I was asked this question a couple of weeks ago, about the middle of October. Lib's boss, the Director of Nursing, matron in earlier times, asked the question while we chatted in her office. I'd called in to deliver the medical certificate required by management while Lib convalesced her broken wrist.
It caught me off guard a little. Clumsily I answered that we hadn't talked about that yet, then added, "I feel like saying to Lib that I don't want to go anywhere for Christmas, and I don't want anyone coming to our house. I just want to bunker down with a couple of bottles of good stuff and have a few days peace and quiet, then catch up on some jobs around the house."
"You can't do that, not at Christmas," the DON countered, a little surprised at my candour. I left unconvinced.
Lib and I have been married for twenty-five years and for every one of them we've shared Christmas day with her family. She doesn't see them often, as I do mine, and they have a tradition of getting together at Christmas. But why, just once, can't I suggest that this year we have Christmas by ourselves? No tiring preparation, packing, travel, and no invasion of someone's house. Nor invasion of ours with all the accompanying work. No cooking a thumping big turkey. Sounded good to me.
I didn't say anything to Lib, but it played around in my mind for a few days. Then, last weekend, I pulled up outside the post office on my way home, needing to cross the road to get a litre of milk.
"Gidday Carey, how you doin'?". I turned to see a bloke in a leather jacket, a helmet on his head, and a big smile on his face. In the couple a seconds it took for me to recognize him, he lit a fag and took a deep drag, then resumed his smile.
"I'm well Richard. It took me a little time to place you, sorry. I don't often see you off your patch. How are you?
"Happy to be home, we had a busy day at work."
Richard is an ambulance driver. He and his wife Sandy, a nurse, live in the next house along from Olive's on my morning walk. I often see Sandy having a fag on the deck as I go past and sometimes Richard enjoying a cuppa after night shift, or riding off to day shift on his motorbike. He's slow till he reaches the bitumen at Launcing Place Rd. where he gives it full throttle. He rockets up the hill, engine screaming to each gear change.
"How's Merlin," I asked. Merlin is a great Dane pup they've had for a few months. I've watched him grow at a startling rate and seen him demolish all manner of stuff from boots to beanbags and garden shrubs. He often comes to the fence when Snowy and I go past and I give him a pat. Sometimes Sandy is out walking him when Snowy and I come the other way. Merlin is jet black, big and rawboned, all legs and feet and a big head. Snowy is almost pure white, small and stocky with short legs and tip toes, and a small head. The contrast is comical.
"He's fine, he made short work of the soccer goal net the other day."
"Yeah, I saw him, so engrossed tearing it apart he didn't notice me and Snow go past." I've been meaning to ask you Richard, did your neighbour, the other side to Olive, did he die recently?" Early this year I'd seen ambulances at this house, quite regularly. Then district nurse's cars. And a wheelchair ramp was built up to the deck. Most mornings on the return from my walk I'd see the girls walking up to the bus stop in town. Some days there were three, more often two, and sometimes one. Sometimes they'd return my hello or gesture, other times they'd ignore me as if I was invisible. One time, one of them was crying profusely. I thought maybe an elderly grandparent in ill-health had moved in with them. Then Norm Smith asked me, while I was picking in his garden, did I know the person down my way that died recently. Norm said he met the lady in the cemetery. Her husband had died and there were three daughters aged 16, 14, and 10. I didn't know anyone had died, not since Olive, but that would explain the hearse and funeral procession I saw go up there a couple of months ago, making me wonder at the time why it would go up a little dirt road. It was like a few pieces of a jigsaw fitting together.
"Yes, our neighbour did die", said Richard. " He was as fit as you like this time last year. Before last Christmas, his legs went from under him one day. He just fell over, out of the blue. He felt fine, but he had a bit of a sore leg and went to the doctor, wondering why he'd fallen over for no apparent reason. Scans and Xrays followed and it was found he had cancer in the spine, which had spread to the liver and the bowel. Imagine how it buggered their Christmas. Within a month of going to the doctor he'd lost the use of his legs and the control of his bowels."
"His wife is broken," he continued. They had a big debt. He was a mining equipment salesman and used to make big dough, but the income stopped when he got crook. The cars went first, the house has been repossessed, they are only still there because they haven't been evicted yet."
"Shiiiiit. I never knew any of that was going on," I said, "but I knew something wasn't right because I never saw adults there, only the girls walking to the bus. It makes me wonder a bit about the back and rib pain I've been having."
"Well, I see it all the time, driving people about for treatment. You never know what the next trip to the doctor might bring. It's best not to worry though, just live."
"That's for sure" I said. "I reckon if I can walk every morning, thankful to enjoy everything around me, then I'm doing well. Take it easy on that motorbike mate." I made my way over the shop.
The story of Richard and Sandy's neighbours has made me think. Somehow I've lost my dread of all the Christmas hoohah and I'm going to treat it as annual special morning walk, happy that I'm part of it. Bring it on. All of it.
