Death In The Morning

Tymooreart.com

It was a morning like every other morning. I crawled out of bed to the sound of the alarm, 5 am to prepare for my 35-kilometre journey to work. At the time, I was working in Bangkok and though I didn't start until 8:30, the traffic and the distance necessitated an early start.

After a quick shower I dressed and prepared to leave when I decided to check my email. 
And there it was as bold as brass. Title : Mum has died.

 It took a second or so to register. I wouldn't say disbelief, for it wasn't totally unexpected she was 86, but a surreal feeling of being momentarily detached. My mother was dead, full stop, end of a story.

I spent years wondering how I would react when one of my parents died. The moment had come and to be blunt it wasn't the way I expected. After the initial surprise ( my brother sent the email and is always direct and straight to the point) I gathered myself and went to work as usual.

Never being close to my mother, I had over the years minimal contact. When I lived in Adelaide I would go visit my parents maybe 3 to 4 times a year, for half an hour or so. Anything longer and we used to get on each other's nerves, never seeing eye to eye. Arguments broke out easily, the visits were literally short, sharp and shiny. We just never connected as adults, let alone mother and son.

Anyway, I found myself spending that day thinking about possibilities. What if  we had been close? Would my reaction be different, how different? What if she had died 30 years earlier? Does your own age dictate the way you react?  Lots to ponder and reflect on. 

More importantly, that day I thought about my own childhood, when I was young and my mother wasn’t an old lady. I remembered things I hadn’t thought about for years. Little things that don’t really matter, but reminded me of the tenuous link we shared as mother and son. She wasn’t a natural mother and in hind sight I think she struggled with her 4 children’s upbringing. Not to say she neglected us, we had more than adequate food, shelter and was looked after, but she lacked an emotional connection with us all - empathy. She was mechanical in the way she did things and that extended to the way she brought up her children. I assumed she loved us, but I never felt it. Nothing was ever said or done to demonstrate it or if there was; I just don’t remember.

The reflection only lasted a day and then life went back to normal for me.

As the old adage goes, we are a product of our upbringing. I look into a mirror these days and see my mother’s face as I get older. I notice the way I act at times is the way my mother did; the way I detested as a youth. We should all learn by our life’s mistakes, though fighting powerful inherent forces that lie within is not so easy. 

It’s interesting to talk to others about this. Some feel it's strange that I never grieved about her death, in fact I was and remain rather neutral in my feelings; somewhat empty. She occupies my thoughts only when something reminds me of my youth. Like all of us, unless we become famous we are only remembered through living memory; children and maybe grandchildren then forgotten for all eternity. In the grand scheme of life, individuals mean very little, the specious propagates unabated through numbers until itself is eventually replaced by something more adept to life.

And circle of life continues on.

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We’re captive on a carousel of time…

Joni Mitchell  1968

     

A Rat's Life

The sun slowly set over the deep dense green jungle and beyond, the crest was slowly being devoured by the ever- darkening aqua blue sea; time to become active. The household would soon be quiet.  The human occupants go to bed early as they get up before dawn to work in the adjacent plantation.  Their footsteps are a constant reminder that danger is not far away. Though having said that Ratso did feel rather secure in the space below the wooden floorboards where there was only enough room for his friends, family, insects and the odd spider or two.  This didn't mean it was always harmonious, oh no siree, many a time there were scuffles over territory and food.  Ratso and his family easily outmuscled the others and had done so for a long time now; maybe 6 months or more.  No, the only thing they were really concerned about were the humans above.   Making too much noise could prove fatal.  Too many fights or scuffles amongst the underfloor occupants would result in some form of human intervention. 

Over time members of the family and other clans would go out hunting for food and never return.  Rats' memories are not very long so, they were soon forgotten.  The daily struggle for life saw to that; no point worrying about others when your own survival was at stake.

The security of living under the floor boards had its downside, the heat was stifling always and it wasn't possible to leave during the day to find relief.  The cover of darkness proved the only safe refuge for scavengers like Ratso; true kings of the nocturnal household travelling far and wide to find nourishment for themselves and their families. 

The humans help a lot, of course.  They are the perfect species to be living with. Not very clean, they leave plenty of food scraps for the family to eat: a reliable all year round supply that never dried up. 

The muffled sounds of the humans above, dimmed into nothingness as the last of them went to sleep.  Waiting for another half an hour to be certain, Ratso started his nightly routine by forcing his body through a small gap between the skirting and the floorboards. The kitchen was in a greater mess than usual, plenty of pickings tonight.  

Saturday night was party night.  The human occupants didn't have to work the next day, so enjoyed an evening of free flowing beer, food and music. 

Ratso raised his long triangular nose to the air and like the king of rodents he was, perused the multitude of complex odours that hung in the air. One simply delectable smell caught his attention.  A strong sharp pungent irresistible  odour drew him to a corner of the house he had never previously ventured to.  So powerful was the urge to get to it that he ignored the usual offerings he would normally indulge in. 

Total darkness wasn't a hindrance when it came to finding food.  A keen sense of smell was all that was needed.  This delectable rat perfume was irresistible and drew him trancelike to his final destination. 

He hardly noticed the long steel tubular frame, but as his front paws reached up to finally grasp the prize that awaited him, the snapping sound of metal on metal brought him abruptly back to reality.  Turning quickly to escape, he realised the entrance was no longer there.  Confusion reigned as he ran around in circles in a fruitless exercise for freedom.   

The first glint of sunlight graced the tops of the trees like a sleepy ballerina  trying her first movements out for the day.   Foot steps from in front of the house purposefully strutted down the side path. A hand appeared from nowhere and Ratso suddenly became airborne inside his steel prison.

A loud splashed followed and Ratso felt his fur being penetrated with frigid river water, while a cold shiver of fear ran down his spine.  Lungs engulfed, bursting, struggling to obtain air. Head arched back, legs rotating at a furious rate, frantic mouth movements; then a calming gentle realisation, the feeling of giving in and enjoying the last sensation of settling onto a cushion of the finest duck feathers, sinking deeper and deeper until there was nothing else to remember. 

Rattus Rattus

    

A SMOKER'S STORY

I was walking into the bank this morning when I passed a young slender teenager who was looking rather solemn, leaning against the wall with a cigarette hanging out the corner of his mouth.  The image created made me reflect on the previous evening's conversation.

Whilst sitting around the kitchen table, the talk turned to smoking or to be more specific the health risks associated with it.  The topic was very poignant because the grandfather of this particular family had died of lung cancer in his early forties some 30 odd years ago and currently his youngest son is about the same age and a smoker.

As I walk the streets of Sandakan, I often see many young and old smoking.  Of course I don’t know the percentage of  those who do smoke but I suspect it is quite high compared to other parts of the world. 

This is not going to be a piece on 'stop smoking or else', but of   the choices we make during our life.

In another life, I used to work as a nurse in Adelaide and in that capacity I had to deal with a lot of different people; some pleasant, some not so. 

 This took place almost 40 years ago. I don’t remember the the name of the man central to my story, so for the sake of this tale we’ll call him Harry.

Harry was the sort of person who you could take too almost immediately. Despite his debilitating condition, he came across as chirpy, cheerful and personable. He struck up conversations with almost everybody on the ward.  I was 19 and very shy but I immediately felt comfortable in his presence. At the time, he would have been in his early seventies but looked much older.  His craggy-character-filled face told of a life of excesses and through his constant stories, obviously one he never regretted. Ever the optimist he refused to look at anything in a negative light.  He must have been in excruciating pain but brought an immediate cheer to the otherwise depressing environment of the ward.

You see this particular ward was for amputees.  Mostly people who had experienced trauma of some sort, severe diabetics, or in the case of Harry sufferers of PVD or peripheral vascular disease.

Harry was a chain smoker and had been since the age of 12. He loved his cigarettes and couldn’t imagine a life without them. He enjoyed the odd beer or two and smoking went hand in hand with that activity.

I’m not going to go into the intricate details of PVD other than to say the majority of those who contract the disease smoke.

Harry’s feet and lower legs were almost black through lack of blood supply.  In other words, his limbs were dying.  On this blackness grew large fluid filled blisters that constantly burst giving off a putrid odour whenever the wadded dressing was changed around his ankles.

The afternoon he arrived, the doctors had decided that he was to lose both of his legs above the knee. Harry took the news in his stride and tried to make a joke of his predicament.  Everyone was amazed with his attitude, some thought he was in denial. 

Harry could not stand to be in bed lying down.  He said it was too painful but looking back I think in reality he just wanted to sit up so he could have a smoke.  In those days, it was okay to smoke in hospital, so even though he was about to lose his legs through smoking the idea of not having a cigarette never crossed his mind.

You could see he was in great discomfort but he didn’t complain. He lit one cigarette after another deep in thought between the storytelling.  This man had been a born entertainer.

Evening arrived and the anaesthetist came to see to Harry and talk about the next day's surgery.  He inspected his legs for a short time and asked to be excused.  Soon after a team of medicos arrived and gave Harry a more thorough examination.  After a short discussion among themselves, Harry was told the worst possible news.  The circulation in his legs had completely shut down. The creeping blackness had now almost reached his groins.  There was nothing they could do. 

From what I remember Harry wanted to be alone for awhile.  For the next half hour his only companion was a cigarette.

Later that night, I happened to go past his bed.  I felt awkward and he could sense it.  He smiled at me and that helped break the ice somewhat.  He started one of his life’s stories,  but stopped abruptly midstream and said,

“You know, I have done a lot of stupid things during my life. Things I am ashamed of.  But not for one minute do I regret the general direct my life took. 

I started smoking as a young boy; stole my old man’s tobacco and rolled my own.  You know this may sound strange, but if I had my time over again I would still smoke.  I loved it, those around me didn’t, but I did.  It’s going to kill me.  I can live with that.” 

Laughing when he realised what he had just said. The conversation went on a little longer; I don’t remember anymore. 

We said our goodbyes at the end of the shift and my parting memory was of a burly man sitting upright in an armchair, eyes fixed on some distant object with a sly almost indistinguishable smile,  a cigarette butt firmly fixed in the corner of his mouth.

He died at 2 a.m. sitting in the same position I left him, still smoking until the very end.

One of the night staff told me that the last thing he heard Harry say before he passed away was “They can bury me with a packet of cigarettes; with me in life, a reminder of what killed me in death.”  He was apparently chuffed with the idea.

The teenager was still there, cigarette in hand, as I started my walk home.  I wonder if he’ll be one of the lucky ones or if it does eventually kill him, accept his fate the same way Harry did all those years ago.   No regret?

      

Photo by BossDonkey care of Photobucket

THE TERMINUS

The first sliver of light appearing on the horizon.  Adam lay there as he had all night looking up at the ornate ceiling of his small bungalow; the patterns changing subtly as the light started to penetrate the dark recesses of the bedroom.  He was 37 years of age, tall and lean, too tall to be a successful jockey but he had proved all of them wrong.  His wife lay there still asleep, but unlike him had slept fitfully, hardly stirring all night.  The room might have  lightened up, but the darkness still hung over his mind. 

He had tried all night to focus on the good things in his life: his wife, his poetry, the horse racing.  The poetry had a small, significant group of followers, but  he hadn’t thus far made any money from it.  Only yesterday he had been told by a good friend, his latest collection, not yet released to the public, had already received critical acclaim from one of the nation's top newspapers.   

All this didn’t seem to matter now.  Depression had seen to that.  Bouts of melancholy often settled upon him like a medieval woollen cloak placed on his slight shoulders; heavy and uncomfortable refusing to be removed.  It became worse after the last fall; no more steeple chasing.  Horses were his life. They made him feel alive and carefree, though his riding antics always attracted plenty of attention and were regarded as reckless by some.

This night was different;  constantly restless, he thought of the accumulating debt he was unable to service and the supposed inheritance that had never materialised.  He thought of his poor Annie who would never know the joys or otherwise of adulthood. 

He didn’t sleep.  All night his mind had entertained the images that made up his life.  It was far from being all bad, but in his malign state, the negatives far outweighed the positives.  

Then just before dawn, the shroud inexplicably lifted: no pain, no seeking a direction, a meaning, just a calm simple dark emptiness.  A void where nothing really mattered anymore.  He knew, the train was in the station.

He shifted his body weight to the edge of the mattress, dropped his feet to the floor and slowly stood up.  He then knelt down beside the bed, ran his hand under it until he felt the butt of his rifle.  He took one last look at his still sleeping wife, bent down, placed a gentle kiss on her cheek without waking her and quietly walked to the next room to put on his boots.

The sun now was filtering strongly through the glass inlay on the front door and as he opened it, the cool sting of the crisp June morning air hit his cold expressionless face. 

The train pulled out slowly; two lines converging into the distance towards the final end point. 

Adam was the only passenger.

He walked slowly down the still quiet street wondering for a fleeting moment if he needed to see anyone... No, it was too late for that, the time had arrived.  The early morning bird calls were still active in the mostly deserted street as he strolled towards Brighton beach.

A man returning from a night's fishing nodded a good morning, but received no acknowledgement.  Eyes fixed staring into the imaginary distant, he meandered for a quarter mile until he reached a patch of tea tree scrub close to the beach.  

Finding a small clearing, he removed his wide brim hat and put it carefully onto the ground placing the contents of one of his pockets: a small pocket knife, pipe, some tobacco and a  silver shilling into it.  His hand slid down inside the other pocket and felt for the one cartridge case he had on him.  With purpose, he sat down resting against the trunk of an old tea tree and secured the rifle between his feet with the barrel resting in his mouth.  Running his hand along the length of the barrel he found he could not reach the trigger, so he broke off a small twig to use as a lever and then re positioned himself. The twig looped around the trigger and he pushed it slowly away.

The train was now picking up speed; the end point was clearly in sight. 

Adam looked upwards into the clear crisp blue sky as a silver gull glided effortlessly past and thought ... Nothing.

The deep blue skies wax dusky, and the tall green trees grow dim,

The sward beneath me seems to heave and fall ;

And sickly, smoky shadows through the sleepy sunlight swim,

And on the very sun's face weave their pall.

Let me slumber in the hollow where the wattle blossoms wave,

With never stone or rail to fence my bed ;

Should the sturdy station children pull the bush flowers on my grave,

I may chance to hear them romping overhead.
                                   " The Sick Stock-rider"

Adam Lindsay Gordon 1833 to 1870

Adam Lindsay Gordon spent a number of years living in Dingle Dell near Port McDonald with his new bride before moving to Melbourne.

Short history of his life  

Nearing The End

The old man was finding it difficult.  The sun was strong and unrelenting and it made him stop and pause frequently.  His back ached, a reminder of the time things were easier working in the field.  A time he could work all day and feel nothing other than the satisfaction of taming the land to feed his family.  Those days had long gone and the arrival of his eightieth year was being etched on his mind with every jerking movement of the plough. 

Oh how he wished he didn't have to do this anymore.  Life had not been kind, his wife Betty  and child Tam had died many years before, during the year of the Spanish flu.  He was spared and the bitterness had stayed with him all those years.  "For what?” he had asked himself countless times.  “To work like a slave on the land;  to exist without a reason and  live on in despair until the Grim Reaper came to get me as well.”  

Memories now flooded his mind; the promises of  youth, a wife and children with future prosperity.  He could see them now, even fifty years later, his young son swinging on the branch of the old quince tree, his wife looking so beautiful, tending the vegetable patch she loved so dearly.  She always loved to watch things grow, his son and the plants, so the farm was a gift from heaven as far as she was concerned.  Heaven had claimed her in her twenty eighth year.  

How grand the plans had been; work hard and stay focused on the promises the future would bring.  Only one problem, it never did, never arrived.  Death and poverty had haunted him all his life.  

He sat down underneath the old blue Gum.  The sun was now pounding his head into confusion.  Sweat covered the grey pallid look on his face.  How could something so beautiful have gone so wrong?  His heart told him it was now near.  He looked up at the vivid blue cloudless sky and saw the future looking back.  A flicker of a smile appeared through the tears as he looked skyward.  "Betty my darling, oh how I have waited so long for you."  He closed his eyes for the last time.  Release had arrived.