Tonight, the Sky by Casey Salt They say that when you die, your life flashes before your eyes, and for my mother’s sake, I really hope that isn’t true. She had a pretty hard life and I don’t see why she should have to endure an encore just as she approached the grand finale. The Wednesday night—Mum’s last—was a bad one, Dad said. She had an anxiety attack, was yelling out and thrashing her arms. The nurse asked me the next day if she’d suffered any trauma during her life. These things could come back as the person moved towards death. Sort of like the psychological walls coming down. That could leave any number of options, I told her. There was her own mother’s death when she was young, her abusive childhood courtesy of her first stepmother (the Brothers Grimm knew a thing or two about family dynamics) or the accidental death by drowning of one of her children, an older brother I never got to meet. I’m not sure now if it was the nurse’s knowing look at the mention of the child’s death or hearing myself talk about my mother’s most private pain in that fluorescent-lit hallway, but I stopped right there. The nurse got the general idea. * ‘You need to come home for Christmas, Mike. Mum’s really bad.’ It was tricky, holding the phone between my ear and shoulder while I folded another paper crane. ‘Mum didn’t mention that,’ my younger brother said down the line from Western Australia. ‘She never does. But you haven’t seen her in a while.’ I paused. ‘I think this is going to be her last year.’ Even as I said it, I thought I was over-reacting.
But sod it, you only get one life. A false alarm would be better than the alternative. ‘Jeez. I’ll have to get leave from work.’ He sighed. ‘What are you up to?’ ‘Making decorations for the tree. Make sure you get onto your HR department as soon as, alright? Don’t put it off.’ I folded a head and pulled out the wings so the crane could take flight. Mum and Dad were inundated with visitors that December; altogether, my siblings and their partners stayed for two or three weeks. With her birthday on the 24th and Christmas Day, Mum was pleasantly diverted from the oppressive heat of a dry summer and the relentless thirst that plagued her, a result of the kidney disease she inherited. When everyone had gone back to their jobs and their lives, I settled down on the bed next to Mum, who was watching the cricket on TV. ‘You look tired, baby girl,’ she said, opening her hand for me to take. I gently held her bony fingers in mine, making sure I didn’t put pressure on the arthritic joints. ‘How’s Australia doing?’ My childhood summers had been filled with Mum clapping and whistling at the TV as Australia scored, and despite being uninterested in sport I had picked up the game simply by dint of Mum’s enthusiasm for it. Now it was one of the few pleasures left to her from before her life shrank to dialysis treatments three times a week. A shout went up from the TV as the bowler appealed to the white-coated umpire. Mum yelled, ‘You be-yooty!’ at the screen. ‘What happened?’ ‘They just got Duncan out. LBW. He made a century last innings.’ I shook my head and narrowed my eyes. ‘Bastard. Serves him right.’ Two weeks later Dad called. ‘Your mother’s in hospital again.’ I felt the familiar knot in my stomach. ‘What now?’
‘She’s hurt her hip, can hardly walk. It’s probably out like last time. I’ll give you her bed number.’ We’d watched Mum lose her health and her independence as the kidney disease took its toll. She would rally, and then slip further back as problem after affliction beset her: tuberculosis, chest infections and the side effects from all the medications she took to replace the functions her kidneys should have performed. It was torture for her, but for us, too, who could only look on helplessly as she slowly wasted away. Mum was in Ward One, in a bed overlooking the bushland that bordered the back of the hospital. It also gave a decent view of the construction work on the new hospital wing. ‘At least the windows mute the noise,’ I said, once I’d rounded up a chair and stolen some biscuits from an abandoned lunch tray. Mum smiled weakly, her face wan in the fading light that filtered through the clouds massing over the nearby mountain range. I pulled out the sports section of the newspaper and read an article about Ricky Ponting to her. ‘Make sure you hold on to that one. I want to keep it,’ she said, her face brighter than when I’d arrived. The doctors took her blood and gave little information in return. They did x-rays of her hip to check for fractures but found something else. One afternoon, when I visited her before going to work, Mum said in that deliberately calm manner I knew to be the harbinger of bad news, ‘I don’t want you to be worried, but they found a mass.’ I knew she was dying, I thought. Now I know exactly what of. I wasn’t even surprised. We all wandered around for over a month. The doctors did more tests, but couldn’t give us a definitive diagnosis. They couldn’t do a biopsy as Mum’s heart and lungs were bad, which ruled out any sort of operation—she would
probably die on the table. Mum did physiotherapy and got somewhat mobile again, and didn’t pass on the full import of what the doctors told her. Then, late one Tuesday when I was about to leave for work, the doctors arrived for a conference. I wondered how long they were going to be: I didn’t want to be late again. ‘As you know, Joan’s treatment options are limited. Her heart condition prevents us doing treatment of any kind, either surgery or chemotherapy.’ ‘You’re sure it’s cancer?’ I said. ‘We’re 90 per cent sure. Refusing dialysis treatment is a fairly painless way to die. It takes about a week and you simply get more and more tired. Eventually you just go to sleep.’ I tried to take it all in. Why the hell was he talking about stopping dialysis? Mum didn’t need to hear this right now. This was just another hospital stay; she’d come home, just as she had from all the others. Then I realised Mum had already discussed this with the doctors. She’s not going to live to see me turn forty. I thought we’d have more time. Like the rest of the year. I rushed out of the ward, sobbing, Mum’s voice trailing after me: ‘I’m sorry…’ It was horrifying: Mum wasn’t just dying, she was leaving us. In a week, she would be gone. Distraught, I began a frantic round of phone calls, ringing brothers and sisters to give them the news. I woke up feeling sick the next day. The events in the hospital ward kept replaying themselves and I held on to what I’d learnt in meditation to give myself some mental space from the dreadful images: I watched my own behaviour. My fear for myself, for losing my mother, was what really drove me. How would I cope? This question had hovered at the back of my mind for the last ten years, and now, the day I had feared for so long was finally on its way. Once I could clearly see my fear, it began to lose its hold over me. *
The palliative care ward was at the back of the hospital, isolated from the main business by a long, elevated walkway that arched over a road. Mum was wheeled over to a private room near a wooden gazebo that overlooked a deep, dry creek bed surrounded by lush bushland. Birdcalls and the wind rustling through the treetops replaced the incessant background noise of the regular wards, something I’d become accustomed to during a long roster of hospital visits. The bush was an unexpected incursion of the wild, nature quietly waiting for us to stop and turn around and see. Once I arrived, I resumed calling relatives, filling them in on Mum’s new room phone number and listening to their travel plans. I gave Mum and Dad an update and suggested Mum call her stepbrother and Dad’s sister, both of whom she was close to. ‘I’ll do it tomorrow,’ Mum said, her face closing up in that way that told me she wouldn’t discuss the matter further. Dad and I organised her room, stowing clothes and toiletries and investigating the fold-down bed for visitors to sleep on. Mum hadn’t been home since the start of January and here we were, two days out from Valentine’s Day, calling in relatives to come see her before she was gone for good. That night, while Dad was out running errands, Mum explained she’d been thinking of stopping dialysis for a while. ‘If I can’t get out of bed or move around, what’s the point? What can I do? I’ve talked to the Lord about it. I’m just so tired.’ She was, too. I saw it every time I looked at her. Mum had endured so much throughout her life: her sad childhood and the tragedy that awaited her when she had children of her own. We all knew she had practically no chance of getting a transplant. She had a right to rest. I smoothed Mum’s hair away from her face. ‘This is the most peaceful I’ve seen you in a while.’
She smiled, her face wrinkling in that familiar way. ‘I love you. Never forget that.’ Dad returned, bearing clean clothes for Mum and fish sandwiches for all of us. It was a struggle, but I eventually got the food down. I rose to leave and kissed Mum on the cheek, mentally reviewing all the things I had to do tomorrow, just as I had when I was her carer when she first got sick. ‘I love you. See you tomorrow.’ ‘Love you too, baby girl.’ It was the last time we spoke. * Dad had stayed the night and called the nurse in when Mum had the anxiety attack. She was still muttering incoherently, sometimes sitting up as if she would soon open her eyes. ‘It’s called terminal restlessness,’ a nurse had explained. ‘It’s part of the body’s process of shutting down.’ When Sandra, the day nurse, told me Mum was likely in her final hours, I leaned on the hospital bed railing, gripping it for support. Jesus Christ, it was happening now. Sandra rushed to my side and hugged me while I wailed. She released me. ‘Who do you need to call? Give me a number and I can phone one person while you call another. She might hold on for a while, but it’s better to get people in now.’ My eldest sister Jane and Dad both returned to Mum’s bedside. I made yet another round of calls to relay the bad news. When Jane had left and Dad was out buying supplies, I sat with Mum. Her breathing was becoming more laboured, her brow creased with the effort. I held her hand and said tearfully, ‘It’s okay to go, Mum. If it hurts too much to stay, it’s okay to leave.’ When Dad returned, his mobile rang. It was my sister and brother in Western Australia, stuck until the next day’s flight. Mum’s chest was no longer moving, only her tongue, as if she were trying to find words to speak. ‘She’s trying to swallow,’ Dad said.
‘No, she’s not.’ I’d seen creatures die—dogs accidentally hit by cars, mauled chooks—and I knew death throes when I saw them. I rushed out to get a nurse, bursting into tears as I said, ‘It’s Mum—I think she’s going.’ She hurried behind me into the room and bent to check for a pulse. ‘She’s still here—very faintly.’ Dad was relaying this to my siblings on the end of the line. ‘Dad, give me the phone. Lisa? Mum’s going. I’m going to hold the phone up so you and Michael can say goodbye.’ I heard them murmur their love into Mum’s ear from the other side of the country. There was no sudden presence in the room, nothing unearthly. She just… stopped. Mum looked like she was sleeping, her mouth ajar like I’d seen a hundred times before when I’d poked my head around her bedroom door to say hello. But now it wasn’t really her anymore. Something was missing. * ‘She went so fast,’ Jane said two days later, during one of the many calls I made in the next week. ‘Her will must’ve been the only thing keeping her alive. At least she’s not suffering anymore,’ I sighed. ‘We don’t have to worry about her, bub. She’s flying now.’ * The Belgian Gardens Cemetery bordered the airport and the wetlands of the Town Common. The burly council worker who’d shown Dad, Michael and I the map of vacant plots had explained how the ground became sodden with the high tides, showing us the pooling water in a freshly dug grave in the lower section, so we’d selected a space above the subterranean waterline. I drove there now, along a one-lane bitumen road lined with trees whose roots had begun lifting the tarmac, past the old section closer to the gates, where graves were variously adorned with figurines of Mary and Jesus and bright whirligigs from the $2 shop. Mum’s grave was still raw, nutgrass sprouting on
the exposed earth. It would eventually be overtaken by the buffalo grass cultivated on the cemetery lawn, but for now this pioneer species was the only thing that grew there. I sat down in front of the patch of bare earth and pulled out of my bag the sports section of Saturday’s newspaper. ‘Got the latest cricket news for you, Mum. Australia’s doing well. Johnson’s recovered from his shoulder injury, looks like he’ll be back for the next test match. Let’s see…’ I folded the paper in half to stop the freshening breeze from blowing it up in my face. ‘India’s bringing in a replacement for that bloke who was done on corruption charges. It’s the last innings, so it might not make much difference–’ Tears welled up in my eyes as my chest grew tight. I swallowed, drew in a deep breath. ‘You’re missing the last of the season.’ I read the rest of the cricket news to Mum, then tore a page out of my organiser, cut out a large square with the nail scissors in my bag and began folding. ‘I never did ask how you got into cricket. Did your dad play? Or did a friend take you to a match?’ This question had only occurred to me after Mum’s death; while she lived, her love of the game was simply a fact of her existence. I broke down then and wept, glad of the solitude of the place. I tucked the completed crane in amongst the white fabric flowers Jane had left there last week. It wasn’t much, but you had to start somewhere, and it could only ever be with what you already possessed. And I walked back to my car through the rising wind that shook cawing crows out of the trees and pushed at my back as if to launch me into the rest of my life. The next day’s university lecture promised to help me transform my writing free-fall into flight, and I wanted to get ready for it. I didn’t want to miss out.