The White Azalea

Securely strapped into his wheelchair, he held the hose with shaking hands and watched with increasing interest as it found new life. His reward was a striking display of snowy blooms.

I’ll have to water it myself this year—the white azalea by the front gate. I see the buds are swelling again and in a few more weeks, we will be enjoying another beautiful display.

Is it a whole year since DD watered it?

It must be, though I see him as if it were yesterday.

It hadn’t been doing so well that year, brown with the long drought. It needed more water but with five boys to care for, there wasn’t much time for such things. He wasn’t into gardening—not DD—and especially not delicate white azaleas, a bit sissy. He was finally persuaded to water it, to fill in the time while he waited for the school bus.

Securely strapped into his wheelchair, he held the hose with shaking hands and watched with increasing interest as it found new life. His reward was a striking display of snowy blooms.

DD was entranced, claiming it as his and each year enjoying its beauty. He is not here now and all I have are memories—and the white azalea.

Though 10 years have passed, I remember the phone call clearly. The Department was on the line: “Could you take another child for three weeks, an Aboriginal boy, nine years old?”

Yes we could. We had a spare bed, and other sons and daughters of Australia had graced our home with their presence over the years. He arrived the next day, smiling and affable, and fitted into the family with ease. Sure, he wobbled a bit as he walked—mild cerebral palsy, we were told, no big deal.

The three weeks passed and as no other placement was found, he began special school. He departed each morning with a big smile, arrived home with a big smile and kept on smiling till bedtime. His pleasant manner and happy nature won, all who came into contact with him.

Was it my imagination or was he wobbling more than before? He required help with dressing and walking now, and his speech was harder to understand. So came the first admission to the Children’s Hospital.

Ten days later as I sat by his bed, the neurologist appeared. The black umbrella hooked over his arm dripped water onto the polished floor and made little puddles, as he asked if I was DD’s carer. “I need to speak with you,” he said and moved to the foot of the bed.

He spoke in low tones and I could barely hear him.

“We have the results of the tests,” he paused. “They are not good. He hasn’t got cerebral palsy and never did.”

He went on to explain that it was something very rare, dark and sinister.

Then came the big one. “Do you want it straight?”

I nodded, not sure if I did.

“This disease is progressive and terminal— there is nothing we can do. You can take him home and wait.”

I took him home and we waited. We waited and watched him go slowly, so very slowly, downhill.

Just before his 10th birthday, the wheelchair arrived—it was small, bright blue and yellow, and smelling of shiny new paint. He was the centre of attention for a while, as the other boys pushed him around, doing forbidden wheelies whenever they could get away with it. DD, laughing merrily, enjoyed every minute.

Sick days followed well days, school days and holidays. There were more tests and more stays in hospital, more physio and scores of outpatient visits— but not one word of complaint.

How he loved the new baby girl who came to us. He would cradle her in his arms, as she slept so tiny and pink, stealing a kiss when he thought no-one was looking. He held Joshua, the baby boy who came next, just as lovingly and securely, sharing with him a special bond as he was also handicapped. They spent many hours together, Josh riding on DD’s knee in the wheelchair as we went for the neighbourhood walk DD loved so much.

When Josh grew too big for DD to hold, Honeybun arrived. DD chose him himself, from a tail-wagging, yapping selection at the RSPCA kennels.

He was a long-haired Chihuahua who fitted perfectly on DD’s knee. He loved being cuddled and riding in the chair, and they soon became inseparable companions.

Each year, the white azalea was watered, watched and bloomed anew, as DD went further along the downward road. He had to be fed through tubes at night now, into a plastic button in his tummy. He didn’t mind the sound of the pump beside his bed or the beeping alarm when his tube kinked during the night. He’d smile sleepily when I got up to untangle things and get him going again.

How happily he went with his team to tenpin bowling that Sunday, coming home with a medal and a huge smile of achievement.

He wore the medal to school the next day, to show off and brag about his score. He came home with a temperature and a cough that worsened rapidly, and on Wednesday night was admitted to hospital.

The house somehow seemed emptier this time. Joshua went quiet and Honeybun took to sleeping across DD’s bedroom doorway, something he’d not done before. This time, DD did not respond to treatment and seemed to have lost his fight—even his smile was gone.

At 3 am Saturday morning, the phone rang. This was the call I had expected but hoped would never come.

“Can you come to the hospital as soon as possible?”

As I waited for a taxi—my husband had the car interstate—I knew that the long road had nearly ended. He had walked down it for 10 years—yet how rapidly the end had come.

Sitting on the garden wall by the white azalea, I tried to explain to a sleepy Joshua why he was being dropped off at my son’s house in his pyjamas. We sit beneath a million stars as I tell him DD would not be coming home. Tears wet his cheeks as he clutched some clothes for the morning and his stuffed toy rabbit, and promised to be good and brave.

The taxi turns onto the highway at last and the driver speeds up a little when I explain the situation. “Please hurry” I urge.

“Sure, Mrs,” he replies and, maybe to take my mind off things, launches into a discussion on some far-off war. He becomes so excited, working himself up to such an extent that he overshoots the exit ramp of the freeway and we are obliged to continue onward, to the silent and deserted city.

Precious minutes are wasted backtracking but at last we arrive at the night entrance of the hospital. The fare is higher than quoted—“Because of the extra distance, Mrs,” he says.

I pay without argument—I haven’t time for that and he knows it.

As I reach the ward at last, the lights are dim. DD lies still, tubes and machines his companions. He breathes with difficulty in gasps, an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose. I find it cold and am glad of my jacket— but he is sweating. I hold his hand and he doesn’t pull away—sissy stuff—not his cup of tea but tonight it’s okay.

The specialist arrives; he looks exhausted. We go to a private room and he explains in a weary voice that there is no hope. It is only a matter of hours before DD gives up the struggle. He tells me he is going home and will be back later. I feel for him and hope he manages to sleep.

I return to the bedside as DD asks for water. Only wet lips are allowed or he will choke, so I drip tiny drops onto his mouth and tongue from a plastic cup. I tell him all sorts of things until I run dry, and we just hold hands and wait for the morning light to creep into the room. I am a little ashamed to realise I feel hungry. I shouldn’t be thinking of food at a time like this. I get a packet of shortbread at the shop across the road and hurry back.

My son and his fiancee are there and then Josh comes with my daughter. He stares at DD and gives him a little card with The Good Shepherd on it but DD is too weary to notice. Josh looks at me with wide solemn eyes and I shake my head.

He gives DD a big hug.

“Goodbye, D,” he says and is taken away from things he need not see.

We ask DD if there is anyone else he would like to see—school mates maybe? He understands, yes—he wants Lloyd. Our hearts sink—he is asking the impossible. Lloyd—the much loved big brother, two years older, no relative except by race and the clown of our family for 18 years—is in prison, hours away.

Surely it is impossible. The phone calls begin, many calls, the word spreads and wonderful people do wonderful things. I speak to a shocked Lloyd, who says he will try from his end. Someone calls to say we may pull it off but escorts, being the weekend, will cost $200.

Will we pay? Yes. Another call—the driver and two escorts are on double time so it may be nearer $1000. Still OK? No, we can’t. Hopes fade. DD asks when Lloyd will be here.

“We’re working on it D, hang in there.” An hour passes, another call.

Someone—a blessed soul in a government department—has either paid the fee or waived it. There will be no charge at all and Lloyd will be here at 2pm.

We almost weep with joy and gratitude.

The hours pass and right on 1 pm, Lloyd appears with the escorts, who stand outside the ward in the hallway.

Lloyd goes to the bed and DD opens his eyes. “Hi, little buddy,” says Lloyd.

We hurriedly find him some tissues as his eyes fill with tears. I give him a hug and we find him a chair. DD’s eyes are fixed on Lloyd and the two manage to hold hands through the bars of the bed—not easy with handcuffs on.

Young hands, black against the snowy sheets, hold tightly for two hours as Lloyd tells D anything that comes into his head—news of prison life, jokes, football, bits of nonsense and DD drinks it all in.

Lloyd must leave. “Gotta go, little buddy,” he says. “It’s a long way and I might miss my tea.” He tells D it is always good on Saturday nights. He leans over the rails and gives DD a kiss.

“Bye, Mum.” I give him a squeeze and he departs, wiping his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. Everyone has gone and DD and I are alone. He seems to have failed since Lloyd’s departure, not opening his eyes or asking for water.

His teacher from school comes as darkness falls. She looks from DD to me and I shake my head. “I never realised,”

she says, her eyes filling with tears. “I’ll be back in the morning.”

DD’s breathing becomes more laboured. We hold hands. He sweats; I shiver—nerves maybe. He receives morphine. Doctors come and go. The tubes hiss in the darkened room.

At midnight, he begins to toss about and we have to hold him down. The nurse stays as I go to the privacy of the ladies’ room and kneel among spent toilet rolls and bits of paper towel, to beg the Almighty One to take the life of a young man who has brought such joy to so many.

Things have worsened. It is hard to hold his hand because he is tossing so badly. He is barely aware of my return.

The nurse says some people have to be given permission to “go.” They need to be told that is OK to leave—that loved ones understand.

We are alone again and I think about this: is it the right thing to do? Will he hear me? Will it upset him? I have no idea but tell him anyway.

Doctors come and go, checking but saying nothing. The slender hands of the round, white clock creep slowly past one, two, three o’clock. How black it is outside. I watch car lights on the freeway. The window glass is cold on my nose.

There is pink in the sky—this endless night is passing. DD lies quiet. He has stopped tossing and is unaware of me, as I hold his hand and watch the pink turn to orange.

“Not long now,” whispers the nurse and I wonder how often she has been witness to such things. It is nearly 7 am and the ward is waking but I don’t want a new day—not for him.

The sun rises above the city buildings.

The room is flooded with golden light. It reaches the bed. DD stops breathing—and I am glad.

He sleeps now among his own people, on their island up north. Under coconut palms, I’m told. No white azaleas up there I guess, too hot. There is one by our front gate—I’ll have to water it myself this year.

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