The Stories.....

After all of these months the of planning, preparing and talking about Kokoda we’re down to the last week before departure so I guess the official countdown is on!   Countdown – what a funny word that is.  So many different forms, some good – thrilling you with the sense of adventure, teasing you with visions of enjoyment and wonder, while others linger in the recesses of your mind, dwelling on the fringes ready to pounce at a moment’s notice when you’re least expecting it and ultimately casting a grey cloud over your mood. 

As I reflect on this I remember sitting with dad in the Ballarat Base hospital just a year ago, just before he started his intensive radiation and chemotherapy treatments.   The diagnosis had been bad from day one……”days at most said the surgeon”, perhaps months if he undergoes intensive radiation and chemotherapy said the lead Oncologist, but both agreed it would be just a short time.

Having lived in Canada for many years, and visiting every few years before his diagnosis, I could feel the distance between us as I stood in his hospital room.  The stilted and somewhat desperate attempt at a conversation, often met with dads simple but short answers and which never led to a “real conversation”.  Neither of us knew what to say……   I do this for a living I thought to myself, surely I can get my own father to have a conversation with me, but no matter how much I tired the less I got from him.   

One day as we sat shrouded in the silence I asked “what are the strongest memories you have from growing up?” thinking that he’ll have to give me something………surely, anything would be a blessing…..well, as I was about to find out……not so much!

He didn’t answer for a long while, so I thought perhaps he hadn’t heard.   I guess he was reflecting on his life and so tentatively at first, but he began to tell me the story of when his dad had died……crap I thought; clearly this was not what I had hoped this question would bring out.  I nodded, not wanting to commit to where this conversation was going, tensing internally as he spoke.

But he persisted and I listened to the slow and deliberate sentences as they pieced together the story in much finer detail than I’d ever known.   He told me that when he was 12 years old (1944 for those following along at home) the second world war at its peak, rationing was still a part of everyday life in Australia and that his father had fallen deathly ill, diagnosed with miner’s lung.   This was a very serious illness, especially given that penicillin had just been discovered and that all efforts were focused on the war effort rather than disease research and so this diagnosis was a virtual death sentence.  Australia, like most countries didn’t have a social security program in place and it became fairly obvious that they were now going to have to fend for themselves with no support.  Dad being the eldest child still at home (his older brother had lowered his age to get into the army at 17 and had been recently shipped overseas).  

His mother made it blatantly clear to him that he was now responsible for supporting the family (his mum plus three younger siblings) so at 12 years old he left school.  Listening to this story was one of the most uncomfortable moments of my life, but I sat there and listened – completely choked up inside, knuckles white and barely breathing.  What ran through my mind as I left the hospital that afternoon was “be careful what you wish for lad”, you’re crazy thinking that stories would make a difference.  

Dad with a Carpet snake (python) that he'd captured
in the Queensland cane fields.  (Australia circa 1951)

A couple of days later as the afternoon sun bathed the hospital room in a beautiful warm pink light we were sitting there, in our familiar spots…… feeling awkward once again, me having somewhat recovered from our last “conversation”.  This time it was dad who spoke first, “did I ever tell you about when I first went to Queensland”.   I knew as a kid that dad had worked in Queensland mostly in the sugar cane fields but not the stories that went with it.  And so for the remainder of that afternoon his eyes shone and I could hear the laughter in his voice, see the smile on his lips as he regaled me with stories of his adventures as a young man in the wilds of Queensland during the early 1950’s. I don’t think I said another word for the afternoon, but if laughter counts then I talked plenty.   Encouraged by this turn of events I was desperate for more stories – each day I fronted up to the hospital, hopeful that he would once again start with the refrain “did I ever tell you about the time……”  Over the ensuing weeks dad became a surprisingly willing and colorful story teller, me perched by his bed hanging onto these stories like diamonds – precious and exotic!  

But in the back of my mind the countdown was on, no matter what I did it was always there ticking - ever louder and we both knew it……..   In reflection, these were very special moments, certainly memories to be treasured and remembered and passed onto my kids.   More and more I find myself smiling and saying to Zach and Sami “did I ever tell you about the time your pop was…..” 

One week to go but whose counting J