No Worries (11 page)

24

I'd been to see doctors with Mum before. It was never a happy time. They were used to getting respect from their patients. Everyone knew they were important people. Everyone except Mum.

‘Don't talk to me about bloody doctors,' she'd say. ‘They don't care about you. They load you up with pills, then shove you out the door as quick as they can.'

In Mum's case it was true. But why wouldn't they get rid of her? There were easier patients. She fired questions at them and demanded service, and didn't hold anything back if they didn't play ball.

I used to try to explain it to her …

‘Mum, don't you see? You're bringing this on yourself, by the way you talk to them — your attitude.'

‘That's right, Brian. Take their side. You always do.'

So now it was time to roll out the next victim: Doctor Rezni.

Reluctantly I went along as the driver — Auntie Joan's idea.

‘Just wanted to check you out,' she said.

‘He goes too fast,' Mum commented from the back seat.

Auntie Joan pulled a face that said ‘Don't listen to her'.

‘Perhaps it's a little bit fast, Ruby,' she answered, choosing her words carefully, ‘but basically I think he's doing well.'

‘You reckon I'll get my licence?'

‘Of course. Book that test again as soon as you can. You won't have any trouble.'

In the doctor's waiting room the radio was loud.

Mum was agitated. She stalked around, picking up maga zines, flicking through them, tossing them back.

‘What time is it?'

‘About half-past two.'

‘Why is she late? Why are they always late? Why are these doctors so bloody arrogant?'

Auntie Joan stifled a groan and smiled instead.

‘It's okay, Ruby. I'm sure she won't be much longer.'

‘Take it easy, Mum.'

She strode up to the receptionist's desk.

‘Look, I've got an appointment for two o'clock. Do you suppose I'll get to see this Dr Rezni some time today? This week? This month? Why is this woman late?'

‘She won't be long — if you'd just care to take a seat …'

‘No, I do not care to take a seat.'

‘Okay then.'

‘How long will she be?'

‘I'm not exactly sure.'

‘Right. It's two-thirty now. And I'm exactly sure of this: I'll give her another ten minutes of
my
time. Then I'm gone. And I won't ever be back!'

The two other people in the room stared.

I wanted to run away.

Auntie Joan walked over to Mum, an open magazine in her hands. ‘Look at this, Ruby.'

Good thinking. Distract her. Keep her occupied anyway you can.

Mum ignored the magazine.

‘Oh, it's different if
you're
late for an appointment. Oh, no, that wouldn't do at all … and why have they got that radio so bloody loud?'

Stomp. Stomp. Back to the receptionist.

‘Can you turn that down? This is supposed to be a doctor's waiting room, isn't it? With sick people — duh!'

The receptionist was good-looking, about eighteen or twenty. She had pale skin that was fast turning bright red.

A door opened and a tall thin woman in a white shirt and black skirt walked up to Mum, her arm outstretched to shake hands.

‘Hello, I'm Eve Rezni.'

The three women went into the doctor's office and I stayed in the waiting room. Even that was too close to the action for me. Mum was impossible when she was like this. So angry and impatient. Over the years I'd become pretty good at predicting when there was going to be trouble. I knew it was close.

It took about two minutes. The surgery door burst open and there was Mum. Out of control.

‘Is my medical record here?' — she said it more to herself than anyone in particular — ‘No, of course not! She expects me to tell her everything that ever happened to me from the year dot!'

She stormed outside, swearing to herself.

Auntie Joan and I hurried after her, but Doctor Rezni — her face serene, her voice soft and calm — told us to stop.

‘I'll go,' she said.

She followed Mum out onto the street, while we watched anxiously from the office steps.

‘Go away!'

It sounded like a devil voice that Mum had copied from a horror movie.

Doctor Rezni wasn't the slightest bit fazed.

‘I can help you, Ruby.'

‘Oh, I've heard that before. You can help me. Ha! Help yourself, that's all you shrinks do! What would
you
know? Hey? Just what would you know?'

‘I know what's wrong with you.'

‘Oh, listen to yourself! You've known me for ten seconds and you know what's wrong with me! How? How would you fucking know what's wrong with me?'

‘Because I'm the fucking expert,' Doctor Rezni replied calmly.

I couldn't believe that that word had come out of her mouth. She even smiled as she said it.

Mum's eyes narrowed, staring hard at her.

‘Oh my god,' murmured Auntie Joan, ‘I think she's going to hit her.'

But suddenly Mum changed.

‘All right,' she said. ‘Let's hear what you have to say.'

25

This time I joined them in the consulting room.

Doctor Rezni didn't waste a minute. ‘I believe you have an illness called Bipolar Disorder, which most people know as manic depression. It's a terrible thing. I can well understand why you feel so bad at times.'

I saw Mum softening by the second. Finally, here was a doctor who seemed like she actually cared.

Doctor Rezni asked Mum a lot of questions: How did she feel when she was depressed? How long had it been happening? What had other doctors told her?

Mum just shook her head. There had been so many doctors and tablets. It was all a jumble. Some doctors had given her condition other names — Borderline Personality, Multiple Personality, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder — no one had called it ‘Bipolar' before.

‘I think you've been mis-diagnosed,' Doctor Rezni said. ‘That in turn means you've been taking the wrong medication.'

Mum slowly shook her head. ‘Just my luck.'

Doctor Rezni glanced through the list that Auntie Joan had brought in — the names of the tablets Mum had been taking through the years.

‘No, none of these are suitable for bipolar sufferers — in many cases they could make you feel worse.'

Mum turned to Auntie Joan.

‘Can you believe this? No wonder I'm crazy. I go to doctors who are crazy! Crazy and incompetent!'

She thumped the arm of the chair and bared her teeth, snarling at doctors everywhere. The only one who was safe — for the moment — was Doctor Rezni.

‘But the good thing is, Ruby — can I call you that?'

‘If I can call you Eve.'

‘Of course you can.'

Mum moved her chair a fraction closer.

‘The good thing is, once you start on the tablets I'm going to prescribe, you'll see an improvement. It will be gradual at first. But you will keep on getting better.'

The doctor beamed a smile at me and Auntie Joan.

‘Now your job is very important. You must make sure Ruby takes her medication. That's every day. Will you do that?'

We both nodded eagerly. Mum wasn't going to miss those tablets, even if it meant shoving them down her throat.

We were home by four, stocked up with lots of bright shiny new pills.

‘Pills make me tired.' Mum looked like she was about to chuck them out the window. ‘I can't remember things. Who knows what else this lot will do to me?'

Auntie Joan handed Mum a glass of water.

‘Down the hatch.'

Grimacing, Mum swallowed the pills.

‘I'm bound to forget to take them,' she said, putting down the glass. ‘I always forget.'

‘No, you won't. I'll be right here to hand them out.'

‘Now look, Joan, Brian and I are perfectly able to manage on our own.'

‘Well, that's too bad. Because you're stuck with me.'

I felt like cheering.

Mum took her pills, and day by day she edged out of her depression and rage. Auntie Joan hardly left her side. I'd walk past and see the two of them deep in conversation at all hours of the night and day. It was like a stone had been shifted from Mum's throat and the logjam of words could escape. Sometimes at night I'd hear her crying and it would be non-stop for a long time. Another logjam freed up.

There were lots of whisperings between Auntie Joan and me.

‘She's coming along in leaps and bounds, Bri.'

‘But how long will it last?'

‘I don't do miracles, darl. Wish I could.'

In the second week they began painting the house together. I needed sunglasses, the colours were so bright. The place looked like Hippy Heaven.

Auntie Joan gave Mum regular massages, with lots of oil. She offered to give me one, too. Thanks, but no thanks. It would have been pretty bad if I'd got turned on while my auntie was rubbing me. There's got to be a law against that.

She also burnt incense day and night. It was like living in the middle of a perfume factory. They were young girls again. I think Auntie Joan had always been that way. With Mum the fun of being young was long forgotten, but that was changing.

One day I walked past Mum's bedroom and glimpsed something shocking. Nightmare material.

Mum in a bikini!

I poked my head in the door and got a double dose of horror.

Auntie Joan in a bikini!

They wobbled towards me, Mum's flesh pale and lumpy, Auntie Joan's tanned but stretched and saggy.

‘What do you think?' Mum asked.

‘Too much information,' I said.

As well as having some fun in her life, Mum started getting better sleep, too. She said that was because she and Auntie Joan were sharing a bed.

‘We're not lesbians or anything,' Auntie Joan said, just in case I was thinking it, which I was.

‘But we might end up that way,' Mum added.

My jaw almost hit the floor, then I realised I'd been sucked in.

Mum had made a joke. Amazing.

‘Well, there's only two bedrooms,' Auntie Joan had explained, ‘and I'm tired of sleeping on that uncomfortable sofa.'

She put her arm around Mum.

‘Besides, I promised your mum that she's not going to be alone in this. Any of it. So if she has nightmares, we share ‘em.'

Mum said it was a dumb idea, but she loved it.

The only hiccup in the arrangement was Dad.

He and Auntie Joan had a lot in common. Life was a party for both of them. They didn't worry much, they liked to laugh and joke around, and they got on with most people. But put them together and you got fireworks.

One day Dad rolled home half full. The three of us were doing a crossword on the back verandah. Dad waved to me. ‘How yer goin, Bri?' And kept on walking.

‘What about your wife?' Auntie Joan called after him. ‘Are you too rude to even say hello?'

‘Just let him go,' muttered Mum. ‘He's not worth the effort.'

Dad walked back. He had a big smile on his face.

‘You're quite right, Joanie. My apologies, ladies. How are you both? Well, I hope.' He winked at me. ‘See, Bri, me boy, there's a good lesson for yer, son. Never try to argue with dickheads.'

Auntie Joan went for him.

‘How dare you put your wife down like that in front of your son!'

‘Yeah,
my
son. Glad you noticed that. I'll say whatever I like to him.' He turned to me. ‘Mad as a cut snake, she is, Bri.'

‘Please leave it, Joan,' said Mum.

Auntie Joan stepped off the verandah and stood in front of Dad.

Dad folded his arms.

‘Yeah? Got somethin' to say, have yer?'

She must have been saving it up for a long time.

‘You've got such a smart mouth, Mick. But you know what? You've got no heart. That's why Ruby got sick. Because you're a heartless bastard, and you don't care, do you? You have no idea what responsibility means. You want to look the word up sometime.'

‘Haven't you got a home to go to, yer stupid cow.'

Dad headed towards the safety of the shed. Auntie Joan followed on his heels, relentless.

‘Sure, you put on a show for Bri —'

‘You leave the boy out of this.'

‘But that's all it is — a show.'

‘Shut up.'

‘What do you actually do for him, Mick? Did you ever go to his school?'

‘Shut up!'

‘Did you? Even once?'

Dad wheeled round.

‘Listen here, Joan. How about you mind your own business.'

‘Or what? You'll hit me? Is that it? Hear that, Bri? This is good old Dad talking. What a man! He's going to hit me because he can't stand hearing the truth. Hitting a woman, that'd be exactly what I'd expect from him.'

Dad lowered his head. When he looked up again his smile had returned.

‘Well, I gotta go. It's been a delightful little chat, Joanie.' He waved a finger at her. ‘Now you take care when you're out tonight — I'd be real upset if yer fell off yer broom.'

Dad crouched down and gave me a double thumbs-up.

‘A win for the boys, Bri! A win for the boys!'

Then he scooted into the shed as fast as he could.

‘Coward!' Auntie Joan yelled.

Mum was crying again.

I waited a while — not wanting to be seen to be choosing sides — then went out to the shed. Dad didn't hear me come in. The television was blaring. He was snoring, mouth wide open, the dead marines lined up beside him.

I reckon Mum had spent about ten years of her life just on cleaning. If my bedroom was dirty it was almost a hanging offence. Dad wasn't so fussy. He had newspapers heaped on the floor, beer cans scattered everywhere and plastic takeaway containers piled high and heading to the moon. Every so often he'd have a giant clean-up and the place would be halfway decent, but then the junk would come tumbling back again and it was like it had never gone away.

I thought about his life. It wasn't much: going to work and coming home and getting full and going to sleep in front of the telly. I knew he hadn't been a good father in lots of ways — he'd score zero for responsibility — but in other ways he was the best. Just the fact that he was living in that crummy shed told me that. He wanted to be close to me. Of course, Mum didn't buy that.

‘Is that what he told you? Well, it's a lie, Brian. He lives there because he doesn't have to pay rent. How long will it take you to wake up? Your father doesn't care about anyone except himself!'

Mum was wrong. Auntie Joan was wrong. I was sure of it.