My Ikaria Page 7
Years ago, George would tease me for occasionally doing the crossword in the Saturday papers. Didn’t I have anything better to do? But now that we’re older, there’s a tacit understanding that we need to keep our brains active, and the crossword is one of those rituals that helps us connect in a way which doesn’t involve discussions about who’s taking the kids where, what bills need to be paid or how we’re going to manage to squeeze in seeing our parents on the weekend.
When George and I first got married, George’s mother, Dolores, said that to have a successful relationship you each need to be patient. His father, Alfred, said, ‘In a relationship, the bread must be baked fresh daily.’ I think of that every time George and I let our relationship lapse in small ways – when I realise we haven’t spoken all day, or I’ve been remiss in communicating something important, or I’m holding in some little resentment. It’s then, to use the corny analogy, I think about stoking the fire, kneading the bread, sliding it into the oven, and making a fresh loaf.
The things we do aren’t profound, extravagant gestures. We don’t often go on formal dates. We rarely go away together. We don’t deliver impromptu bunches of flowers. But we still manage to flirt at the accountant’s office while we do our annual tax, casting smouldering glances while the agent taps his numbers in, playing footsies under the table. We walk hand in hand in furniture stores on our ‘suburban dates’, trying to solve our storage issues. And when we work together on blog assignments where I am the Writer and he is the Photographer, we pretend not to know each other, giving each other sly kisses when our client isn’t looking.
My father-in-law didn’t divulge how we might keep the feeling of wanting to bake the bread daily – he just said that’s what we needed to do. I’m grateful that we still both want to put the work in. And that we still want to play.
A few years back, when George started watching The Sopranos, I sat through the first episode with him, but I couldn’t get my head around the thick New Jersey Italian accents. And I thought it might be a better use of my time to read rather than commit to dozens of episodes of violent mafia action. Every few nights, I’d hear George guffawing, or calling out to the television as shots were fired and profanities slipped under the loungeroom door. When he came to bed, he would explain to me who Tony had slept with, how Uncle Junior was undermined yet again, or described the latest family dynamics in vivid and juicy detail.
‘How can you laugh at all that violence?’ I would ask, perplexed and not a little disturbed. How well did I really know my husband?
George had explained that the violence was part of the beauty of the series. He talked about the way you sympathise with the main character, even if you don’t agree with his actions; the way he drew you in with the seductive pull of his power, even when you knew what he was doing was morally wrong. Despite myself, I began wishing I’d persevered with the show so I could contribute more meaningfully to the conversation. I vowed that we would watch whatever the next series George got interested in together.
Last year, when the final thrilling episode of The Sopranos was over, we agreed to watch Mad Men, with most Friday nights allocated to the job. I would prepare gin and tonics in cocktail glasses, the rims encrusted with sugar and lemon juice. George would cut up a few pieces of dark chocolate, prepare a little bowl of almonds. And with our preparations ready, we would immerse ourselves in the world of 1960s advertising: breasts held high in Playtex bras, silk stockings clipped on with suspenders; elegant male frames clad in crisp white shirts, sharp suits and ironed boxers. The exquisite wardrobes hiding characters who were deeply flawed and unhappy, their dissatisfactions juxtaposed against the slick commercialism of the advertising world. While the episodes invariably left us feeling a little flat, they always led to interesting discussions. George was often left hankering for the antics of Tony Soprano – at least he was passionate in his emotions: fiery, loyal, fierce – even if he was a serial womaniser and murderer. The characters in Mad Men didn’t even seem to like each other.
Back in bed that night, I resign myself to not completing the crossword. ‘I don’t think it’s Adam. That doesn’t ring a bell.’ I give George a kiss, and turn to switch off the light.
The next day, we meet around the table again at 6.30, a fresh paper in front of us.
George turns to the crossword answers. I turn to my coffee, bleary eyed.
‘Ajax.’
‘Of course. I knew that.’
As I peel vegetables for our dinner, I reflect that it has been around a year since I ‘met’ Stamatis and other Ikarians via the internet. And while the fantasy of visiting the island is still alive in my mind (I will go there one day), the Ikarians have already inspired me to make many changes.
As a family, we are eating more foods that my Yiayia would have recognised – legumes, beans, wholegrains and vegetables. We’ve also started eating more seasonally – cabbages in winter; asparagus in spring; eggplant, tomatoes and basil in summer; pumpkins in autumn. The kids have had lots of culinary firsts – from that initial taste of chickpea stew, to eating freshly cut coleslaw with a splash of olive oil and vinegar the way my mother used to make it, to trying walnuts straight from their shells. Each week I’ve tried to offer a serve of beans and a serve of fish to replace our default of meals mased on red meat and chicken. I’m using more herbs and spices to flavour our food, largely avoiding pre-packaged sauces and stocks. While the kids are not always enthusiastic, most of the time they don’t even notice.
I find we are moving a lot more as a family. As well as my ‘walks and talks’ with Dolores, the two of us have been going to dance exercise classes together now that the weather is cold. Emmanuel has set an alarm on his phone to remind him to move at regular intervals. George is still getting off a few stops away from his work to fit in a walk. I now understand that despite my love-hate relationship with housework (why can’t it just stay done?), it keeps me moving and helps me feel like I can impose some sort of order on the chaos that is family life. If there are clean socks, the kitchen bench is crumb-free and the toilet clean, it feels as if everything will somehow work out. I have to continually remind myself that while the work is unpaid, it is valuable.
Once again, the winter fills me with a vague sense of longing to be elsewhere, and I find I am at a crossroads yet again – should I invest in going to Ikaria or in changing my life here? After some deliberation and discussion with George (‘Are you still thinking about Ikaria?’ A little less patient now), changing my life here wins out. Though visiting a sunny Mediterranean island is seductive, it’s a temporary fix to my ills. I need a longer-term solution. And so, I decide to heed Nic’s advice and find a job that will get me out of the house more. I consider taking the required training to teach writing, and find a fast-tracked course that isn’t prohibitively priced. I take the course, go for an interview where Nic works, and soon I have a job teaching writing at a university not far from our home. I reflect that once again I have transformed myself – from social worker at the start of my career, to writer, to teacher. I look forward to starting next month.
I’ve become more aware of prioritising my most important relationships. I am conscious that Dolores and Emmanuel are growing up fast; I need to spend time with them while I can, despite the challenges of balancing work and other responsibilities. And George and I need to keep looking after each other, connecting in small ways each day.
Every now and then, the kids tease me about my ‘Ikarian phase’, rolling their eyes when I offer yet another new vegetable to try, or when I prise them from their devices to go for a walk or do some spontaneous daggy dancing. But I think the lessons I’ve learnt from the Ikarians have moved beyond a phase. They are here to stay.
My gut is moving better and I’m rarely going to bed with indigestion these days. My energy levels are more balanced, with fewer big energy slumps during each day. I try to get to bed at a reasonable hour when I am tired, rather than eating to give me one more energy kick. And I’m feelin
g more optimistic, more connected to myself and those around me.
I wonder, not for the first time, if the changes I have made might affect how long I am likely to live. After I pile the vegetables into a colander, on a whim, I fire up my laptop and search for ‘Blue Zones longevity test’. The idea of finding out about my life expectancy no longer fills me with fear. I have much better control over my health than I did a year ago. And better control over my thinking.
The Blue Zones website flashes up and all it takes is a few minutes to answer questions about my lifestyle habits. Things like my gender, how many serves of fruit and vegetables I eat, how much exercise I do. The test reports that, given my current lifestyle habits and profile, I have a life expectancy of ninety-three. The figure is surprising and pleasing, especially as the report says that many of those years could be spent free of chronic illnesses such as heart disease and diabetes. It goes on to suggest I could do a range of things to increase the number of years I live, including eating more whole fruit, eating less salt and building in relaxation rituals.
I do the corresponding test that measures my happiness rating. When I see the result, I feel like a kid who has topped the class. A+.
If the truth be told, I’m not surprised. I am the happiest and healthiest I’ve been in a very long time.
Fearing
The landline trills several times, stops, then goes again. I’m just about to finish a work call on my mobile. I cut it short and pick up the home phone. ‘Mum’s not making sense, she put a knife in her mouth,’ says my brother, who sounds on the edge of panic. ‘Oh my god, I don’t know what to do, what should I do?’
I try to slow him down, work out what’s happened, find out where Mum is now, whether she is safe, but he isn’t making sense. It’s as if he’s suddenly gone from being a middle-aged man to a boy.
‘I’ll be right there. Call an ambulance,’ I say, feigning calm.
After I hang up I don’t trust myself to get up for a moment. My knees are weak. I know something is terribly wrong.
I lurch into my car and speed towards my mother’s home, arriving to find two neighbours at the door and an ambulance outside. In the kitchen, my mother is sitting in a chair, looking distressed and babbling indecipherably.
My brother looks wild-eyed. Mum was cooking, he tells me, when she started choking and tried to remove what was in her mouth with a knife.
At the hospital, the doctors do test after test in quick succession and then tell me she has had a stroke. A doctor shows me on a scan that the communication part of her brain has been deprived of blood and oxygen. It is severely damaged. It’s also what caused the choking reflex. They will administer a clot-busting drug.
My aunt, cousin and niece somehow appear in front of me and I greet them in the chaos of the emergency room, dazed and distracted by doctors and bleeping machines. They leave after a time, and I pace, wait, hold Mum’s hand helplessly, the windowless rooms adding to my sense of unreality. George rings wanting to know if he and the kids should come in. I tell him I don’t want the kids to see Yiayia like this. Maybe tomorrow.
Several hours later, it appears the drug has stopped the stroke from causing any more harm. As Mum is monitored in intensive care, she falls in and out of sleep. When she wakes, I struggle to understand what she is saying. She speaks in monosyllables, the words she wants to say coming out all wrong. Young resident doctors come in and use words like dysphasia and dyspraxia. They can’t be sure how the impact of the stroke will play out, how much function she will get back, only time will tell.
I still can’t believe this is happening to my mother, who has always been so healthy and lively. I reply in the negative to every question the doctors ask. No, she didn’t have high cholesterol or high blood pressure. No heart problems. She wasn’t on any medications. She barely visited doctors. What I forget to tell them is that the day before yesterday was the eleventh anniversary of Dad’s death – we had gone to church to commemorate it, and she was upset that he was no longer with us. I don’t tell them that she worries about everyone. That she still travels at a pace that would put a fifteen-year-old to shame.
Across from Mum’s bed is a man who has had a stroke worse than hers. His family gathers around him at all hours. When Mum wakes, she realises they are speaking Greek. She tries to ask me what is wrong with the man, and I explain that he’s had a very serious stroke.
‘O kakomiris. The poor man.’ It’s the first clear thing she has said.
The next morning when I come in, the man’s wife is sitting beside Mum. The doctors have told her that her husband won’t make it. Despite her own bad news, the woman is comforting Mum, telling her that things will be alright, that it could have been worse, that at least she is alive. Mum is trying to say how hard it is for her, how she has lost her words, that she can’t speak properly. She looks lost and confused.
I sit down, trying not to disturb them. They embrace tightly, and cry into each other’s shoulders. I hear Mum say clearly, ‘Yerasame stin Australia. (We’ve grown old in Australia.)’ I sob, a silent witness between two strangers who share only their language and a primal desire to help the other.
Later that day, the man is taken to a private room to die with his family and friends around him. Mum gets out of bed for the first time and conveys to me with hand gestures and garbled words that she wants me to help her find the room so that she can see how the family is.
I know then that I haven’t lost my mother – her amazing capacity to empathise and connect is still there. Her spirit is strong. All this time I have been looking across the seas to the Ikarians – but the most resilient and spirited person I know has been with me all along.
Family and friends who have come to visit Mum spill out of the hospital room. A family friend who is a nurse tries to explain in simple Greek to Mum that her brain’s language centres have been damaged by the stroke. My godparents are here too, always at the ready when there is a family crisis. Cousins and aunties and uncles congregate outside the door, taking it in turns to come in and see Mum. The nurses have explained that Mum will be overwhelmed, won’t be able to take too much in at any one time, will tire easily. While I realise that this is the case, I also see that having people around her who love her is good for Mum’s spirits, as it is for mine.
Hours turn into days and I fall into a routine of sorts. In the mornings I go into the hospital early in a bid to catch the doctors. I become Mum’s voice, ask the questions I think she’d want to ask but can’t. In those first scary days in intensive care, I had skirted around the thought that preoccupied us all: would she pull through?
Now she’s on the ward, I want to know if there is a chance she is likely to have another stroke, how much capacity she will get back. The doctors poke and question and order test after test, but in the end, they have few sureties to offer. Mum looks on, blinking helplessly. Later, she asks with difficulty, ‘What did they say? Will I get better?’ While I don’t understand all her words, I understand the feeling behind them, sense her fear. I focus on the positives. She might be able to make major improvements, but it will take work. She needs to take it one day at a time. She is not alone, we will support her. Why me? Why me? she laments over and over.
Once I’ve spoken to the doctors and before any visitors arrive, my phone pings constantly with friends and family wanting to know how Mum is, if there is anything they can do to help, whether it’s okay to visit. The messages are comforting, making me feel as if the village has stepped up, surrounding us. It attests to Mum’s generosity over the years. Now that she needs people, they are here for her too.
While Mum sleeps during the day, I have time to think. I reflect on how suddenly things in life can change – there I was, worried about my life not being exciting enough. I’m now worried about what life would be like without my mother. The thought is sobering. It makes me think about how much she means to me and appreciate her even more. I vow to do my best not to get frustrated when she offers me one too many zuc
chini fritters. To ring each day, even if it’s only for a few moments. And to visit more.
After spending whole days at the hospital, I get home late at night. George has the garage light on as I pull in and warms food as soon as I step in the door. I am stiff from sitting for so long in a hospital chair, and my hands smell of hospital disinfectant. Our house is cosy, and George’s embrace and the banter of the children as they tell me about their day is comforting. It makes me appreciate anew what I have here, how warm it is.
Within a week of Mum’s hospitalisation, her medical team have formed a plan. Mum’s blood pressure and cholesterol, two crucial risk factors for stroke, are stable. While she now has a higher risk of having another stroke – by virtue of the fact that she has had one already – the doctors and nurses have done the best they can do to prevent it happening again. We are going to move Mum to a rehabilitation facility, where she will have a bevy of treatments. She wants to know when she will be ready to return home. They can’t say.
I go back and forth to the family home to bring back things she needs: clean nighties, underclothes, slippers, food that family and friends have brought over during their visits. For many days immediately after the stroke, Mum had been trying to tell me, my brother, and my cousins something pressing, but couldn’t find the words. Eventually, we gathered that she wanted us to harvest the broccoli in her garden and share it around. At her house, I fill three large supermarket bags of broccoli, my feet sinking into the wet earth of her garden. When I arrive at the hospital that day and tell her the task is done, she looks immensely relieved. Now the harvest won’t go to waste.
We move Mum to a rehabilitation hospital on a hill near her home. It feels familiar and safe; we have driven past it hundreds of times. Its large windows overlook bushland. After we place her things in a light-filled room, I introduce myself and Mum to a middle-aged woman who will be sharing the room. I learn the woman fell down the stairs of her two-storey house, and is recovering from a head injury.