Nine Summers

  nine

  summers

  OUR MEDITERRANEAN ODYSSEY

  RINA HUBER

  Copyright

  First published in 2007 by Pier 9, an imprint of Murdoch Books Pty Limited

  www.murdochbooks.com.au

  Murdoch Books Australia

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  Chief Executive: Juliet Rogers

  Publishing Director: Kay Scarlett

  Commissioning Editor: Hazel Flynn

  Editor: Sarah Baker

  Design Manager: Vivien Valk

  Design concept and cartography: Reuben Crossman

  Designer: Sarah Odgers

  Production: Adele Troeger

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission of the publisher.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the National Library of Australia.

  eISBN: 9781921208904

  Text copyright © Rina Huber 2007

  Design copyright © Murdoch Books 2007

  Images on front cover copyright © Getty Images

  Author’s note

  Distances at sea are always given as nautical miles:

  1 nautical mile = 1.852 km or 1.151 miles.

  Many of the names in the book have been changed.

  contents

  cover

  title page

  copyright

  for felix

  chapter one

  chapter two

  chapter three

  chapter four

  chapter five

  chapter six

  chapter seven

  chapter eight

  chapter nine

  chapter ten

  chapter eleven

  chapter twelve

  chapter thirteen

  chapter fourteen

  epilogue

  acknowledgments

  sailing terms

  for felix

  1927–1999

  Our two souls therefore, which are one,

  Though I must go, endure not yet

  A breach, but an expansion,

  Like gold to aery thinness beat.

  If they be two, they are two so

  As stiff twin compasses are two,

  Thy soul the fixed foot, makes no show

  To move, but doth, if th’other do.

  And though it in the centre sit,

  Yet when the other far doth roam,

  It leans, and hearkens after it,

  And grows erect, as that comes home.

  ****

  From A Valediction: forbidding Mourning

  by John Donne, 1572—1631

  chapter one

  ‘Three consultants can’t be wrong,’ I said.

  ‘I know,’ Felix said, ‘but I’ll be glad to have a biopsy confirm it.’

  We parked the car and went to Admissions.

  ‘Next, please.’

  A woman smiled and pushed a bundle of papers across the desk. ‘You’re on the list for tomorrow morning, I see. Would you sign these forms please, Dr Huber. Dr Hollows’s secretary has already arranged it. You’re in room 317.’

  We took the lift to the third floor and walked into a four-bed ward. ‘I might as well get into bed, the night shift has already come on.’

  A nurse walked in. ‘I’d like to take your blood pressure and temperature, Dr Huber, then I’ll leave you alone.’

  ‘Sure.’

  As soon as she’d walked out, a cheerful young doctor came in.

  ‘Good day, Tom, so you’ll be knocking me out?’

  ‘Sure am, Felix! What’s this I hear about you?’ Then turning to me, he said, ‘Hello, Mrs Huber.’

  ‘Hi. You’ll look after my old man, won’t you?’

  ‘You bet I will.’

  ‘I’ll go now, be back in the morning,’ I said to Felix. ‘Oh, by the way, what time shall I pick you up?’

  ‘He’s first on the list, Mrs Huber, shouldn’t take long. I expect he’ll be awake and raring to go after 10,’ Tom said.

  ‘Great, I’ll be here.’ I kissed Felix, then left him and his anaesthetist to chat.

  Tuesday morning was bright sailing weather. I put on jeans and a T-shirt, and collected clothes for Felix in case he wanted to go for a sail after I picked him up.

  He was still asleep when I walked into his room. I kissed him. He opened his eyes.

  ‘How do you feel, honey?’

  ‘Fine. What time is it?’

  ‘10.30.’

  He closed his eyes again. I sat next to his bed and waited. When he woke, he looked agitated, wanting to know the time again.

  ‘Going on 11.30.’

  From the corner of my eye I spotted Dr Hollows in a green operating gown with a mask around his neck. He was bent, walking slowly down the corridor towards us. His face looked like bad news. I felt my throat dry, my heart pound. I wanted to get up, but couldn’t. He came in and sat on Felix’s bed, took his time, then said, ‘I’m sorry, Felix, it’s not good. Retro-orbital lymphoma. I couldn’t believe it. I was convinced it wouldn’t be anything serious.’ Fred looked devastated.

  Felix stared at the bare wall opposite. Said nothing.

  The clanking of a hospital trolley broke a long silence. A confused smell of coffee and hospital food drifted in from the corridor. A plump woman in a white cap and blue uniform popped her head in. ‘Would you like tea or coffee, sir?’

  Felix didn’t answer, but turned to Fred. ‘So where do we go from here?’

  Fred spoke slowly. ‘I guess you know the score as well as I do. I suggest radiotherapy to the area. The problem is that lymphoma in that area is so rare, I don’t know a radiotherapist here with that sort of experience. You’ll need to find out which place in the UK or the US has the largest series.’

  Felix’s lips quivered. He took his time. Yes, he knew the score. He was used to treating soft tumours.

  ‘OK, Fred, I’ll get on the phone tonight. The Marsden in London, the Memorial in New York, The Mayo, Houston, Boston…See what I can find out.’

  Fred got up, and squeezed Felix’s hand. ‘I have to get back to theatre.’

  ‘Thanks, Fred.’

  Cancer! Felix had cancer! The word rolled and spun round in my head. It couldn’t be right, this must be a mistake. To me, Felix had always been indestructible. I couldn’t comprehend what had happened. I didn’t want to scream or cry, I wanted to hide or disappear. I should have put my arms around him, hugged him, told him I loved him, but I was paralysed, glued to the chair. I couldn’t move.

  ‘OK, I’ll get dressed now. Let’s go home.’ Felix put his legs down and reached for his clothes. When he’d finished, I still couldn’t say anything. As we walked out of the hospital, he put his arm around me. We crossed the road in silence as we walked towards the car. He got into the driver’s seat. Why couldn’t I make some kind of a gesture? I was numb, my mind a blank.

  Then deep inside me, I saw a skinny 7-year-old standing alone at my mother’s funeral in Haifa, peering through a crowd of adult legs towards the grave. As the coffin began to sink, I turned away, looked up at the sky and told myself that my mother was up there, not in that black box. I relived the emotions of the little withdrawn girl who never cried in front of others, never spoke to anyone about
her mother. Over 50 years had passed since she’d died from cancer. I barely remembered her, and hardly ever thought of her — until now, as we drove home.

  The scent of wisteria enveloped us as we drove into the garage. Felix switched off the ignition, turned and looked into my eyes, ‘I know this is serious, but we’ll cope.’ He added gently, ‘You and me, we always do.’

  We walked down the stairs through an arch of white jasmine, past a blaze of spring flowers into our home, a place I now barely recognised. Felix walked slowly. During the previous weeks he had seemed withdrawn. In spite of the reassurance of three consultant ophthalmologists, he’d insisted on a biopsy. He must have had a premonition.

  I burst into tears. He took me in his arms and led me into the lounge. ‘This is not the end, sweetie. Let’s sit down and talk about it. No one can tell you how long you can live with lymphoma. So much depends on recurrences and where they occur. But you can treat recurrences with chemotherapy, radiotherapy. You can go on treating. So it’s impossible to say. Some people live for a short time, but the majority go on for much, much longer. Although this is serious, it’s not the end. We mustn’t despair. We’re lucky it’s been diagnosed. I’m going to phone clinics in the UK and the States tonight, and find out which is the best place for treatment. Wherever it is, we’ll go there. With luck we’ll have much more time than you think and we’ll make the best of it. So buck up, honey.

  ‘But the most urgent thing on my mind at the moment is that I’d love a decent cup of coffee, instead of that goddamn awful hospital stuff.’

  I put my arms round him and clung to him, ‘God, how I love you! You always know how to make me feel better.’

  ‘That’s my job, didn’t you know?’ He winked and added, ‘I’m starved.’

  His nervous system needed food. I spent the rest of the day brewing coffee, making sandwiches — salami, salmon, cheeses, tomatoes, chicken. Hot drinks, cold drinks, chocolates, biscuits, bananas, strawberries, whatever I could find. Dazed, I kept going. Although it was warm when we came home, I put on an old thick sweater. I couldn’t stop shivering.

  Felix settled down to his desk and started to make a list of people and places to phone that night.

  When our daughter Julie arrived in the evening, she could barely contain her tears. We phoned our son David in London. No matter how hard Felix tried to lighten the atmosphere, a dark cloud pressed down on us.

  At midnight, Felix started to phone. First London, then New York, Houston, Boston, The Mayo Clinic, on and on…His tone was so matter of fact — cool, composed, as if he were discussing a patient’s treatment, not his own. He made notes. During one break, he raised his head, his face grey and haggard, and said, ‘Honey, why don’t you go to bed. There’s no need for both of us to stay up.’ Then, with a wicked smile, he added, ‘I think I’ve had enough to eat. There can’t be much left in the house.’

  I kissed him goodnight and crawled upstairs. A full moon hung over Rose Bay, silver specks ruffled the water, boats swayed. In the distance, street lights glowed, houses were dark and people asleep. What did people dream? I drew the blinds, undressed and got into bed. Bitter cold overwhelmed me. Instead of wrapping myself in another blanket, I put on my old soft dressing gown, the one I couldn’t bear to throw away. I hugged myself to get warm. Thoughts of our shattered future flashed through my mind. How could I live without Felix? I couldn’t.

  I heard him speak, then put down the receiver and pick it up again. He had that same energy and capacity to keep going whenever he had to operate through the night then work the following day.

  Warm rays streamed through the blinds and woke me. Gold patterns danced on the brown rush wallpaper. Were they telling me something? I looked at the time. 6.59 am, time for the news. No, not today, I didn’t want to hear the news. From downstairs came the clatter of Felix rummaging in the kitchen. I smiled. What can’t he find? I put on a tracksuit, washed my face and went downstairs.

  ‘Hi, sweetheart. I was just making coffee and toast to bring up to you, but I can’t find the marmalade.’

  I hugged him. ‘Have you been up all night?’

  ‘Yes, but I’m OK. Everything’s organised. We’ll go to London. The radiotherapist at the Marsden has had the most experience treating retro-orbital lymphomas. He’s away just now, but he’ll be back next week. I spoke to David. We can have their bedroom. He and Anne will move into a flat next door. It’s available, and we’ll stay in their flat with the little kids. I’ll phone Qantas after 9 and book. I’ll have to get someone to stand in for me and look after my patients in hospital.’

  ‘And I’ll need to arrange for someone to take my classes. Fortunately, I’ve almost finished, only two more lectures. It’s close to end of term,’ I said.

  ‘So all’s under control. Try and cheer up. We’re going to the best place for treatment.’

  ‘You’re right.’ I put my arms around him and smelt his tired, nervous sweat, as if he’d just finished a long operating session. I didn’t want to let him go.

  The following days were hectic. ‘Mark will look after the patients in my rooms and John is going to look after the ones in hospital,’ Felix said when he came home the next day.

  ‘And I’ve given the students a reading list and notes to cover the last two lectures on Mediterranean Cultures, and Peter will take my tutorials on Migrant Family Structures.’

  ****

  Five days later we left for London. It was dark as the plane took off. I looked down and saw the glittering lights of Sydney below and wondered how we’d feel when we returned. Felix gripped my hand, clinging to it as if to ensure I wouldn’t escape. Was this a sign of insecurity, or was it to reassure me that everything would be all right? His role towards me, towards our children, his patients, had always been that of the consoler, the healer, the one who reassured others. All his adult life he had looked after patients; he had never been one himself. He didn’t know how to be a patient. My love for him verged on pain.

  ‘One whisky and one gin and tonic.’ The attendant smiled as she put down the glasses. When dinner was served, Felix was in fine form. I couldn’t face food.

  ‘Thank God, no telephone for 24 hours.’ He closed his eyes. ‘Isn’t it lucky that of all places, David is doing his post-grad in London?’

  Our seats lent back, the lights dimmed, we spread out the blankets. Within minutes Felix was asleep. He could sleep anywhere, any time. But he didn’t let go of my hand.

  David, his wife Anne and our granddaughters Emma and Jackie were at the airport to meet us. It had been a year since we’d last seen them. David and Anne looked worried. Felix tried to sound reassuring. The girls looked confused.

  ‘Goodness, how you’ve grown! We’ve been missing your hugs for over a year now!’ Back at their flat, we talked most of the night before collapsing into bed.

  The following morning we took the tube to South Kensington and walked to the Royal Marsden Hospital for Cancer. London squares were in full autumn regalia, and squirrels scuttled among gold and amber leaves, scrambling up and down trees under a low grey sky.

  As we crossed the threshold of that old red brick hospital and wandered along corridors that branched like rabbit warrens, Felix’s lips quivered and my throat felt parched. A hospital for cancer is unlike an ordinary hospital. For most who enter such a place for the first time, the occasion is a marker they use to gauge the rest of their lives. I felt my heartbeat quicken.

  A large rectangular hall with high ceilings and tall windows looking down onto the Fulham Road functioned as a waiting room. As we entered, the realisation fully struck me that Felix’s role here was as patient, not as doctor. I gripped his hand and held it tight as we took our seats. It was a silent place where people spoke in whispers. Near us, a young man in frayed jeans and a bright red T-shirt sat alone. His face was grey, his cheekbones protruded, his eyes were glazed. A hairless child sat on his mother’s lap as he listened to a story. A young woman stroked her mother’s hand. A girl peered into
a mirror and adjusted her wig. The hand of an elderly woman shook as she collected a cup of tea from one side of the room. Felix and I took our seats among the haggard, the furrowed, the bald, the gaunt, the wrinkled, the worried, the fearful, the hopeful.

  We, too, now belonged in this place of fear and hope and compassion.

  ‘Dr Huber, Dr Hunt will see you now, the second room on the left.’

  Dr Hunt was in his 50s. Tall and lean, with thinning hair, a gentle face and intelligent eyes, he inspired confidence. ‘Do sit down.’ The consulting room was small and spartan. An old lithograph of doctors standing around a bed hung on the wall. The carpet was threadbare, the walls in need of fresh paint. A single file lay on the table.

  ‘So, I gather you’ve just arrived in London. I hope you had a good trip. Tell me your story…’

  While they talked, I switched off, looked out the window and tried to think about Emma and Jackie. As far back as I could remember I’d found it hard to discuss serious illness, visit gravely ill people in hospital or attend funerals. The first time I was able to stand at a graveside since my mother’s funeral was when my mother-in-law died. She had been like a mother to me.

  I turned back to Felix and Dr Hunt as they came to the end of their conversation.

  ‘…So we’ll need to do all the tests, then we’ll plan a program. It’ll probably entail coming in five times a week for about four weeks of radiotherapy, but we’ll see…’

  As we walked out, I didn’t dare ask whether Dr Hunt had mentioned a likely prognosis.

  ‘Let’s go and eat something, then take the tube to Trafalgar Square, go to the Art Gallery.’ Felix avoided mentioning the treatment. He knew how hard it was for me to cope with illness and acted as if we were on holidays. I’ll go along with it. At least for today, I thought.