I write about families; many people wish I wouldn't. But in a sense families are all we've got, even though they may be extremely problematical, either safe havens, repositories of tawdry secrets, or something in between. And yes, each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.
My family seemed happy enough, held together by a quite remarkable mother, a person of rare intelligence and understanding. When she died, everything changed, and eventually my father rejected his two children. My brother and I take no responsibility for this estrangement, and our father need not either, for old age, ill health, and rash decisions can alter lives irreparably. And sometimes irrevocably.
The kaleidoscope. Quite suddenly and recently, circumstances changed yet again. My brother went to visit our father. And then my turn came. We drove through the leafy avenues near the city, and I heard again the comforting click and chime of trams. Melbourne was baking in summer heat and dust; a strong northerly blew small eddies of rubbish and leaves along the broad streets. I felt that I had never been away. Through tunnels and along freeways we went to the nursing home.
I felt as sick as a dog and was doing a fair imitation of a cat on hot bricks; I was also jet-lagged and weary. Would Dad recognise me? It had been more than seven years, after all, and he had recently been diagnosed with dementia. If he did recognise me, what then? Would he be pleased, or would he fall into a rage and start roaring in well-remembered fashion? There was nothing for it but to find out. Like childbirth, I told myself, the only way out was through.
Some of the residents were watching a film, we were told, and Dad was one of them. We were taken through chintzy lounges to the darkened projection room. My brother moved to one side, while I stood peering into the gloom. By dint of concentrating, I eventually saw a very old man being helped to his feet. I suppose I was clearly visible. I also suppose I will never forget that moment and the moments that followed. At least not for a very long time.
Dad's jaw dropped, and then he broke into his familiar wide grin. He waved, and then came slowly towards me, pushing his walker in front of him. Once outside