CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Change and Transformation
1990 - 1995
In my youth it was said turning forty was the beginning of the end. I can safely say that turning forty, for me, was just the beginning. Shortly after my birthday I went to my doctor for a routine check-up. All was well but before leaving he asked me to have a mammogram, preferably at the Wesley rather than the Royal Women’s. Nothing dictated this other than his own preference and belief that once a woman turns forty she should. I rang the number he gave me but upon learning it would cost me fifty dollars over and above the Medicare rebate I decided against it. I didn’t have fifty dollars to spare.
Two weeks later, I took Tamara and Che to Carseldine Campus where trainee teachers were offering free maths tuition. Whilst there, I reconnected with a lady I hadn’t seen since Tamara was in pre-school. We were the same age, but nine months earlier she had been diagnosed with a very invasive form of breast cancer and had a double mastectomy. This not only changed her life, it turned her into a walking advertisement for breast cancer awareness. You can imagine what was going through my mind when our children joined us, asking if they could participate in a survey. The survey was being conducted by a visiting mathematics professor as part of a tri-nation investigation into why children lose interest in mathematics in certain grades.
The lady waited with me until Tamara had finished with the professor because she wanted to say goodbye. Her daughter and mine had been good friends at pre-school. It was nice to see her again and when she left she had my promise that I would get a mammogram at the earliest opportunity. Che was the last child to be assessed, which was just as well. Other children had been with the man no more than ten minutes, but as I waited, alternating my gaze between the door and the hands of a nearby clock, I became very anxious. When the door finally opened the professor asked Che to sit quietly with his sister while he spoke to me.
It had taken him a while to figure it out, he said, but Che’s mind completely by-passed what it saw as superfluous detail and went straight to the solution. As a result, he said, Che would always struggle with mathematics at school. He was a lateral thinker, one who would make a great engineer or inventor. Unfortunately, he would never be given the chance because, despite finding the solution to a complex problem in seconds, he would never be able to explain how he arrived at his answer, thus his answer would be rejected. It was the last thing a parent wants to hear, but I am grateful I did hear it because it explained so much. More importantly, it prepared me for the remainder of Che’s school years. Just knowing the truth behind the report card was enough for me.
One week after my ‘coincidental’ meeting with that lady at the campus I had my first mammogram. Like other women at the Wesley Breast Clinic, I returned to the waiting room afterwards but unlike them, I was still waiting long after they had left. When my name was finally called I took a deep breath and followed the woman who had summoned me into a room. There was a query on my pictures, she explained. She asked if I would consent to having magnification mammograms done. I agreed. On completion of my second series of pictures, I returned to the waiting room. This time I didn’t wait so long before being summoned into a doctor’s office. She gave me her name and told me she was the chief radiologist. She said she had examined my pictures in detail. There was an anomaly, but as she had never seen anything like it before she said I should have a biopsy as soon as practicable. All I could think about was the Big C was coming to get me, but after hearing her make the arrangements, I told her I couldn’t, not because I was refusing to, but because I couldn’t afford to. I didn’t have private health insurance. There was no way I could afford to have any surgery at the Wesley. She didn’t miss a beat. She simply arranged for me to go to the Royal Women’s Hospital instead. She went on to explain the same surgeon would see me there as at the Wesley. The radiographer at the Royal Women’s Hospital agreed there was an anomaly, but he said it was so vague he feared he would be unable to accurately pinpoint for the surgeon and I was sent home. Two days later the Wesley’s chief radiologist called to say she still wanted the biopsy done. I was so confused I rang my sister, Anne, who was a doctor. Anne asked only one question: Who wants the biopsy done? When I told her she said I should go ahead.
Luck or divine intervention was on my side again for not only was I fortunate enough to benefit from a special fund the Wesley had to cover theatre costs in such cases, but the surgeon and anaesthetist agreed to accept the Medicare rebate. The anomaly, the surgeon explained a week later, was not unlike a bicycle wheel. If allowed to progress unchecked it would have developed into a particularly nasty cancer. There was no way of knowing when, he said, the ‘spokes’ would break free of their ‘rim’ enclosure and invade my body – Five years? Ten years? Twenty years?
In March 1993, I had another clairaudient experience. Paul Keating’s incumbent Labor Government was going head-to-head with the coalition’s John Hewson in an election he could not possibly win according to the pundits. This was in spite of the Opposition’s key policy platform being about as popular as the Vietnam War. Writing letters provided me with an outlet for my anger and frustration. Without them, my anger festered to the point I was admitted to Prince Charles Hospital with suspected heart trouble. An ECG led to a stress test, which led to an angiogram. The results of the angiogram were inconclusive. The doctor had no explanation, but a nurse told me my false positive reading was most likely due to hormonal activity and stress rather than any heart defect. She suggested I increase my doses of Evening Primrose Oil and find a way to relax. The clairaudient event took place exactly one week before the election. I had been out of hospital for ten days and doing something as normal as folding laundry when I distinctly heard a man’s voice say: “Don’t worry. Paul Keating’s going to win.” On realising these words came from a disembodied source I ran out to tell Steve, who was lying on the lounge room floor watching football. In his own dry, sardonic way, he suggested I have a bet on it. It’s a pity I didn’t because Paul Keating did indeed win the “unwinnable” election.
A few months later, I was feeling at loose ends and questioning my place in the world. A friend suggested I was “reacting to my baby being in high school and not needing me any more”. She may have been right. Four years after surrendering my Year Twelve studies, thoughts of returning to the workforce were gaining momentum. As if in answer to my yearnings, I saw a sign on a window at the Chermside Target store a few weeks later. Apart from the years I spent serving children at tuck shops, I had no retail experience. Nevertheless, I applied for the job and got as far as the interview process. I was unsuccessful. My not having experience was cited as the reason, but they knew that when they interviewed me. In my mind they were saying stay-at-home mums have no value. The inane questions I was asked told me that much. The job was for an assistant in the lolly department! How much experience did one require for that? What did they think I had been doing for the past twenty years – twiddling my thumbs! This anger boiled over at the following Sunday’s football game and when another mother said I’d never get anywhere without “work experience” and that she was willing to help me get it, I accepted her offer.
As it happened, the night I was to work coincided with the night another footy mother was given a surprise birthday party. I was told I could go to the party instead but I declined. I had given my word and I was sticking to it. That I did go to the party afterwards proved to be all that was needed when a series of bizarre developments involving yet another football mother played themselves out the following month. She just so happened to be walking past her supervisor’s office on a Thursday afternoon, at the very instant the supervisor was replacing the receiver after taking an unwelcome phone call. A worker on sick leave who was due to resume her duties the following Monday had called to say she wasn’t coming back. Sandra looked up to see Lyn walking past and called her into to her office. Did she know anyone looking for work? Lyn said she knew at least twenty people but mine was only one name that came out of her mouth.
That one night’s work experience proved to be all I needed. After induction, I started work in the kitchen of "Cooper House", part of a church-run aged-care centre at Chermside, conveniently located diagonally opposite the shopping centre. The facility consisted of several of these ‘houses’ with some, like the one I worked in, more hostel-like than nursing home, while others were more hospital-like. Being thrown in the deep end on my first day served as a warning of what was to come. Kitchen duties were divided into three categories: the eight-hour Day shift (breakfast and lunch), and the four-hour Teatime and Supper shifts. As I was hired to replace the woman who was not coming back, I was assigned the Teatime shift beginning at 2.30pm. The duties list I was given beggared belief so within days I had my own. One side featured an itemised list of everything I had to do. On the other side I drew circles to represent tables, along with the names of the residents who sat at each and their preferences and idiosyncrasies. I later learned this list became the new standard and was only amended when a resident left or another came. It may have made me popular with my fellow workers, especially new staff, but it put me offside with my supervisor. How dare I presume to think – to take the initiative – to make her look less than perfect!
My punishment was to be sent downstairs to do an ironing shift, the most hated of all jobs, because “all new staff have to do a least one ironing shift”. What she didn’t know was that I would much prefer to iron for four hours than heave a vacuum clearer around, which would have been the alternative. To rub salt into Sandra’s wounded pride the laundress and I got along so well she requested I be made permanent “ironer”. What Glenda wanted Glenda got. She may have spent her days in the concrete bowels of the building, with only the occasional passer-by for diversion, but she was apparently indispensible. Her duties were not confined to our house’s linen and its resident’s personal laundry for she did similar laundry for two other houses. This she took in her stride and never seemed to get flustered regardless of what went wrong – and go wrong it often did.
Midway through 1994, worship of the holy dollar changed the way the Uniting Church-run facility was managed. To save money staff was retrenched, hours were cut, and the residents were given less while required to pay more. It angered me, especially when I noticed the tins of asparagus piling up in the pantry. The only two residents who liked it were unpopular so the Day girls decided they couldn’t have it. The two sat with another woman at a smaller table by themselves. Dubbed the “Three Musketeers”, the women were seen as troublemakers by staff and fellow residents. I had seen enough of their behaviour to understand why, but the night I opened one of those cans I saw a whole new side of them. Throughout the rest of my time there I saw those women blossom into beautiful people who loved to share stories of their families, their past and their hopes for the future. All they ever wanted was a little respect.
One morning in August, I woke from a strange dream about a baby. I mentioned it to Kristen when talking on the phone the next day, but she said I must have been picking up on Ann, the reason she had called. Ann was the friend Kristen was with when she had her first contact with my father’s spirit on the Psychic Circle board. Ann’s little boy was born in the early hours, probably around the same time I had the dream. Although they were more like sisters than friends, I couldn’t see how Ann’s baby would cause me to dream of one. And I was right because the following week Kristen summoned the courage to tell me she was pregnant.
Her reluctance was doubtlessly due to the fact that she knew how I would react. If not for that dream, I can only think she would have deferred the telling until she was no longer able to. Sixteen years her senior, Danny was reckless, immature, and associated with the unsavoury criminal element in Fortitude Valley. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of telling her what I thought of him and in typical Capricornian style, she set out to prove me wrong. They met when she was working as a barmaid in a Valley hotel.
After leaving school, Kristen found it difficult to obtain work. She wanted to be a hairdresser but couldn't find anyone to apprentice her. As weeks became months she hid away in her room becoming more and more depressed. I was deeply concerned about her and suggested she try volunteer work, anything to get her out of the house. That worked until someone who should have known better started abusing her as free labour. I wrote a very pointed letter to the person concerned and lodged a complaint with the association overseeing volunteers. When I feared for Kristen's safety and sanity, I made the hardest decision of my life. I told her she had to leave. But I didn't throw her out into the street. My Aunt Kathleen, then a widow who lived alone, had her beautiful Ascot home on the market. Kathleen agreed with my plan which proved a win-win situation. Kristen had to buy and prepare her own meals as well as ensure she attended a hospitality course she was enrolled in. Her 'rent' was her presence in the house at night. This allowed Kathleen to feel safe, something she hadn't felt since placing the large corner allotment home on the market. A fall some months previously decided the issue and on the sale of her home she moved into a retirement village at Kedron. During the time Kristen was living with Kathleen she reconnected with an old school friend so when the Ascot house sold she moved into a flat with her. Thus her transition from home to independence was reasonably seamless.
One month after learning I was to be a grandmother I saw the prettiest pink layette at K-Mart. But when I reached up to take it from the rack I got the strangest feeling something wasn’t right. That night, while trying to sleep, a wave of fear washed over me. Within minutes thoughts and feelings I knew were not mine invaded my mind. On some nights it was so bad I had to focus on a singular point in the room and think of nothing but that point until sleep brought relief. Sometimes, there was a sense of despair and sadness, at other times, a feeling of strangulation. I even tugged at my neck a time or two trying to remove whatever it was that was strangling me.
As her pregnancy progressed, Kristen couldn’t understand why I wasn’t buying things for her baby like Danny’s mother was. I couldn’t tell her I didn’t think her baby would survive and I didn’t want her in the painful position of having to dispose of them afterwards. The only thing we agreed on was that she was having a girl. One evening she rang to tell me her doctor had given her a due date of April 9th 1995. I thought I must have been joking when I heard the words that came out of my mouth: “No.” I said. “Your baby will be born on the 18th of March”. It was the last thing she wanted to hear and before hanging up on me she said: “She’s not going to be born on your birthday, you bitch!”
Between my feelings, my big mouth, and Kristen’s perceptions I found myself caught between the proverbial rock and a hard place; damned if I said anything and damned if I didn’t. In trying to stay sane through it all I turned my focus towards my work. At staff meetings, I said what everyone else was privately saying but didn’t have the courage to when it mattered. On the job, when inferior working conditions got the better of me I made sure everyone knew about it. I got so sick and tired of people whinging to me when they weren’t prepared to do anything to help themselves I found myself ostracized a time or two. Sandra was a bully who openly intimidated her staff. No matter how many times I assured my colleagues she could do very little to them if they were in a union, they refused to join. In time, a battle was waged in which they saw for themselves the power of a unionised workforce, but even then, they wouldn’t join for fear of what Sandra would think.
In a moment of tyrannical madness, the hierarchy decreed staff were to buy and wear a totally unsuitable uniform. It was not cheap either because it came from the house of a well-known and established fashion designer. The complex I worked at was one of many run by the Uniting Church in Queensland. On the southside, a rare unionised complex took the Uniting Church Aged Care Division to the Industrial Court on the issue and won. Right across the board, union and non-union members alike were not only reimbursed for the uniforms they were coerced into buying, but for their cardigans and shoes as well.
On Christmas Day 1994, I came in for my afternoon shift to find one of the old dears loading up her pockets with treats from a trolley in the dining room. She nearly died of fright when she heard me coming but relaxed when she saw it was me. I was saying something to her about getting what she could while the getting was good when we noticed the head matron standing behind us. I don’t know how long she had been there but when the poor old dear hurried off to her room the matron turned to go without saying a word. But I had seen it, the faint smile that lingered on her lips just long enough for me to know she felt as I did. One would never have guessed, though. She wasn’t known as “The Dragon Lady” for nothing. Shortly afterwards I heard she left because she disapproved of the way the complex was being managed.
When Glenda found herself on jury duty early in 1995 her job fell to me. On my first day I unlocked the laundry to find the long wide bench hidden beneath piles of neatly folded clothing. No names were visible and if Glenda had a system I couldn’t see what it was. Beside the bench were two trolleys laden with clean sheets, towels and yet more clothing to sort and fold. My first priority, however, was to empty the chute outside. It was crammed with soiled house linen amassed over the weekend and bags of personal laundry. As I was hauling them into the laundry, a truck pulled up with yet more bags. I sorted through the bags and loaded the machines before turning my attention to the bench. The laborious task of sorting the piles into alphabetical order left me with an aching back and a heavy heart. How on earth did Glenda manage? At the end of that very long, tiring day Sandra happily informed me that as I was now doing Glenda’s job I couldn’t do mine as well. Therefore, she was appointing the latest new girl to take over my twice weekly ironing shifts.
When Glenda returned Sandra told me the new girl had proven herself and henceforth would share my ironing duties as I would be spending more time upstairs. She wasn’t getting a rise out of me so I made a point of being as nice as I could to the poor lass caught in the middle. This proved to be a good thing because that young woman was Jan, the workmate who would later suggest I ask my hairdresser if she knew of any psychics. Sandra judged everyone by her own standards so when I didn’t react the way she expected me to she resented me all the more.
On March 17th 1995, I was at tennis when I received word that Kristen’s water had broken and she had gone to the hospital. As Ann was with her I waited until I had permission to go because things were so strained between us. I arrived at 1pm but left a few hours later when nothing appeared to be happening. Ann spent the night on the floor beside her bed and in the morning called to say there had been no change. The date had not gone unnoticed and when I rang work to let them know I might not be able to come in for my afternoon shift the nursing supervisor assured me I was where I must be. She had been appointed temporarily to replace the head matron and it was such a shame she couldn’t stay because she was lovely, unlike the woman who replaced her.
When Danny saw me at the hospital he was resentful – he didn’t like me any more than I liked him – yet he was reluctant to stay and seemed genuinely happy to leave it to Ann and me. It was mid afternoon before anything actually happened and thankfully, the midwife who had been on duty all day, decided to stick around until baby had been safely delivered. During the final stages of Kristen’s labour Ann was standing at her hip level holding my left hand while I had my right arm around Kristen’s shoulder, supporting her with every push. Seconds after hearing the midwife say she could see the baby’s head, Ann’s long fingernails drove into my hand as I, myself, tensed up. With a skill borne only of experience the midwife swung into action and forced the baby back into the birth canal with one hand while with the other she quickly removed the umbilical cord which was twice wrapped about the baby’s neck. The little girl, who entered this world face up, was blue and barely breathing when rushed to the nursery. Everything I had been feeling throughout Kristen’s pregnancy suddenly made sense and only when we received word that the baby was breathing on her own did I relax. It was all over. She was safe. She was alive.
A little over a week later, when Kristen and her little girl, whom she named Tianni Isabelle, were settled in at home I told her everything. It was hard but it was also the closet we had been in many a long year. I went home that afternoon ready to face the next challenge life threw at me, little knowing what that would entail.
Two weeks later, I woke suddenly from a strange dream. Kristen had walked into the house carrying her little girl. She didn’t say anything. She just placed Tianni on the lounge chair and walked away. When Tianni needed a nappy change there was no one around but me so I did it and then Kristen returned, scooped up her baby and walked out. It bothered me so much I told a co-worker about it that afternoon but she said I shouldn’t read too much into it. When it happened again, I rang Kristen. Was Tianni alright? She had a rash, Kristen said, but otherwise she was fine. I told her she should take Tianni to the hospital but she said Danny wasn’t home and she had no way of getting there. I drove over and took them in but none of the doctors knew what caused the rash. The theories put forward included an allergic reaction to something, mosquito bites, chicken pox or measles and even scabies. She was sent home with some cream and life returned to normal – until the next dream a few weeks later.
This one started the same, but Kristen put Tianni on the bed instead of the lounge chair. Everything else, though, was the same. When I changed Tianni’s nappy Kristen came back, picked Tianni up and left without a word. I rang Kristen. Was Tianni alright? She was really sick, I was told. She was in hospital with RSV (Respiratory Syncytial Virus). Because of her age such a virus could lead to pneumonia and even death, but Kristen hurriedly added, the doctors were doing all they could. The next day she told me she was interviewed by Channel Nine for a segment about the virus on the lifestyle show “Brisbane Extra”. That was the only time I saw Sandra in a different light. She was genuinely sympathetic and assured me the baby would be alright, that she was in the best place. She was right, Tianni did recover and life returned to normal – until I had another dream.
Like the others, Kristen came in and put her baby down before disappearing, leaving me to change her nappy. I rang Kristen only to learn the pattern of dreams coinciding with her baby’s health held firm. Tianni was losing weight, she said, so the doctor changed her formula to a specialised, nutrient-rich, non-dairy based formula called Neocate. It is very expensive, she said, but she would be subsidised so there was no need for me to worry.
When the dreams continued I knew the formula change wasn’t the answer. Poor Kristen, she was beside herself with worry. It was such a terrible burden for her to carry and as Tianni’s health lurched from crises to crises, fear pulled her mother further and further from me, primarily because every decline was precipitated by a dream. It was as if the dreams drove a wedge between us at a time when she needed me the most. For maternal comfort she turned to Danny’s mother who lived in Ayr, but being so far away meant there was little she could do.
When I was even given a time in one dream I felt like screaming. Kristen had arrived as usual and but this time put Tianni down on the opened sofa-bed before walking away. When she returned, I had just finishing changing Tianni’s nappy. She was reading a newspaper and saying: “Look, Mum. The America’s cup is on.” When I woke all I had were questions. What am I supposed to do? Am I supposed to give Tianni something – a kidney, part of my liver, bone marrow? I called Kristen’s number but Danny said she was resting and he wouldn’t disturb her. She had been up all night. For the first time we just talked, person to person, soul to soul. I hung up with his promise that if the doctors wanted to test family members for blood or tissue compatibility he would call me.
When Kristen next called to say Tianni was very ill the America’s Cup races were being held. Because of that I felt hopeful. Perhaps there was something I could do, after all. By then Tianni was so ill her weight had plummeted to below her birth weight and despite intravenous feeding, she continued to lose weight. Her doctors were desperate. They had no idea what was wrong so they sought answers overseas.
When the answer finally came Kristen rang me, primarily to ask me to ring Anne. By that time Anne had moved and I didn’t have her new number so I had to ring Glady. I didn’t expect to hear from Anne so soon but she rang almost immediately to ask if I was sure of the diagnosis. When I said I was, she virtually ordered me to get a second opinion. I may not have had very much contact with my younger sister over the years but she couldn’t disguise the concern in her voice and that left me gutted. I went to bed that night feeling utterly helpless. In the morning I woke from yet another dream but while it started the same as the others it ended differently. Instead of Kristen coming in to scoop Tianni up and take her away after I had changed her nappy, I saw Tianni as a four year old at her own birthday party. That afternoon, on hearing about the dream my workmate said: “That’s a good sign then, isn’t it?”
It was indeed a good sign for something happened during the night, something wonderful. Tianni got better! The doctors had no explanation so Kristen was told they must have been mistaken in their diagnosis. She didn’t care. She was just so grateful to see life return to her baby’s tiny ravaged body. I often think about those months, and to this day I am in awe of my eldest girl’s courage and stamina. I often wondered how I would have faired had I been put in the same situation. Not nearly as well, I decided. Not nearly as well.
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| Tianni Isabelle Bird 1995 |
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