in hers. I was apprehensive but also looking forward to seeing Margaret and Ken again and getting a handle on the situation. I spotted them immediately as I came through the arrival doors at the airport – Ken is very tall and stands head and shoulders above the crowd. Margaret was by his side, looking pale and slightly troubled. I threw my arms around them both and made eye contact with her. It was obvious to me that at that precise moment she had absolutely no idea who I was. Her puzzlement could no longer be disguised.

It was amazing that Ken had continued coping at home with Margaret's illness. He had begun taking her two times a week to a
daycentre for dementia sufferers, and that gave him a brief respite from her round-the-clock care. Margaret was less and less able to help with the basic food preparation for their evening meal, so they now went out to dinner sometimes three or four times a week. Family members and friends invited them over for meals on a regular basis, but it was becoming increasingly tricky because Margaret found it almost impossible to sit at a dining table waiting for a meal to be served. She was restless and anxious, and required medication to settle her down when she became agitated.

Since my departure the previous Christmas, a series of trained carers had been coming to the house to help bathe Margaret, start the dinner and manage a few household chores. This set my mind at rest somewhat, knowing that Ken was getting support and that Margaret was so well looked after. She had gained weight since my last visit and was looking a little neater and tidier. I realised that before the carers came on the scene she had probably not been showering or washing her clothes very often, and that routine grooming tasks such as nail clipping and hair cutting had been beyond her.

The carers were warm and efficient. I decided it would be a good idea to follow them as they worked with Margaret, to pick up tips on the best way of managing her. It's very confronting for a proud, independent woman to suddenly need help getting into a bath or to dress, and I didn't want to offend her or overstep the mark. Up until now, my relationship with my sister had been affectionate but not intimate. I realised the time had arrived to step over the line and take a different role as one of her carers, and I was more than a little apprehensive.

The first night the carer arrived while I was cooking dinner. These days Margaret wanted to get into bed almost as soon as the meal was finished, as she could no longer sit and relax in front of the television. The bedroom was her refuge. So after dinner I followed Margaret and the carer down the hallway to get organised for a bath. While the hot water was cascading into the deep spa in the ensuite we started
looking through the drawers for some clean pyjamas. Each drawer was in a state of disarray. There were handbags and unopened mail in the sock drawer, and shoes in the underwear drawer, and when we finally found the drawer containing nighties we also uncovered a cat bowl full of mouldy cat food. I couldn't help laughing, although the implications were frightening. The chest of drawers reflected Margaret's total confusion. I realised I would need to start sorting through her personal effects to try to restore at least some semblance of order. I took it upon myself to sort through her cupboards and wardrobes on the mornings when she was at the daycentre, and it was also agreed that I should get her into a hot bath at least four times a week.

After her relaxing hot bath, Margaret fell happily into bed and was asleep within moments. I joined Ken in the family room, watching television, and he updated me on Margaret's circumstances. They had seen a specialist several times who at the last visit had recommended increasing Margaret's daily dose of a medication that helped cognitive function. However her agitation was intensifying and the specialist wanted to prescribe various drugs to calm her down. To sedate her. Ken deeply opposed the idea of drugging Margaret to make her docile. This had always been one of his main objections against sending her into a care facility. He had visited a few such homes, and every time he was confronted by patients sitting, passive, staring vacantly into space, apparently drugged to the eyeballs. He also knew in his heart that Margaret simply wouldn't be happy living away from home, and that she would become even more confused and anxious.

‘I know she would hate it, and so would I,' he said. ‘I'd be lonely here without her. I'd really miss her.'

I had to do whatever was possible to help Ken achieve his aim of keeping Margaret at home for as long as possible. I realised that inevitably it would become unsustainable, but I had no idea when that moment would arrive. Until you have walked down the path of
Alzheimer's, it's difficult not to find such uncertainty daunting, but after a while, it becomes normal.

As Ken and I chatted, Margaret suddenly appeared in the doorway, bright as a button. Her face was still so expressive, with her large green eyes and captivating smile. She joined us for a few moments, then wandered away again. Back to bed. Then up again for another wander. Once or twice she emerged with several layers of daytime clothes over her pyjamas. Two pairs of slacks and three cardigans. I gently persuaded her to peel off the layers and coaxed her back to bed.

I discovered the pattern of their nights together. Ken would fall asleep in his big recliner chair in front of the television. Margaret would get up and down restlessly and come looking for him. Eventually he would go to bed, usually after midnight, and she would settle for a couple of hours and then start wandering again. His sleep was constantly disturbed by her night ramblings, and they both got their best rest after 6 am. I rose early, but let them sleep late. Their closeness was very touching.

Twice a week, we dropped Margaret at the daycentre. I used this free time to do some more work on the final edit of the cookbook and try to restore some order around the house. One day, Ken and I spent three hours doing nothing but sifting through her things; it was quite an adventure uncovering bits and pieces she had filed and hidden away in strange places for years. There were small bundles of cash and mail that had never been opened and cheques that had never been presented at the bank. There were household items from the kitchen cupboards and even an empty wineglass with the traces of a good red. It was at the back of the sock drawer. There were letters from friends, letters from me, half-eaten bags of sweets, and a few sketches done on one of the art group days. I felt as though I was invading her personal space, stepping into her private bewilderment.

I also went through the wardrobe. Margaret always preferred very plain, good-quality blouses, slacks and jumpers. She's not a frilly girl
at all, and owns very few dresses or high-heeled shoes. I realised most of the clothes hadn't been washed in quite some time. They were not dirty, as such, just rather stale-smelling where they had been worn and hung again at night. I gradually washed every item, discarding those that were frayed or had holes; I made small repairs and replaced lost buttons. I enjoyed setting her clothes to rights. It was satisfying and I also somehow felt a connection with her through the lovely things she wore. It was as though I was gaining a greater insight into my sister, who she was and what her life had been like all those years before we met again.

The carers didn't work weekends, so we decided it would be a good idea if I gave Margaret her regular bath. Even though she had always preferred to take a shower, the carers had discovered that the hot water really soothed her. I ran a bath in the ensuite adjoining my bedroom rather than in the deep spa. I filled the tub with hot water sprinkled with fragrant oils and then went looking for Margaret, who was wandering yet again. When I suggested a bath she looked unimpressed.

‘I don't need a bath. I had one this morning.' She hadn't, of course.

‘But I've already run the bath. I'd hate to waste the water.'

‘Oh all right then, if I must.'

Margaret undressed with some difficulty, then I helped her step into the bath. As she slipped beneath the steaming water she let out a deep sigh. She put her head back and closed her eyes and I gently washed her arms and legs, massaging them to help the oils soak into her skin, which looked rather dry.

‘Isn't this lovely,' she said, opening her eyes and looking at me sweetly. ‘Do you have someone nice to do this for you at home?'

It was such a tender moment. The intimacy of helping her let go of her troubles, even if just for a few precious moments.

I knew that she often felt fretful and worried. That her anxiety was a result of her confusion and her knowledge that she was losing her grip on the real world.

Just imagine living in a world that has no reality. Where commonplace things become meaningless and nothing makes any sense. It's a very frightening world and the most awful part is that you know something is dreadfully wrong and you just can't work out what it is.

This is Margaret's world. She's still inside there somewhere, the real Margaret. The whole Margaret. She's trapped inside a brain that simply doesn't work anymore.

I smoothed a warm, wet washer over her forehead.

‘Just relax, Margaret. Everything is fine. Everything is OK. There's nothing to worry about.'

While I was in Canada, two major events occurred back home. The Australian government changed overnight, in general elections that I was sad to miss. I love election night, even if the voting goes against my particular political beliefs. This was the first time I had been out of the country for a federal poll, and I cursed missing out on a good party with the television going strong and lots of lively debate about the swings and voting trends. David kept me posted, and so did Miriam. There were 3 am calls and lots of texts and emails as the results came pouring in.

The other big event was David's Raymond Longford Award. It's the highest accolade the Australian Film Institute can bestow on an individual for their contribution to screen culture, named in honour of one of Australia's great filmmaking pioneers. For my husband this was the highlight of his career, and of course he was deeply disappointed that I wouldn't be able to fly to Melbourne to be with him on the big night. Although it was to be televised in Australia, I wouldn't be able to see him receive his award, or hear his acceptance speech. I was disappointed. But he took Aaron along, and it was a great bonding moment for them.

I encouraged Ken to take advantage of my presence in Canada to
take some time for himself; to go to local agricultural meetings and to socialise with friends and family away from the pressures of caring for Margaret. He had an invitation to the annual dinner of his late father's army regiment, a very male-oriented gathering that he has always enjoyed attending. He looked dashing when he came down the hall from the bedroom, dressed to the nines in a black dinner suit, highly polished shoes, a bow tie and a white silk scarf. Margaret looked amazed to see her husband dressed so elegantly. I took a photograph of them together.

The next day he presented me with a copy of the evening's menu. It is traditional to serve game at this particular regimental dinner. Local game food. I was appalled when I realised what they had eaten. I thought it was the most bizarre, hilarious and politically incorrect meal I could ever imagine:

My seven-week stay in Canada passed all too quickly, a lovely time in many ways, but worrying. I was concerned about future care for both Margaret and Ken. He had been diagnosed with a form of cancer; the treatment made him feel weak and lethargic. I could easily see them getting into difficulty unless some more permanent help was put in place.

One of the women in Margaret's art group told us that she employed a full-time live-in carer for her mother, who was in her nineties and no longer able to care for herself. The assistance was organised through
a scheme supported by the Canadian government. Workers trained in geriatric care were brought in from the Philippines under a two-year contract; they worked six days a week, lived on the premises, and were around in the wee small hours of the morning if there was an urgent problem.

Ken made inquiries and put his name on a register of people wanting to contract a carer. It would take three to four months for a suitable person to be matched to Margaret's needs. In my view it wasn't the perfect solution, but it was certainly better than the existing arrangements.