Rose Boys, page 20
When I spoke to the staff at Yarra Me they offered to take Robert back. He was vastly relieved and moved back the next day. He sounded stronger, more assertive. I was pleased that my parents were away and that he had been forced to act on his own, without turning to Dad for a solution. It was his choice, no one else’s. By this stage, getting Robert to make up his mind was a major achievement.
Robert seemed increasingly frail. When we put him to bed one night I noticed the change in his physique. His upper torso was wasted, his legs spindly, but his stomach was enormous. I stayed behind to insert his favourite CDs. Phil and Carly and Eric and Diana always kept him company throughout the night, despite the arsenal of sleeping pills, which failed to knock him out.
Salli was now in her early twenties. As a teenager she had flirted with the idea of becoming a vet, for she was passionate about horses. She owned several and was a bold hurdler. Even after being kicked in the face and breaking her jaw she rode fearlessly. I could never watch her going over hurdles. Eventually she abandoned veterinary studies and started work at the Collingwood Football Club, in marketing. With her engaging, diligent manner, she was good at it. Long acquaintance with the politics of the place also helped.
Robert and Salli grew very close. Their bond and the marked similarities between them were surprising, given how little time they had spent together when she was young. There is only one photograph of Robert holding Salli before the accident. Wearing one of his more flamboyant body shirts, he dangles her above his head.
Salli doesn’t remember this, naturally. The paucity of her childhood memories is more surprising. When I called on her recently she told me that she doesn’t have any early memories. ‘I don’t remember being a child at all,’ she said. She barely remembers primary school or events before her teens. This shocked me. I recalled some of the things we had shared—first moons and rainbows and witticisms—and was sad to think it had all been effaced. Salli wondered if her amnesiac state was a reaction to the shock of her childhood. She seemed self-conscious about forgetting. ‘It must be unusual. Everyone remembers bits of their childhood, but I don’t.’ She said she was looking forward to reading my book, especially the chapter on the accident. Until now she had blocked it out. Even when she met Ken Lynch at the club she didn’t ask the old groundsman about the accident. ‘I didn’t want to know anything about it,’ she admitted.
I had a sinking sense of my authorial responsibilities.
Salli often visited Yarra Me. She introduced Robert to all her friends. Strangely, they seemed more relaxed than Robert’s contemporaries. He was always amused by their nocturnal adventures and relished stories about Salli’s nightclub marathons. He loved giving her things. His trust fund, skilfully invested by Elsie, had begun to thrive, so he could afford to be generous. Robert never wanted birthday gifts from Salli. ‘Just give me a new spinal cord,’ he would say with a chuckle. But he never burdened her with complaints about what had happened to him.
One night, as we put him to bed, Robert talked about Salli. He said it was good to have got a daughter out of life—and a good daughter.
Robert’s return to Yarra Me was short-lived. Work started on the designated house across Maroondah Highway. By early 1997 only thirteen residents remained at Yarra Me. Finally, in June 1997, Yarra Me closed. (In a sign of the times, it became a rehabilitation centre for drug addicts.) This had been coming for years, as Dr David Burke told me when we met at Ivanhoe Manor. The ParaQuad Association had been aware for almost a decade that the Americans now favoured more independent living. He said it took longer to crack up the nursing home model in Australia. He was blunt when I asked him to name its main limitation. ‘Too many people shoved in together in an institution,’ he replied. The new aim was, by placing the disabled in smaller, bespoke houses, to reintroduce them to normal activities, opportunities and responsibilities. ‘You need alternatives,’ Dr Burke told me. ‘It’s better to have people in homes with four or five people, giving them the same level of care but living in more of a home environment rather than a hospital. And it’s important to have enough of these places so that you can move people around.’
Robert resisted the innovation until the end. When the other residents set off to buy furniture he refused to join them. They could buy what they liked; he would take his old furniture from Yarra Me. Interior décor wasn’t high on Robert’s list of priorities. We all shared his concerns, mainly because of doubts about the level of medical care he would receive. When D-Day came, Robert moved out reluctantly.
He shared the house with three others, including his old friend Brian Martin, a former jockey. I went back there recently and sat with Brian in the sunny living room where Robert used to listen to music. Near the altar-like sound system was a carefully framed tribute to Robert, with familiar photographs and clippings. I knew Brian must have organised it.
Brian moved into Yarra Me shortly before Robert. He had become a quadriplegic in 1966, eight years before Robert and a few weeks before his twenty-first birthday. He was in a hurdle race at Flemington when his mount, Dark Gleam, jumped too early and landed on the hurdle, spearing Brian, as he put it. Brian was the first Australian jockey to become a quadriplegic in a fall. He had no idea what the word meant. Dr Burke admitted him to the Austin Hospital but didn’t tell him that he would never walk again until one month later. They did things differently then. Brian was glad he wasn’t told immediately. Even thirty-four years later, it was difficult enough. ‘I can’t say I’ve accepted it,’ he told me. ‘It’s something that’s happened to me, and I’ve just got on with my life and done the best I can.’
Brian’s fracture was lower than Robert’s, and he regained more movement. His family was devoted to him. Brian was one of the gentlest and most courteous men I’ve ever met. He still addressed my mother as Mrs Rose, though all the Roses regarded him as a member of the family. ‘Knowing Robert has got me another family,’ he told me, taking deep breaths between phrases. ‘I feel quite proud. I’m a better person for knowing Robert.’ He spoke slowly because of breathing problems. His health for some years had fluctuated.
Robert and Brian were inseparable for twenty years. They shared a smallish room at Yarra Me for the last eleven years. I asked Brian what Robert was like when he moved there in 1976. ‘He came across as a bit of a loner,’ he said. ‘Then all of a sudden he came out of his shell and was a different person altogether.’ I asked him if Yarra Me changed Robert’s personality. ‘It changed him a lot. You could see these changes each year—and I mean changes for the better.’
Brian and Robert became fast friends. ‘We hit it off straightaway, probably because we were both sportsmen and had the same interests.’ They both loved horse racing, and Brian also knew a bit about football. Each year Uncle Colin and his wife took them to the Kilmore Cup, a highlight on their calendar. One year they picked the trifecta and each won five cents. They laughed about their silken luck.
Robert trusted Brian absolutely. ‘He confided in me a lot—quite personal things that he wouldn’t have told anyone else,’ Brian said. He knew how intensely Robert looked forward to his outings, how much living he packed into his weekends. When he got back to Yarra Me he told Brian everything.
I had often marvelled at their closeness, sharing a room, often confined to bed, for more than a decade. When I mentioned this Brian said, ‘We went through some great times and we probably went through some hell too—illnesses and a lot of…’ He broke off. ‘It’s not just the paralysis that knocks you around. It’s the hundred and one other little things.’
Brian was well aware of Robert’s hostility to the closure of Yarra Me. It was always difficult to ignore Robert’s displeasure. But the new arrangement worked out well. Even Robert had to admit that it was an improvement. The house was spacious and well equipped. Each resident had his own room plus a choice of several living rooms. There was a large garden where Robert could smoke and sun himself. Two aides were always present, and the residents had access to, and often needed, medical staff. Robert, incredibly, became house-proud. The residents looked after the administration and took it in turns to do the shopping. The last time Robert had shopped was for LPs and pizzas, but once a month he too set off with one of the aides and bought the groceries. Occasionally he and Brian got into their mobile chairs and went out for a counter meal. I always cringed when I heard about these outings, for I knew they had to cross the busy eight-lane Maroondah Highway.
Brian told me about a recent tragedy that claimed one of their friends. This man had been a quadriplegic for thirty years, having fallen off a haystack near his church when he was fourteen. One day he had followed the same route that Robert and Brian took, only to become stuck on the railway track at a level crossing. He sat there for a couple of minutes, unable to free his wheel or even look around, his neck having been fused in an operation. When the train came round the bend there was nothing the driver could do. Three carriages went over him, Brian told me softly. We both sat there blinking at the cruelty of it all. There was nothing to say. I thought about all the sorrow, the diurnal indignities, the suspended supper services and other suave economies that poor man must have endured along the way. I wondered what went through his mind as he sat there, listening to hysterical voices of distant onlookers, the train pulling out of the station. Haystacks…fourteen…church function…express line…
I asked about Brian’s family, then said goodbye. He accompanied me to the front door, which opened automatically, and sat there as I drove off, just as Robert used to do.
Sadly, three months after my visit, this memorably good man died suddenly of a cerebral haemorrhage.
In August 1998 the Rose clan and many of Dad’s old team-mates and friends gathered to celebrate his seventieth birthday. Naturally the festivities took place at The Club, in the President’s Room, where toffs smoked cigars and Bob Hawke once listened to the races on his pink tranny. Dad loves a speech, so Mum and I drew up a long list. She asked me to MC the event. When I sat down after welcoming the guests, Lou Richards said I should be working in television because of my elocution. I thought about the sixteen-year-old boy who had fretted about his high, suspicious voice and who had willed himself to ‘enunciate less clearly’. I had failed.
Lou himself spoke, as did Keith McKenzie, representing the opposition. Keith, debonair as ever, was wearing the best suit seen at Victoria Park since Graham Kennedy’s royal visit. Des Tuddenham, still in rude health, regaled us with stories about Collingwood’s glory days in the 1960s. Afterwards Terry, often present at such family gatherings, told me that Robert had wanted to reminisce about their early years, as he frequently did when they got together. Lou came over and draped his arms around the three of us for a photographer. Everyone was in high spirits, especially Robert. His stomach, I later noticed, was bloated, like a stage girth.
Towards the end the stayers formed a school around a huge round table. Peter McKenna and Barry Price were there with their wives. So was the great Ray Gabelich, famous for his run in the 1964 grand final. Thorold Merrett, who had played with Dad, still looked young enough to execute a stab pass. Des Tuddenham wanted to sing, of course, so we heard ‘Click Go the Shears’ several times. Colin Rose told stories about the profane messages he used to deliver to the players, and about being chased off the field by an enraged opponent. Like Judy Garland, no one wanted to go home. Dad’s elderly Aunt Ethel, down from Lake Boga and fitter than most of us, slowly rotated her thumbs and took it all in. When Robert’s faithful cab driver arrived to take him home, he pulled up a chair and seemed disinclined to leave.
I watched these jovial survivors—some my age, others quite old. I was struck, as always, by their invincible camaraderie. Nothing had changed over the decades: the tales and tunes, the harmony and hyperbole. How sane they were, and affable. I thought about what an extraordinary boon it had been for them joining Collingwood in their teens, instantly forming dozens of friendships, and retaining them for the rest of their lives. I did so without envy, for I had never aspired to this fraternity, but when I pondered my own world—solitary, bookish, egoistic, self-reliant—it seemed impoverished by comparison. Although there was something profoundly innocent, even boyish, about these men as they poured late beers and slapped each other on the back, I felt sure they knew something about kinship and contentment that the poets didn’t.
8
INTENSIVE CARE
Robert was promptly confined to bed because of another pressure sore which had almost prevented him from attending Dad’s party. None of us would have been surprised had he rung up that morning and said he couldn’t go. The gods’ timing was always exquisite.
Ten days later Robert was unusually sleepy during the day. When Brian Martin went down to check on him Robert was always dozing. That night he ate only half his meal, which was unprecedented. When the aide mentioned this to Brian he became worried and asked her to keep an eye on Robert during the night.
Robert was restless and couldn’t get comfortable. He asked to be turned onto his left side, though he normally slept on his right. Then he asked to be turned onto his back, which was even more unusual, for it was liable to trigger spasms. Finally he went back on his right side. The aide noticed that he wasn’t draining. Perhaps his catheter was blocked. They summoned a nurse. Even after they changed his catheter Robert didn’t pass any urine. By now he was distinctly ill, so they called for an ambulance. Brian, unwell himself, was already in bed. As they pushed Robert down the corridor past his room he said goodbye to him and told Robert he would be all right. Robert looked apprehensive as they took him away.
His condition deteriorated rapidly en route to the Maroondah Hospital. He became so ill the ambulance officers had to pull over and work on him for half an hour, trying to stabilise him. By the time they reached the hospital he appeared to be dying. When my parents arrived soon after midnight he was unconscious. His stomach was hugely distended. The attending doctor asked permission to put him on a respirator, as he was having trouble breathing. They consented. The doctor advised them to notify Salli. It was too early to specify the exact cause of the illness. Robert’s paralysis and unconsciousness made it hard to diagnose. It could have been an infection, or a twisted bowel, or something else. Mum was surprised when the doctor said they had administered morphine. Robert couldn’t feel pain there. ‘He would feel that pain,’ said the doctor.
Meanwhile, the doctor began contacting the major public hospitals, since Maroondah wasn’t equipped for major surgery. After midnight, as many readers will know, isn’t the best time to be searching for an emergency bed in Melbourne—or most Australian cities. The doctor spent hours on the telephone. Neither the Austin nor the Royal Melbourne, the optimal places for Robert, had a free bed. Even now I am astonished that someone as vulnerable as Robert couldn’t be accommodated without the usual struggle. Why should anyone in extremis have to suffer like that? Decent societies don’t consign their unfortunates to the corridors of care.
Finally the Knox Private Hospital agreed to take Robert. My parents were told that surgeons were standing by to operate on him. They went home and waited. I joined them there in the morning and we set off for the hospital. We got lost walking through the modern, maze-like building. I felt slow and soporific amid the cheerful office activity. How could they all look so perky and positive? How could they glow like that?
The doctor in Intensive Care told us that the operation had revealed a twisted bowel. The surgeons had removed 42 centimetres of Robert’s stomach. Mum asked if he had an abnormally long bowel, but was told that there was no mention of this in the report. We stood by Robert’s bed, appalled by the battery of tubes and machines that were keeping him alive. Robert was still anaesthetised. Dad peered at the huge wound, but I didn’t want to.
I drove to work and functioned numbly. Robert’s illness coincided with one of my busiest times at OUP. Each year I published approximately thirty titles, mostly dictionaries, histories and reference works. That year’s key title, The Oxford Companion to Australian History—an encyclopedic work with seven hundred pages and more than three hundred contributors—was about to go to print. This was to be followed—more bracingly for some of the eminences in Oxford proper—by a companion to Australian feminism. I was also busy away from OUP. A Sydney publishing house was about to issue my third collection of poems. I had also for some time wanted to write more prose. Since February I had been working on a novel, writing each night from eight o’clock until midnight. I was also writing reviews, serving on a few boards, giving occasional papers and talks, programming and participating in festivals, and judging the Miles Franklin Award. It never occurred to me that I was overreaching myself. My social life was equally packed. I had some extraordinary friends and a reputation as a party animal. After several relationships during the 1990s—heady but different, less consuming than the earlier ones—I was quite contentedly single again. Remembering my teenage belief that I would always be alone, I didn’t expect to end up in a permanent relationship. So what else was I going to do with my spare time?
When I returned to the hospital later that afternoon Robert’s condition had worsened. He was conscious, but feverishly so. His eyes darted about wildly. Grimacing, he tried to disgorge the thick respiratory tube in his mouth. When I stroked his sweaty brow he desisted, but only to stare at me pitiably, as if imploring me to put an end to this sophisticated torture. It was the most confronting sight since the days of the calipers, and all three of us were deeply shocked. I wondered if Robert’s distress was caused by his changed medication. His frantic, agonised expression suggested that he was going through some kind of withdrawal. None of the medical staff had treated Robert before. Quadriplegics were rarities at Knox. They knew nothing of the stupendous quantities of drugs that Robert had taken for a quarter of a century. When a nurse contacted my mother later that day to inquire about his medication she couldn’t believe that he took 60 milligrams of Valium daily. The dosage for most quadriplegics is about a quarter of that. The nurse thought Mum must have been mistaken.
