I turned 16 in January of Year 11 of High School. Although I have had several years since that would compete strongly for worst year of my life, this has to be right up there. My nan (mum’s mother) had turned 74 on Christmas Eve. She lived in South Yarra, in those days inner suburban Melbourne, now only affordable by millionaires. Purple coloured died grey hair brushed back into waves from the midline. Nan would always have a tin of lollies on hand when we came to visit. Usually chocolate eclairs with gold and brown foil wrappers, soft chewy centres. She used to have these packets of sweet, sticky glace cherries that are supposed to be for cooking. We would have a go at those too if given a chance. Sometimes, we would go down to the local Milk Bar on Punt Rd and get 20c worth of lollies. That would give a small white paper bag packed with various types, the make up of chich you could choose yourself. Christmas pudding included mixing coins (pennies and shillings as well as real currency) and hanging the mix in a cloth under cover on the enclosed back porch for weeks before Christmas in order for the proper ‘skin’ to form on the outside. Ox tongue stew. Rice pudding, sago. Typical post war era that was to die along with that generation.
Mum always said that I was nan’s favourite. I always accepted that as fact. I wasn’t the oldest grandchild, my uncle had three kids older than me. But I do think I was the favourite. I mean, of course I was. I was a super cute kid, if not socially impaired. Nan’s house was white weatherboard with two bedrooms. The bathroom was technically an outhouse that had been enclosed, together with the rest of the back aspect into a little covered sunroom type area. The front met the asphalt footpath with no nature strip and only a red brick fence, a foot or so high, to separate the two. Our favourite activity was walking back and forth atop this balance beam when it was time to go home, trying to avoid falling in the precious rose garden (for both her sake and ours).
Nan was excellent at knitting, as was every grandparent at that time. She had knitted each of us kids a woolen blanket with triangular color patterns which became our favourite way to fall asleep in the Valiant for the 40 minute drive home. At one point there were wool bedsocks as well. I never recovered from the day my feet were too big to fit in them. In the ‘sideway’ garage, pop had a white Holden HK station wagon, at least prior to his passing of a heart attack when I was about 8 years old. I still remember the nurse from the Alfred Hospital Intensive Care Unit ringing nan on the red fixed line phone in the lounge room to say he had died. As I’ve already said, the things you remember as a kid.
Our family had been to visit relatives and nan (my mum’s mother) had become unwell within hours of returning home. The possibility of food poisoning from a take-away pie had been raised but was never pursued. Within 24 hours nan was admitted to hospital and her organs were ‘shutting down’. In essence, she was in acute renal failure, probably as a result of profuse vomiting and diarrhoea, together with continuing self administration of her usual nephrotoxic medications. I went with mum and dad to The Avenue private hospital where nan was admitted. Her doctor came to talk to us in the little waiting room and the news wasn’t good. She was dying. It was late in the evening. Dark outside. Across the Entrance way to hospital reception and foyer from where we were sitting, I could see nan lying in bed. Asleep. Mouth open and jaw ajar. Her lips dry. Alone. I don’t recall us even going in the room to see her that night. Maybe we did. I’m pretty sure we didn’t. I remember after Dr Bennett told us the bad news, that mum was overcome with grief. Maybe that’s the reason why she felt she couldn’t go in the room. I don’t know. I don’t think we did. Maybe we had already been in before ‘the news’ and its blanked from memory. We went home. The next morning, we got a phone call from the hospital to say that nan had passed away. A short illness. That nobody was prepared for, least of all my mother.
It was summer school holidays. We had a brown painted letterbox at the start of our driveway, with several large flat stones where it met the ground. The number 24 screwed in to its angled roof. It was a warm and sunny day. I sat on the flat rock and cried. Alone. Our street was empty. Most of the neighbours had gone on their summer holiday to camp at Rosebud caravan beach or wherever they were going. I felt alone. At one point one of my parents came out to see where I was. I was here. On the rock. Alone. Trying to understand life and death and the precariousness between them.
Mum’s mental health spiralled following nan’s death and the grieving process of anger, guilt, sadness, bargaining etc extended well beyond that year. From my perspective, the year commenced on unsteady ground, and looking back I think I was very affected by nan’s passing though I don’t ever recall discussing it at home. I had a wonderful English teacher in Year 11, Ms. S who was not only an amazing teacher, but proved to be a kind and sensitive support when I turned up to school and burst in to tears in her office. This was mostly in response to the emotional instability at home and frequent blame of others associated with the grief that encompassed the household.
My grades plummeted at mid year exam time. I had gone from essentially being a ‘straight As’ student to barely passing. I got my first ‘girlfriend’ during this first part of Year 11 also. The combination of all these changes was an explosive mix in a home that was already at boiling point. My mum regularly chastised my new ‘relationship’ and blamed this for my failing grades. The fact that I had just lost my nan and was trying to navigate a home environment where all bets regarding escalation of mental health deterioration were now off, appeared to play no role in my academic deterioration in mum’s mind. Interestingly, as I recall and write, the recurrent theme I have just noticed is that dad barely gets a mention. I think that is a reflection of how the home functioned. Mum ‘wore the pants’ if you will and I think mostly dad just tried to be there in the background. Mostly, any rebuttal or reactivity of significance was likely to be counterproductive.
Regardless, as mid year came and went, I settled a little bit better into school life. The few months of having a girlfriend was over and I was able to give more focus to my studies. It was an important lead up to going in to Year 12, where the end of year exams would hold significant weight in relation to University entry.
Year 12 would be a year of academic focus off the back of improved grades at the end of Year 11. There were no girlfriends. That experiment had definitely been a failure the previous year, I certainly was not interested in giving it another try.
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