The first time mum had a brush with death was about 10 years ago, when she wasn’t even 60. She was in Paris with dad and Duncan and asked dad to call an ambulance from their hotel room because she was feeling that her heart was giving way. Duncan tells the story of the very efficient French health system, which sent not one or two but seven ambulance officers, all of them piling in to the small room and taking up their stations: some asking questions and taking notes, some hooking mum up to sophisticated machines that they brought with them, another liaising with the hospital and the last ones arranging her transport on a stretcher. She was treated in Paris and returned with nothing but praise for the thoroughness of her care, from the nursing and medical staff to the food. She was also grateful that the problem had occurred in France because she wasn’t convinced that her local medical services would have pulled her through.
It turned out that she had had a small hole in her heart from birth, which is now routinely rectified with surgery when babies are still small. Her heart was operated on back in Australia in the following months, and she recovered well, though remaining nervous of flying long haul flights for a few years after that in case something happened on the aeroplane.
Last month mum mentioned that she wouldn’t be able to drive the girls to preschool the following week because she was having a colonoscopy to investigate the possibility of bowel cancer. I was interstate for work on the day that the results came through and called mum before going in to the day-long workshop I was attending. ‘Have you got your results?,’ I asked, expecting her to say it was nothing to worry about. ‘Oh – I’m not right Isolde’ she said instead. I could hardly believe my ears. ‘Not right? What do you mean?’
It was the big C. I tried to focus during the workshop but couldn’t stop imaging how life would be without mum, and wondering how dad would manage. My head was spinning. Mum said that the doctor had been serious and severe when delivering the news and that she had an aggressive form of bowel cancer. There would be an appointment with the surgeon and surgery as soon as it could be scheduled, after which we would know more about the prognosis.
On the day that she went in for surgery, three days before we were due to go down and spend Christmas with Steve’s family at their holiday house, I told my boss and some of my team at work that mum had been diagnosed with bowel cancer. The next afternoon I was meeting with one of these team members when I received a text message from Steve to say that his father had pneumonia with a significant amount of fluid on his lungs and he was saying that he didn’t want to have the (very invasive) procedure to have it drained. He had managed his Parkinson’s disease symptoms extremely effectively for eleven years but was inching towards the final stages when functions like swallowing get difficult, uncontrolled head and arm movements increase in frequency as the effectiveness of the medication gradually wears off, short-term memory is increasingly impaired, and speech becomes more and more affected.
I returned home that night to find the girls amusing themselves in one room while Steve was in tears on the phone to his mother in another, trying to work out whether his father would last until Saturday night when we would arrive by car, or whether he needed to fly down on Friday morning to see him still alive. He decided to fly down.
Steve and his family spent a good day with his dad at home that day, with Nigel even creating a playlist of his favourite music to be provided to those who came to say goodbye at his wake at home. He chose a mixture of solos from musicals to his favourite jazz tracks from Louis Armstrong and gospel music from Mahalia Jackson, calling it ‘Exhilaration.’
His dad died early in the morning on Saturday. It was peaceful in the end, though very sad.
I don’t want to reflect on the sadness and loss here though, but rather on the great contributions and joys of his life.
Nigel was internationally recognised in his field of cancer prevention and control due to such measures as instigating legislation to ban smoking in public places and also ban cigarette advertising. But what impressed me most about this was not just this contribution but the fact that he was active in the field for almost two decades after his formal retirement from fulltime work at the age of 67. He had mastered all the advances in technology that enabled him to contribute during this period: from familiarity with Microsoft PowerPoint to a working knowledge of around 700 research publications through Reference Manager (I struggle with remembering the details of just a handful that I should know). He was giving papers in his field of interest, the (lack of) regulation of the ingredients composing cigarettes, at international research and policy conferences at least annually during this period, also co-editing two editions of a thick tome: Tobacco: Science, policy and public health. Others will do more justice to all of this than I can.
When she was Prime Minister, Julia Gillard used to talk about the benefits of work, which go far beyond financial reward. She talked about the need for everyone to have the opportunity to contribute, and of the dignity that work brings. The National Mental Health Commission echo this concept in their annual report cards on the state of mental health services in Australia which they entitle ‘A Contributing Life.’ I agree that work and the satisfaction in working towards something and achieving it is central to a fulfilling life. Nigel created that for himself, in partnership with Steve’s mum, right throughout his life.
The other thing he created was a very balanced life. He was interested in current affairs, travel, and good food and wine. Specifically, this included Prosecco, mangoes, lamb or beef cooked rare on the barbeque, confit de canard, leftover ham steaks after Christmas, good bread, ice-cream and profiteroles. He was interested in reading World War One histories and he loved spending weekends and summers at their holiday house with their children around them – the house that they had had built when Steve was very small. It is timelessly simple and well designed, just as their house is in town which was designed by the same architect.
Nigel not only maintained the 1936 Singer he had owned since before Steve was born, he regularly raced it in hill climb races just outside town. He skiied until his balance made this untenable last year, also contributing to the university ski club he had helped build and found. He continued to play golf with complete dedication to perfecting a good stroke and rectifying a bad one, and loved to play with Steve when he was down. As one of Steve’s sisters said at his wake, he had a ride in a Tiger Moth (a birthday present from Steve), raced his car and had had a family holiday at Noosa in the last two months before he died. This was not a bucket list of any sort, it was just how he lived his life: to the full.
And finally, parents who produced such children as Steve and his sisters would have made a contribution to society in that achievement alone.
All in all, I have never encountered anyone who has mastered the art of living so effectively into old age. An inspiration to us all, as a family friend inscribed on a photo of Nigel in his Singer taken when he was racing it in November.
Back home, to my relief, mum has just gone home after a successful operation and ten days’ initial recuperation in hospital. Two-thirds of her bowel was removed, without the need for a colostomy bag, and the cancer hasn’t spread to her lymph nodes or penetrated her bowel walls, so she won’t need chemotherapy.
After cheating death a second time, she is feeling elated and strong.
