Hi there! There’s a first time for everything. The cat woke me up this morning.
I guess she figured that the alarm was going — and I wasn’t — so, she patted my face, randomly, for as long as it took. Then she returned to her end of the bed, near our feet, and went immediately back to sleep.
A compounded local problem
Like the rest of the country — and the rest of the world — we are confronted, just right now, with a number of problems, about which we can do little. However, there is a local issue that I believe is affected by local actions.
No visitors have been permitted to visit family or friends at GV Health for some time now. And it is difficult to see an end to it. Obviously, it is not a decision any hospital makes lightly — or simply for convenience.
The hospital is short-staffed, as are hospitals around the country — and now, COVID-19 is raising its ugly head again.
My latest search of regional and city hospitals (on Monday morning) showed that, although some hospitals were now tightening visiting hours, GV Health was still the only one closed to visitors. So why is it worse here?
People are trying, of course, to find staff but for our hospital’s prospective employees — no matter how appealing the job offer or how effective and helpful council’s marketing people — it is very difficult to find affordable accommodation. You can’t relocate if you can’t find anywhere to live.
So, are staff shortages the real problem? Or is it a lack of accommodation? Or does this start (and finish) with the availability of land? This is something only council can address. There are developers keen to sell and hundreds of families wanting to build; one thing affects another and another.
And, while all this is sorted out, there are approximately 120,000 people, dependent on our hospital, being affected by it.
I think this is of major importance to families; so, if you don’t mind, I’ll go into personal memory mode, just for a while.
A strong Mooroopna heart
My grandfather was a gentle and patient man. Although my grandmother said he lost his temper from time to time, I never saw that. With both my parents working, I spent much of each school holiday period with my maternal grandparents. Every winter evening, after dinner (we called it ‘tea’ then), he would ask me what I wanted to do — always with a twinkle in his eyes and always knowing exactly what I was going to request.
I wanted him to light a camp fire outside — in what we called “the horses’ yard”. I wanted him to wrap me in a blanket while the chestnuts roasted — and I wanted him to tell me stories. There were stables in the horses’ yard, but there was only one holiday period when we lit the fire in the backyard, because the other space was occupied. Apparently, in the past, before I was around, the horses’ yard was always occupied, with one or another trotting hopeful.
And I loved the stories of my grandfather growing up in the bush. (Surely everyone who was born in this area towards the end of the 19th century grew up in the bush?) He talked about the muddy track that was the only way of getting from Shepp to Mooroopna and he told me that Mooroopna was settled before Shepparton, and that is why old Mooroopna people were resentful of Shepparton’s growth. (It took me 40 or so years to realise this wasn’t quite factual.)
Only when the fire was throwing out some heat was I allowed out to sit on my mat, wrapped in a rug. If we’d eaten all the chestnuts, he’d cook potatoes and, to me, they tasted just as good. Then he’d put the fire out, with meticulous care, and we’d go inside — where my grandmother, sitting beside another fire, would read my favourite Banjo Paterson poems: Clancy of the Overflow and The Man from Ironbark. Then something lesser known — to broaden my knowledge — until my bedtime.
We never talked about love — my grandfather and I — until more than 30 years later. He was in the Mooroopna Base Hospital and I visited him in the evenings. One night, suddenly, he looked at me with his sad, rheumy eyes and said ‘I love you’. I responded, of course, but I wondered ‘why tonight? I’ll be back tomorrow night and the nights after that’.
But he was aware, wasn’t he? He knew it would be my last visit — because he died the next day.
During those many evenings we talked about the fires in the horses’ yard, about the horses he had trained, including Golden Gift (his favourite), about Banjo Paterson, about football, about my boys, about my many visits to his butcher shop — I always wanted to see the sausages made, fresh every day. But, as the nights went by, he talked less and listened and nodded more. Without those precious visits, perhaps he’d have passed with regret in his heart.
(Gus Underwood wrote a kind obituary about my grandfather, and his contribution to harness racing. I will always be grateful for that, Gus — and I don’t remember ever saying ‘thank you’.)
The oldest house
My grandparents lived in the oldest house in Mooroopna.
My uncle, desperate for them to have comfort and convenience in their old age, kept finding options and making arrangements, but my grandfather wouldn’t co-operate. Nothing could persuade him to move; here he had raised his ‘only true wealth’; here he had made his memories — and here he was staying. After they were gone, the house complete with horses’ yard and stables, was sold. There was talk of it becoming a museum, and I loved that idea. However, nothing ever happened; I guess there was no funding and eventually, the place was pulled down.
Shortly after my grandfather passed, my grandmother had a severe stroke. She couldn’t move much at all, didn’t appear to be able to hear anything and couldn’t speak. So, the evening visits began again. Night after night of chatting away, hoping she knew she was not alone.
One night, running out of things to talk about, and blowing on a stinging burn, I told her that I had burnt my finger on the stove. The following evening, just after my arrival, she spoke clearly, asking ‘How is your poor darling finger?’ I was stunned — surprised that she had heard and remembered — astonished that she had spoken. To my knowledge, and after checking with the staff and other family members, they were her only words, in the months between her stroke and her death. It didn’t seem astonishing to anyone else but I will never forget it.
I was thankful, not only because I had been there to hear her words, but because it told me that all those hours of visiting were not just a waste of time. She was aware; she knew I was there and she was absorbing the information.
What if I hadn’t been allowed to visit?
Please understand my reasons for sharing
I am not being critical of our hospital or the valued people who work there, but I want you to understand that my stories merely echo thousands of others. My concern is for the people who are called to the hospital because death is imminent for their loved one; perhaps it is too late to share — to say the things that have been left unsaid; to truly communicate. And I’m concerned that, even when this current crisis is over, our problems will still be here. We need time to say farewell.
Our land issues must be addressed. If people can’t buy land and build (even if building is slow right now), they don’t sell or rent their existing homes. Our city stagnates. Some of the rentals I have seen are $600 per week. Is it any wonder we have 2000 people waiting for affordable housing? Is it any wonder it is difficult — if not impossible — to persuade people to move to our attractive city?
Sorry it was only my history this week. This has been on my mind for such a long time.
Take care — and may it be easy, my friends.
Marnie
Email: towntalk@sheppnews.com.au
Letter: Town Talk. Shepparton News. P.O. Box 204. Shepparton, 3631.
Phone: Send a text on 0418 962 507. (Note: text only. I will call you back, if you wish)