Hello Nanna

Hello Nanna – Sonia James

“Hello Nanna”…”Hello Sonia”...”I am sorry I have not seen you for a little while”…”It’s okay Sonia, it’s ok”…”so how are you Nanna, are they treating you well?”…”I no like it Sonia…but no complain”…”Oh wow, you have the exact same hibiscus tree outside your bedroom like I do Nanna”…she smiles. She then asks if I want a tutsa teh – a cuppa of tea – a mandatory offering when visiting in her own home. I nod in acceptance and she gestures and says that we need to go into the dining room. Her room in the nursing home was pleasant enough but Nanna was always a strong independent woman whose house was always filled with the smell of something simmering away on the stove, morning, noon or night and the nursing was a far cry from her reality. Nanna was my fathers’ mother.

Her frail almost hundred year old body slumped and curled in a sat upright foetal position as I wheeled her chair up to the table as she gestured to staff to get us a cup of tea. The cleaning staff placated her request at the same time they ignored her. After a few minutes of waiting by which-time all staff had left the area, Nanna slammed her fist to the table a couple of times in frustration, while yelling out for attention – “tutsa teh…Sonia…tutsa the” she cried.

Another member of staff came to the table and tried to explain that the kitchen staff had just finished cleaning away the lunch dishes and her next cup of tea was not due until afternoon tea time, around half past two. “No” she insisted, “Sonia … here, tutsa the – now”.

Nanna’s command of English was not very strong having migrated to Australia from Malta following WWII but when she needed to, she could compel ten foot giants to their knees with what limited English she knew – coupled with that look. You know the one, the one that could stop a freight train in its tracks.

The care assistant tried to appeal to her but she wasn’t having it. So I intervened explaining that I had just arrived from Perth in Western Australia to Melbourne and that it had been close to seven years since my last visit having only the disability support pension as my income, visits were few and sometimes far between but always when returning to my home state of Victoria, visits with Nanna a priority. Hearing this, the care assistant caved and asked ‘how would you like your cuppa…’

We sat there sipping our tea, Nanna pleased that she was able to somewhat normalise the visit. Having finished our cuppa teas we returned back to her room to chat more intimately. “Nanna, I know you use the name Mary here in Australia but what is your real name?” …”Lugretia” she responds, “and where in Malta are you from?”…”a farm on Malta’a third island of Gozo” she replies.

……………….

The following October, I found myself again returning ‘home’, tis time, to attend her funeral. And what was meant to be a solemn, reflective occasion turned into a nightmare for me which still haunts me to this day.

My childhood was marred and the family being deeply religious blamed me for the transgressions – despite the fact that I was only 8 or 9 years old.

So the day went something like…

We arrived at the funeral. We (my older brother and younger brother) noticed an Aunty standing on the steps of the church. We decided to go and greet her, my younger brother first, my older brother next and when I tried to give Aunty a hug, she shunned me like I was a rabies infested dog. I burst into tears, turned and walked away. I was still crying as I turned 2 corners of the block. I stopped for a cigarette only to realise that nobody followed me to ensure I was ok – no-one!

I’d been gone about half an hour, and still no-one in sight, I calmed down enough to return to the church. Upon my return, still no-one asked me if I was ok but I was told by other family members to just suck it up, it’s just how Aunty is – these days. Oddly though, my older brother did come up to me some time later and said that he was with me on that, and that Aunty was in the wrong. I was kinda gobsmacked by this, as he hadn’t really spoken to me since…well since, you know…and he couldn’t get what he wanted out of me…

The funeral was a somber affair, my cousins, the two eldest gave a eulogy each, my request to do so was denied as I would come to find out then and there, all the while the first Aunty performed altar duties for the priest - my grandchildren forgotten in the eulogy…

Fast forward to the end of the service, and as my younger brother and I were carrying the casket spray of fourteen soft pink roses (one for each grandchild), towards the awaiting hearse, just as we stepped to the side to let Nanna’s coffin through, a single rose ‘jumped’ out from the bouquet and landed directly in front of me. I panic, frantically trying to refasten the rose back into the bouquet and failing miserably however my Uncle had half seen it, and came across to me and said, “No Sonia, that was meant for you…take it” so I did.

I was still carrying it a little while later as I was walking to the toilet with mum. I overheard yet another Aunty shrill at mum “did she take that?”, “No” mum replied and informed her what had happened and that Uncle had said it was ok that I keep it.

We arrive at the cemetery, and as Nanna was being laid to rest Dad came up to me and said “Lets make peace ai?”… “so does that mean I get an apology from Aunty…and…?”, “Sonia, not now ok” and walked off.

We all then made our way to the wake and I asked mum if the portrait of Christ that I had given nanna some years ago was going to be returned - I had asked her the week before when I was told of Nanna’s passing but got no reply. I had given it to her some 7 years prior, as I had noticed that while there were several photo’s of the rest of the family, there was nothing of a religious nature hanging on her walls. At the time of giving it to Nanna, I had told both mum and dad what I had done and could I please have it back should anything happen to Nanna. So I’m on my way to the loo (again), and am met by yet another Aunty in the laundry who casually informed me that it, along with other stuff of Nanna’s, the portrait had been tossed to the Op Shop. Sometime later the eldest cousin tries to make good and says, “I got this other figurine of St Francis, do want that?” Like I had a choice, say yes knowing and being reminded of how the family could not care less about my wishes – or Nannas’, or say no, and be potentially called a bitch – which Uncle actually did as I was leaving, why, I still don’t know but I think my father had something to do with that – probably the childhood stuff...

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The wake is over and as I am walking to the car, glad the day finally over, feeling completely dejected by the day’s events between casual dismisances and shrills from my Aunties, and Uncle out right calling me a bitch…My younger brother asks if I want anything from the boot, I said no and proceeded to get into the car and put my seatbelt on, he slurs some incoherent rant at me. I looked up and said “what?’, only for my nephew to say “yeah, and if there’s any crap on the way home, I’m just going to pull the car over, and you can get out and walk” indicating to me. My younger brother, in complete wisdom responds and says, “yeah, and I’ll 2nd that” with his chest all puffed out. I might add, that prior to leaving for the funeral, my younger brother had asked me to drive home because he wanted to have a drink with his son. I told him no because at that time, I was only 4 - 6 weeks post-surgery and physically not able to drive a manual vehicle.

I was not up for any more misguided anger and disrespect being levelled at me, I undid my seatbelt and got out of the car and began walking down the street. I had no idea where the nearest train station was, so I began walking back to the house when my cousin called out and offered me a lift. He took me Southern Cross Station and I caught the train back to Ballarat.

Having given mum the money for my flights, I had all of about $40 to my name so could not catch a taxi, and there were no buses running. I walked to my nephews, some 10kms. I got there and knocked on the door – I didn’t expect it to vibrate and echo the way it did and was met by my younger brother at the door “what do you want?” as he got up in my face, I pushed past him “Jason, I’m busting for the loo”, “No you don’t, look at you, you’re a disgrace, why don’t you just go overdose somewhere”, again I pushed past him telling him again that I was busting for the toilet. I’m in the toilet, and he comes bursting in. I pushed back out through the door and fixed my underwear. I’m then in the bedroom, packing my things, and he comes at me again, I tell him to stop being stupid and that I’m packing my things “NO!!!!” he bellows, “get out now, you can come get your shit from out the front tomorrow”, “no, I am leaving now, and I’m taking my stuff too”, he goes to man handle me, and I shrug him off… “look at you” he repeats “you’re fucking disgrace”, “I am grieving my fucking grandmother” I yell, completely distressed and coupled with an almighty slap across his face, “come on’ he says raising his fists gesturing to me saying “I’m sick of walking on eggshells around you”.

He calls the police, who must have asked him if I assaulted him, “yeah she slapped me” I heard him say. I finished collecting my things, and I was shoved/pushed back through the front door, my nephew handed me my things that were still in the boot of the car and I walked back to the train station – where Police were on the platform, Oh no I thought, fumbling for my Myki transit card when the Police Officer told me I could tag-on on board the train and that I should hurry because it’s the last train and it was about to leave, so I boarded. My surgery wound was now open about 2 to 4 cms and weeping from having to drag my suitcase behind me that far.

I arrive at Southern Cross only to find that there were no more trains and I could not get to my friend’s house in Craigieburn. They also don’t drive. Seemingly Mum did not care that I was stranded, she was also nonplussed by my brothers’ treatment of me. A short while later my phone died. After seeking assistance from a homeless guy who indicated where there were power points for me to recharge my phone within the bus concord, to the side of the station, I sat on the floor and waited for both my phone to charge, and mum to return my call – it never came. So I cried myself into a kinda sleep, exhausted, sitting up against a bin with my phone charging, nursing my now open wound. Some 6 hours later, I caught the first train to Craigieburn. This according to my own doctor, was heartless and cruel, and when she asked me why I keep trying, I replied that “when I die, I’d like to die in peace – not pieces”.

…………………………….

I sat there almost numb as the lawyer read through the Will. “Sonia…Sonia, this is for you” … “Your grandmother wanted you to have this” as he handed me a locker bag, I open it, to see a vast amount of cash. I fumble through it, not really believing my eyes, amongst the cash, a little black notebook. I open it,

Dear Sonia, I know your childhood was not easy…but here within these pages, are stories of mine…take the cash, and use it as I know you will…to return my spirit back to Malta so I may finally rest...“the rose”, I gasp “it was her”…