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From Magic City Morning Star R.P. BenDedek
About the Title: The Title "Finding Myself in China" is a play on words, because from February of 2003 when I came to China with the purpose of staying just one year, until August 2007 when I commenced to write the first draft of this book, I have literally 'found myself'. These past 7 years have returned to me my joy of living and gone now are my previous feelings that my life really had no purpose. Having found myself in China, I found myself!
Chapter One : Preparing for Death. What an ominous and morbid choice of Title for the First Chapter of a Book, and yet, although I chose the title with a special thought in mind, once written, I saw how appropriate it is in discussing my life. My first awareness of death occurred before I first attended school. It must have been around 1956/57, and I remember riding my tricycle around in circles waiting for the body of the old lady across the road, to be removed from her house. I know that I knew she had died, but have no idea how I knew. During my second year in Primary school, one of the first graders died, and all the students attended the funeral. When I was about eight (1961), my grandmother died. I remember that we were still living in Pascoe street Mitchelton (a suburb of Brisbane), from which we moved when I was nine years old. I remember my parents coming in the back door of the house, and my father I think it was, telling my sisters that Nana had died. (My Sisters are 10 and 12 years older than I.)
In 1965 When I was 12, my 17 year old brother died. He had joined the airforce as an apprentice in January of that year, and in May fell terribly sick. We younger kids were not told what was wrong with him, and even he was not told. On my 12th birthday at the end of June, I got a football. Two weeks later while playing with my younger brother, I kicked the football and it veered toward my brother John. He stepped up and kicked it. Within a day or so he was back in hospital, and on July 30th, three days after his 17th birthday, he died. He had been suffering from Leukaemia. Although he had been expected to live for at least 18 months, that kick of the football caused severe hemorraghing. Friday night I was sitting at the dining room table doing homework, when my sister who had been getting ready to go up to the hospital to visit John, took a telephone call. She didn't go out. Dad and Mum never let us go to the funeral, and this was a sore point with the three of us younger boys; something we cleared up with Mum before Dad's funeral years later. Less than two years later while I was in highschool, a classmate by the name of Kerry Parker fell ill. The teachers told us that he was dying, but that he would come back to class and that none of us should tell him that we knew he was dying. He came back to class and some idiot told him, and shortly thereafter he died; also of Leukaemia. It must have been about 1969 when two of my classmates were killed in a car accident. I still remember one boy's name. He was James Borowinski. He and the other boy were repeat students, and had taken the day off school to go to the horse races. On their way home they were involved in a smash. The news devastated my classmates, but all I could think was that they had wasted their lives. Jimmy's father, from memory a Russian immigrant, addressed the school assembly and virtually made the same comment. Had Jimmy been doing the right thing, he would not have been killed. When I was 19 a female friend died after a short battle with cancer. After that I seem to have had a respite for a number of years, for apart from a Paternal uncle that I did not know, and one of the local boys who used to come into my parents shop (he drowned at sea), I made it through to the age of 32 years old before I once again lost someone close to me.
In 1985 my grandfather died. Granddad was a second generation Australian of Irish Descent. His mother was an O'Donnell from Rosewood. His cousin was Eileen O'Donnell who was in the first batch of female police to be sworn-in, into the Queensland Police Service at the beginning of the 20th Century. Nana, granddad's wife who as mentioned earlier passed away in 1961, was an immigrant. Whilst my Maternal Grandmother was an immigrant and my Maternal Grandfather was native born, my Paternal Grandmother was the native born one of Irish parents, and Paternal Grandfather was the immigrant. (Both had died by the time I was about 2 years of age). Finally in 1990, two weeks before his 81st birthday, my father died. He had been sick for many many years but would not die. He was determined to outlive Mum because he felt she wouldn't survive without him. In August of that year he was put into a nursing home so that my mother could go into hospital and have a mastectomy. Before she could have the operation, he died. She kept her agreement with him and went ahead with the operation, holding his funeral some two weeks later. As my Sister inadvertantly phrased it while explaining the situation to someone; 'We put Dad on ice for 2 weeks until Mum was well enough to go to his funeral.' A few years after Dad died, my best friend and former neighbour at Woodridge (Logan City - south of Brisbane), Alistair Renshaw, died of a heart attack. He was living up north at the time. I couldn't get to his funeral, so I just spent hours on the phone with his wife, both of us crying our eyes out. This we continued to do for several years.
In 1998 my sister's husband died of cancer. For several reasons, I couldn't have cared less about his death, but my pig headed sister throughout the whole time caring for him, forgot to mention that she also had cancer, and within a few months of his death, she passed away, aged 58 years. I don't think I have forgiven her yet for that! She had made out a 'living will', leaving instructions to the effect that if she was incapacitated by a stroke, that she wished neither to be hospitalised nor given food or water. Her daughters saw to it that her wishes were carried out. The family gathered around her for almost a week, and then finally, on the first night that we all took a break, after being told by her daughters that it was OK to go, she promptly departed. Just days before my sister died, my mother was for the third time diagnosed with cancer. Three years later, in April of 2001, mother finally, and with eager intent, gave up the ghost.
My life it seems was destined to be filled with dead people. Now I am not saying that my life was filled with morbidity because everyone around me kept dying. Not at all! When confronted with death on a regular basis, you develop both a realistic attitude, and hopefully a sense of humour. When dad died in 1991, I was living in Alice Springs in the Northern Territory and flew home for his funeral. My estranged wife who was having a minor matter attended to in the same hospital as my mother was having her mastectomy, asked if I could pick her up and take her home. When I went to collect her from the hospital ward, I saw Mrs. Goodwin. The Goodwin's lived in Hilda Street Alderley which ran parallel to the street in which I lived. They lived behind old Lot Randall's Tennis Court. Mrs. Goodwin's son Bruce had been my deceased brother John's best friend, and Bruce's younger brother David had been mine. In May of 1990, another of the Goodwin boys, Keith, who had been Mayor of Cairns, was killed in a plane crash at Mt Emerald. When I saw Mrs. Goodwin in the hospital ward, I immediately went over to say hello to her, ask her about her health, and express my sympathy at Keith's passing. As was Mrs. Goodwin's habit, she asked me how my father was, and as was my habit, I gave her the stock standard reply, only to immediately realise that he was not OK, because he was dead. So when she asked: 'How's your father?' I replied; 'He's fine thanks! He's Dead!' We both looked at each other like stunned mullet for a minute, and then completely ignored both comments. It was to be another 6 months before I got to see her again and explain my behaviour that day. Both my parents had a good sense of humour, and both would have appreciated the final moments of my mother's death, and would have had a good laugh over it.
It was in fact a time I cherished. She kept waking up, opening her eyes, looking at me, and saying: 'Oh! I'm Still here!' Around 2:30am I finally fell asleep. At around 3am a nurse woke me up and told me to hurry up and say goodbye to my mother because she was on her way out! (Say What? I thought she was too ill to go out! Or did the nurse mean that she was going out!) I saw all the activity going on around Mum's bed, and as soon as the attendants laid her on her back (They do that to hurry them on their way), I stepped in to hold Mum's hand. She was in a coma and her breathing was really strange. Within just a minute or two, and with a huge intake of breath, she gave an almighty sigh. Her chest stopped moving, and she was obviously passed over to the other side. The duty sister (An Irish Roman Catholic Nun), looked over at me and said: 'She's gorn sweitie!' Never one to let others get the last word in, Mother promptly gasped another full strong almighty breath, and died again. The Nun waited 15 full seconds before looking at me and saying: 'Now she's gorn sweitie!' With that Mum gasped another breath, which nearly sent the sainted nun on her own way to paradise, before finally and definately departing her mortal coil. It took quite sometime for that Nun to definitively announce without any equivocation, (to be sure to be sure), that 'Jeanie' had finally passed on! (Like I needed her to tell me that!) Well the good nun ran off to call my relatives and tell them to hightail it back. I in the meantime, ransacked Mum's cupboard for the Lamingtons I had seen my brother put there, and promptly went off to make myself a coffee in the visitors waiting lounge. A little time later the good Sister and another nurse could be heard running around the corridors of the hospital muttering and muttering. I figured something drastic must be going on, and finally popped my head out the door to see what it was. Just then the Irish Lass appeared before me face and said: 'Oh! There ye are sweitie! - We wondered what 'ad 'appened to ye! What 'er ye doin?' I didn't quite know what to say so I spoke the truth: 'I'm having lamingtons with coffee and reading a People magazine!' My reply rather stunned them! It turns out that they thought that in my grief I may have run off and done something drastic. No such luck! That idea wasn't to enter my mind for quite a number of months yet!
Repressed Memories: You see, the death of my brother in 1965 deeply affected me, and the trauma of it virtually erased all memory of my childhood. For many years it disturbed me that I really could not remember anything from those early years, and those things which I did see in my mind, appeared as black and white 'still photographs'. I could never be sure if they were real memories or something I had seen in a photo.
After my mother died, I began to have vivid recollections in both colour and black & white, and in both 'still photographs' and 'moving film', of people, places and events in my childhood. I would have them while both awake and asleep. When awake, there were so many things that triggered memories; from music, to paintings, to the smell of flowers or a women's perfume. Whilst at first I revelled in all these memories that seemed so clear, it did not take long to realise that my life was becoming a living hell. Being Divorced, for many many years I had hung around in the background of my children's lives, just to be there if they needed me. By 2001 when my mother died, I was accutely aware of the fact that my relationship with my kids was pretty much artificial. Everything went smoothly as long as I never did or said anything to upset them or their mother. I constantly felt that I was in a 'no win' situation: damned if I said something and damned if I didn't.
I had made an inner vow that once the youngest turned 18 years old, that I would no longer shut my mouth on any topic at any time come hell or highwater. The living hell that I found myself in after my mother died, was not just the result of remembering my childhood, or that any of my memories contained anything untoward, but rather because I felt myself overwhelmed with a sense of having lost both my past and my future. I felt as though I had not only lost my loved ones to death, but had also lost my children to life (through divorce and estrangement). Although I still had 2 brothers and a sister, I felt so totally lost and alone. I felt robbed of both past and future. Well as one would expect, I spiralled into depression. At first the dreams were just wonderful, but then I began waking up from those wonderful dreams feeling totally depressed. Then I began to feel the depression whilst dreaming, and often woke up crying. When I could stand it no longer, I saw my doctor about giving me depression medication. Because I have always been supersensitive to drugs and alcohol, the medication she gave me was too strong, and I was advised to reduce the intake of it, after which time, the tablets began to mount up. As I kept looking at the stockpiled medication, I realised that if I saved enough, that it would be easy to commit suicide. That then became my plan. But first things first! I needed to finish the last couple of chapters of my book. I had been researching and writing for Ten full years and was sick of it. I couldn't walk away from the book, and nor did I ever seem to find the time to finish it.
When my share of the inheritance came through, I paid off all my bills, and with a shove from my most recent boss, (She shoved me only moments before I was going to give her the flick), I said goodbye to employment. Within three months I had finished the final first draft of 'The King's Calendar: The Secret of Qumran'. Less than two weeks after accomplishing that task, I was down at the casino (down the road from where I lived), and won the random jackpot and suddenly became $80,000 richer. Given that it seemed a waste to kill myself before enjoying the money, I spent the next year both travelling and rewriting my research results. At the end of the year upon my return from Europe, I found my brother back in Australia receiving some medical treatment, and he asked if he could stay with me. He kept at me about the need for me to stop spending money or else I would have to go back to work. Little did he realise that I intended to spend all my money and then vacate my aging body. He did his best to talk me into going to China. I was just not interested. A week before he was due to fly, I did the unthinkable! I went over to the casino and won the random jackpot again, only this time it was closer to $90,000. "What the hell!" I thought. What's another year? So off I went to China.
R.P. BenDedek Email: rpbendedek@hotmail.com Hardcover Publishing inquiries welcomed! R.P. BenDedek is the pseudonym of an Australian who has been teaching in China since 2003. He currently lives in Baotou in Inner Mongolia. In addition to contributing to Magic City Morning Star News as a columnist, he also is an assisting Editor for the Newspaper. Additionally, BenDedek is the author of 'The King's Calendar: The Secret of Qumran' at www.kingscalendar.com © Copyright 2002-2008 by Magic City Morning Star |
