We had our first day doing the tourist things today. We organised to be collected from the hotel and then taken to the jetty to catch a ferry to Fremantle. It was a sunny, warm day. We cruised slowly up the Swan River before disembarking in Freo. It was near lunchtime so we cut through the heart of town to the other side, to the fisherman’s market, where most of the high profile restaurants are. We sat in the restaurant and ordered, and afterwards went our separate ways for a while. Mum went to do some shopping while I went with Fred to the Shipwrecks museum, where we saw the wreck of the Batavia. Later we caught up with Mum and then made our way back to the port, where we caught a leisurely ferry back to Perth. We were back in our hotel room by 5. That sums up the events of the day.
There’s more though, much more really. Here is the chronological sequence of events, we did this, then we did that, then we returned.
What should I add? That Fred was asleep all day yesterday. That we had to get a wheelchair for him so he could get around. I wheeled him around in that all day, with him wincing at every cobblestone. How he ate half a weet-bix for breakfast and a prawn for lunch, no more, and no dinner. He can’t stomach food so he eats little and as he eats less and less he becomes frailer and as he gets frailer he becomes weaker, and so on. Once I had to go and see if he was alright in the toilet – he was, but this is the reality now. Now he is in bed again, where he intends to stay all tomorrow also.
There is something horrible about all this, but I guess we knew that. I feel terrible seeing him like this, truly terrible. I remember how he used to be, remember how on our hunting trips he would be at my shoulder up hill and over dale and through thick scrub, though he was over double my age. I remember the barrel chested man with strong legs who would sit by the campfire on those nights and regale us with tales of trips past. I lapped it up.
He has the most skinny legs now. His face is gaunt. He smiles still, cracks a joke, apologises for the trouble he’s putting me too. I respond in kind. I understand – as my Mum doesn’t – how he must be treated. And so I give him a bit of cheek, I step in to help but only when I’ve got the sign, can you help me Petey? He is proud as I know he is, and know how that must be respected. So I don’t fuss or baby him, I treat him like the man I’ve always admired. It must be hard enough for him to be wheeled around, but there is no alternative now.
People have been great, and somehow that makes it harder – isn’t it always the way?
The wheelchair makes his ill-health obvious, and everyone almost without exception is eager to all they can to make his life easier. It is lovely, and you find yourself feeling a great affection for these perfect strangers who act only from the goodness of their heart.
I feel gutted by all of this but try not to show it, obviously. I know the idea behind this trip was pure, but I think it is too late now, he is too ill. We go through the motions of being interested but our world revolves around his frailty, his health.
I feel embarrassed, ashamed almost at how bad I feel: what right do I to feel so sad? I will go on, long after he has gone. It seems to me my grief is a selfish one, I grieve for myself, for my memories and for all that I will lose with his passing. I am sad for him, I honour his stoicism, I love him deeply still, but I have come to accept his fate as inevitable. He will go, I will remain.
As I say, I try not to show any of that to either my Mum or Fred, though I don’t really know how authentic that is. That’s my way anyway, don’t show it, be the man. Well that's juvenile and I'm over it. For the last fortnight I’ve been carrying around this lead weight in my stomach, you know the feeling. It is always there, the only times it has not been there is when I’ve forgotten myself, last Thursday at the pub, and Saturday at A’s party. Then I bury myself in the oblivion. I figure I’m going to feel this way until the time comes, but I have to find a better way of dealing with it.
I have decided to show more, though not to the folks – I have to be strong for them. I’m through with bottling everything in though, it’s killing me. If someone offered me a helping hand I’d accept it with gratitude, but I would never ask for it. That has to change. I know there are no kudos in appearing strong and tough, that’s a ridiculous notion – yet the habits of a lifetime are hard to change.
The things I have written here I would never say aloud in conversation. I have to open myself. I have to be what I feel, and show it; and I have to be honest with myself. I want to be comforted, I want to be held. I want to allow myself to be weak and know that I am safe.
Recent Comments