Joan

Six thirty. I get up, shower and dress quietly, cook porridge, boil the jug. Eat hurriedly, drink a cup of tea. Then it’s time to wake Joan. For a moment or two I look at her frail body, lying peacefully in the bed we’ve shared for fifty-two years.

“Joan,” I say softly, then louder. “Joannie.” She wakes, looks at me, frowns, her blue eyes puzzled. My heart leaps when I see her, then sinks.

For somewhere behind those vacant eyes, somewhere within the tiny frame, is the woman I love. At first the changes were subtle, inconsequential. Forgetting names, losing things, not following the plot of a movie. I didn’t accept it at first, thought it was just a phase that would pass. But gradually time stole her away, piece by piece. Now she needs me to do everything for her – feeding, washing, dressing, taking her to the toilet. It’s a twenty-four hour a day job.

We met just after the war. I’ll never forget my first sight of Joan. You couldn’t help notice her smile. Her whole face lit up, embracing everyone in the room. When she laughed it was like the clink of ice in a glass on a hot summer’s day.

I can even remember what she wore. A crisp white blouse with a blue skirt, tight at her waist, then falling out and down her legs. Smart blue earrings and a hair clip to match. Her blonde hair sat on her shoulders and bounced as she moved. She always loved to look smart.

And now I dress her in tracksuits. Easy on, easy off. I try to keep the colours bright, but there’s not much choice.
Today is Home Care day; Melissa will be here soon. I help Joan totter to the kitchen, seat her in her familiar chair, turn on the radio softly. Music, not talk-back. Voices confuse Joan.

“It’s going to be another superb day, Joannie. Not a cloud in the sky. We’ll be able to have lunch on the patio. The camellias are starting to flower. It should be a good year - they’re covered in buds.”

I put a small bowl of rolled oats topped with brown sugar and cream in front of her. “Time for breakfast, Joan.” I offer teaspoonfuls of the sweet pap, placing them into her mouth, like a mother bird feeding her nestling. But a nestling would grab the worm greedily. After two or three mouthfuls, Joan clenches her teeth, turns her head away. She can still tell me “No more!” even though words have deserted her.

“Try another mouthful, Joannie.” I stroke her cheek. Her lips close tighter. “Melissa will be here soon to help with your shower. You want to be ready.”

It makes no difference what I say. All those years she worried about her weight. Now she’s just skin and bone.

There’s a knock at the door. I had to disconnect the bell because it terrified Joan. Melissa lets herself in and greets us with her cheerful smile.

“ ’Mornin’, Joan! G’day Bill. How’s it goin’? Looks like we’re in for another beaut day.”

“Hello Melissa. How are you? Joan slept a bit better last night. She’s still not eating much, though.”

“I know, Bill. It gets hard, doesn’t it? But you’re doin’ a great job. I just hope my Wayne looks after me as well.”

Skilfully she leads Joan to the bathroom. “Come on darlin’. Time for your beauty treatment.”

I wash and dry the breakfast things and tidy up. I can hear Melissa’s voice in the distance telling Joan the latest gossip about film stars and soapies while the water splashes and gurgles. She doesn’t understand, but she loves to be fussed over.

Melissa emerges with Joan, preceded by the smell of lavender soap. Her hair is clean and brushed, she’s wearing a fresh tracksuit, and her face is brightened with rouge and lipstick. Even her nails have a coat of polish.

“Don’t you look gorgeous, Joannie!”

“Thanks Melissa. I don’t know what I’d do without you. You’re worth your weight in gold.”

After she goes, I look at the photos on the mantelpiece. Weddings – ours and the children’s – birthdays, graduations. Joan looks beautiful in all of them. She always lived for her family ... and now she doesn’t recognise us.

It was love at first sight for both of us. Joan was popular, vivacious; I was quiet and methodical. To my amazement, she noticed me and before long we were dancing at the Trocadero on Saturday nights and driving to Palm Beach on Sunday. She taught me how to have fun.

After six months I proposed and we were married later that year. She looked radiant, as they say all brides do, and I was as proud as punch. As she walked down the aisle, her eyes looking resolutely at me, I thought my heart would explode. She carried gardenias.

There’s one planted outside our bedroom now. When I’m going to sleep, wondering how long I’ll have before Joan wakes, the scent drifts through the window reminding me of all our happy years. Of course we had our ups and downs – what couple doesn’t? – but we learned to sort them out. “Never go to sleep on a quarrel” was our philosophy. When I get frustrated - and I often do - I think of Joan saying “Things will be better tomorrow.” Even though I know they won’t, I feel better.

Our honeymoon was a week in Katoomba, walking all day and making love at night. I was lucky. Joan enjoyed the physical side of our marriage as much as I did.

We moved into a tiny flat, which Joan kept neat as a pin. She made curtains, tablecloths and the bedspread. When I returned from work, she had a whisky ready for me, and a good meal to follow. Grilled chops, Irish stew or a sweet curry, always followed by pudding. When we had a garden I grew beans, potatoes, spinach, rhubarb. They always tasted better than the ones from the shops.

I’ve learned to cook now. Simple things. Joan can’t chew meat any more, so everything’s soft – sausages, rissoles, savoury mince. Sweets are her favourite; I make baked custard, junket, blancmange ... all the things she cooked when the children were little.

We eat at mid-day. I carry the plates, knives, forks and glasses to the patio. They’re all durable plastic - plain so Joan can distinguish the food from the plate. I had to put a double lock on the door when Joan used to wander. It’s a relief to be able to open the door one-handed again.

We’ve shared countless meals at this table.

I look out on the garden. “The yard’s getting a bit unruly” I say to her, “But it’s still presentable.” She looks out. I wonder what she sees. “The Gordonia’s looking good. It’s so tall, I’ll have to prune it. Didn’t the kids love to slide through the fallen petals.” I chatter on, knowing she doesn’t understand.

“It’s sausages today.” Joan looks at the plate, confused. I cut a piece and remove the skin, add mashed potato, peas and gravy. I put the spoonful to her lips. “Your favourite, Joannie. With onion gravy.”

Her response never varies. As soon as the food is near her lips, she turns her head. I don’t know how she keeps going with the tiny amount she eats. “These are good sausages, Joannie. Real beef, not that sawdust and preservative taste you don’t like.”

I eat a mouthful. Sometimes when she sees me eating it triggers a memory for her, and she’ll pick up the spoon herself. But only on a good day. Today she pushes the plate away.

I go to the fridge and take out a bowl of baked custard. “Time for pudding, my darling.” Now she smiles and eats greedily, letting each mouthful slide down, then opening her mouth for more. “That’s the way, Joannie. Delicious!” I relax.

But not for long. Before the bowl is empty, her head is turning away again.

The children came quickly and close together. John, Susan, David. Joan never complained about the work they created... all that washing! We had a house by then. They called the area “Nappy Flats” – the clotheslines all draped with squares of white flannel day in and day out. We fathers didn’t get involved until the children could catch a ball. But Joan loved being a mother.

Now she’s the one who needs nappies. She gets so irritated when I change her ... doesn’t see the need. Keeping her clean is hard work.

Life was easier for Joan when the children started school. We lived in a cul-de-sac and the kids could all walk together. After school there’d be a game of cricket in the street, or football in the park. When the children were older, they’d head down the gully to the creek where they could explore, race boats made of twigs and have picnics. You didn’t worry about strangers then.

The children loved sport. We spent many hours watching cricket, football, netball, tennis. John was the cricketer. He made the school Second XI. Susan was in all the school plays, and David never stopped making things – Meccano, model trains and planes.

When TV first came in, we resisted. Our evenings were spent listening to Jack Davey on the wireless, or playing snakes and ladders and cards.

On weekends we’d drive to the beach or the Blue Mountains. Joan would pack a picnic, or I’d cook some sausages. We’d swim or walk, then have a game of cricket and come home tired and happy.

Later, we built a swimming pool. It was always full – our kids and their friends – even the friends’ friends sometimes. Joan loved to hear the yard full of laughter. At lunchtime she’d appear with a plate of sandwiches – devon, cheese or tomato – and a jug of cordial. There was always home-made cake or biscuits to follow. Joan was in her element when she was feeding people.

Now I’m feeding her.

After lunch, I get out an old record. Her favourite. “The fundamental things apply, as time goes by…” She sways in her chair, smiling. Sometimes I can get her up for a shuffle. On a good day her legs will respond to the rhythm, and the years peel away as we dance around the room. But those days are rare now.

We could never bring ourselves to move. Too many memories. We’ve altered and added bits over the years. I had to remove the mats, coffee tables and ornaments to make it safer for Joan. They’re in boxes in the garage. I’ll get round to sorting them out one day.

The children’s rooms are just like they were when they left, although I keep them locked now. Too distressing for Joan. She used to wander in and frown at the bits and pieces they’d left behind. “Whose are these, Bill? What are they doing here?” I couldn’t answer. It was easier to pretend those rooms didn’t exist.

John was the first to leave home. He went to Uni in Canberra. His room still has bright blue walls covered in cricket posters. His old bat and gloves are in the corner. He can’t wait until Ben is old enough to use them.

I closed in the verandah and made a sleep-out for David. He slept there winter and summer. It was his space. He had a big table for all his models. I suspect he spent more time on them than he did doing homework. But it turned out all right. He’s a carpenter now. Does some really intricate work when he’s got the time.

Susan did nursing. She always liked looking after things. She was always arriving with homeless kittens and birds with broken wings.

But she’s more clinical now. We’re always arguing about the way I do things. She can’t understand that living with someone you love is different from nursing them.

The boys hate to see their mother like this. Sometimes I think they’d come over more often if she had cancer.

We watched the suburb change. A new estate appeared on the far side of the gully, and they had to add extra classrooms at the school. Then came a supermarket and before long we lost the corner butcher, grocer and greengrocer. Joan wouldn’t use it at first, out of a sense of loyalty to the old shopkeepers, but she gave in like everyone else. You can’t stand in the way of progress.

I used to be able to leave Joan when I went to the shops. She’d sit quietly watching TV or with a magazine in front of her. But then she started “getting the dinner”, or wandering out the front door to try to find me, and the risk got to be too great. One day the neighbours found her on the other side of the main road, looking for me. I hate to think how she got there. Now Melissa stays with her for a couple of hours a week while I do the shopping, then go to the golf club for a beer. It’s good to have a yarn, but I’m always ready to come home. I can’t help worrying when I’m not here.

When I retired we bought a caravan and spent nine months travelling. We saw parts of Australia we’d always dreamed about visiting. Coober Pedy, Kakadu, Fraser Island. Unbelievable landforms – rivers, waterfalls and desert. And the birdlife! I took photos, and Joan sketched when we stopped for long enough.

We had the best of her work framed, and they’re on the walls now. Some of them are in funny places, hiding spots Joan damaged on her bad days. She used to stand in front of them, stroking them. “These are pretty. Whose are they?”

She could strike up a conversation with anyone. We met caravanners and cockies, bikies and barmaids. Joan chatted to them all, fascinated to learn about their ways of life.

We’d planned to go to Western Australia next, but it never happened. I’ll always regret not seeing the wildflowers.

Last year Joan spent two weeks in a nursing home while Susan and her family took me to the Gold Coast. It was a mistake. Susan bossed me around and I kept worrying about Joan, remembering her look of distress when I left. She became unsettled, refused to eat, wandered at night. They did their best, of course, but I’m the only one who knows all her little ways. I’m just grateful that she didn’t fall and break any bones. You hear such dreadful stories about those places.

When there were only the two of us, the hour before dinner was a special time. I’d have a Scotch or a beer and Joan would have her brandy and dry. We never lost interest in each other’s doings. Joan talked about tennis, Meals on Wheels and the Garden Club; I discussed my day’s struggle with the golf ball or the latest petty arguments of the Golf Club Committee. Some evenings we’d simply walk around the garden, hand in hand. There was always something new to see, a dead rose to be trimmed or a weed to be pulled.

But now I dread the early evening. “Sundowning” they call it. Things that calm her earlier in the day – music, TV, sitting in the garden – are no use. She sits there gabbling away to herself. It’s nonsense talk, but real to her. Sometimes she sees people who aren’t there or insects on the walls. Then her fear consumes her and I’m at my wits’ end to reassure her. She used to pace around and around, wringing her hands. Many times she got violent, shouting abuse – words I didn’t know she knew – and lashing out at the terrors on the walls – or at me. Now she’s frailer, her violence seems to have passed, but not her anguish.

I try to give her a cup of tea, something to eat. “I’ve made you a sandwich, Joannie. Salmon and mayonnaise, just the way you like it.” But her jaws clench again.

We watch a bit of TV – she likes to see the young people on “Home and Away”.

Then it’s time for bed. I brush her hair - now silver and sparse. “This will keep your hair shining, Joannie. Melissa did a good job today. I can still smell the conditioner.” I undress her gently. “There you go, my darling, we’ve made it through another day.”

I tuck her in, rub her hands with lavender cream, stroke her forehead and kiss her goodnight. She curls up under the sheet. “Sweet dreams, my favourite girl.” She’ll be awake soon. Sleep comes in small snatches.

The TV flickers. I sit in my chair, exhausted, sipping the small Scotch I allow myself. The volume is too low for me to know what’s going on, but the pictures are company.

Deep down, I know Joan won’t be with me much longer. I’ve promised her I’ll never put her in a home, and after last year’s attempt, even another week or two would break both our hearts.

When she’s being difficult, clenching her teeth and refusing to eat or wetting her clothes as soon as she’s dressed, I know it’s not my real Joan, but some tormented spirit which has taken over. I have to believe that. My Joan is hidden somewhere deep inside that body.

Occasionally I see a flash of her old smile as I hold her hand and we listen to music, or I bring her a fresh-picked rose from the garden.

But those wonderful smiles don’t come often now. I know that when she finally goes, I’ll be relieved in some ways, but I’ll never stop missing her.

I can’t imagine life without her.

(c) Sally James 2004

Saturday in the Suburbs

The birds are singing in the trees,
The day is growing hot.
I should be in the garden
weeding, but I’m not!

The cat is hunting worms and such;
The dog just gives a sigh
With one eye on the birds above.
He wishes he could fly!

And now I hear the mower start
To shatter quiet and peace.
I fling the window shut. Oh how
I wish the noise would cease!

I’m trying to write a poem
To win a pot of gold.
But while there’s this cacophony
My rhymes are all on hold.

At last it’s silent once again;
The lawn is crisp and green –
But wait! He’s mowed my favourite tree
It’s tilting – see it lean!

I’ll have to fill some soil behind
And tie it to a stick.
Then follow up with water
and food. I must be quick!

I’ll talk to it, encourage it
And tell it to be strong.
With any luck it will return
To normal before long!

Editor’s Note: Sally’s poem won the first Common Thread Challenge, which was to write a poem using these verbs in any tense – sing, grow, hunt, fly, hear, fling, tilt, fill, follow, return.

(c) Sally James 2004

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