"iT's 3am, I dOn'T nEEd tO tELL yOU wHAt tHiS cALL iS FoR..."



We all get this call at some stage in our life. Some sooner than others. Some more than they deserve. Others when they least expect it. Or in my case only 12 hours after hearing my father was in Baradine Hospital and refusing treatment. Well technically he wasn't refusing treatment anymore by this stage because he was already in a coma and the decision to not transfer to Dubbo had already been made.
Being a health professional, I was granted a verbal handover of a catalogued and probably alphabetically correct account of my father's serious conditions that left nothing more than horrified confidence that he had approximately hours to live. I was right.
My passport had expired and I was an ocean away from the carnage I was about to uncover in the wake of my father's death.
After receiving the 3am phone call from my brother the next morning, at least the pressure was off to make it back in time...
I still got up early and drove 5 hours to the Australian Embassy in Wellington to plead my case and was issued with an emergency passport hours later. I rang the travel agency that was holding onto our Honeymoon fund (as discussed and agreed upon by my extremely patient and loving husband), and requested return flights to Dubbo to be arranged for the very next day. Cattle Class had suddenly become the cost of First Class.
I drove home again to begin packing.
Travelling all the next day, I wound up in Dubbo finally by 2030hrs. Exhausted and still in shock at having lost a Father and the chance to say goodbye, I fell asleep with wet cheeks from silent tears.
Up early again the next morning and I organised a taxi to the hire car company. Left my suitcase in the back of the taxi (something of a ritualistic trait of mine) and managed to track down the taxi and my bag before too long. Drove on through Dubbo on to Gilgandra and out to Coonabarabran. Made it to the Motor Inn that I had haphazardly pre-booked the night I was packing to leave, and I found that it was adequate for my needs. It was out of town, it had a pool and the staff had sorrow and caring in their eyes for me.
I drove to Baradine straight away and although I had only ever been to this address once, it was easy enough to remember the way; through the tiny town and at the end of a dusty ochre-red dirt track right beside the air-strip. Dad's habitation; an old camera crew's caravan with a self-built deck and an additional smaller decrepit caravan to the back as an extra bedroom, had seen some improvements since I last visited and it looked semi-comfortable and certainly adequate to my Dad's standard of living (which had never been this good). I guess you could say he went out on top.
As I drove up, there were four sets of eyes on me from the newly renovated carport. Two of these came from complete strangers. I felt self conscious and grief stricken. I got out of the car and wandered cautiously toward the inbred town folk. One of them greeted me with a half smile and an awkward hug that I could have done without. My life hit rock bottom as I realised that not only was I too late to say goodbye to my dying Father, but I was also alone and isolated and now my grief was washing over me like a deluge. I couldn't speak. I couldn't bring myself to form words beyond a simple Yes or No, and besides, the questions were inexcusably irrelevant to my sudden and relevant sadness for an ill-fated childhood, a useless father who never rang for birthdays or Christmas's, and a pitiful excuse for a man who was a hypocritical drug user and a raging alcoholic who used his fist often and mostly against women to validate his warped point of view.
In a dream-like state I was ushered first to one strangers house for a 'nice cup of tea' but
my grief was shocking enough to grant me quiet awe from the yokels and eventually questions turned into exchanged looks of concern.
Out of necessity to change the awkward atmosphere, I was then invited to a formidable viewing of my father's written will that was on show back at his 'carer's' house and I could find no reason to delay the empty-promise of what was to come.
The 'will' was heavily scrawled in an unsteady block cursive onto a dirty piece of paper that was thinly attached to a man-handled scrap of cardboard, as if it was the last sorry remembrance of a once proud pad of paper. I read it once. Twice. And then I digested the fact that it was never going to stand up in court and then I looked up into the 'carer's' face while she scoffed back her ham and salad lunch while standing at her kitchen bench eyeing me off suspiciously.
The 'will' had wasted no time in getting to the crux of it's evil, and by the 7th line it had outlined that the 'carer' would 'receive $15,000 cash' from the sale of the property that Dad didn't forthrightly own and that owed amounts to a mortgage more than it's ratable value.
I peered at the 'carer'. She winced so I knew my feelings were on display, but I controlled the urge to destroy something. I was then quickly informed that it was public knowledge that my father did not rightly have the money in the land, and so in light of this the 'carer' had taken it upon herself to remove 'all items of value' from Dad's property before he had passed away and then all other items just to be sure there was no looting or thieving, and that she had already sold half a dozen things, such as a Land cruiser, two water tanks, two trailers and a chain pulley. Incredulously I maintained self control again and managed to look through her to the wall behind as I realised the situation was turning into a stomach turning and vulturistic nightmare.
The strings were being manipulated by a half-wit inbred granny who was cleary missing a chromosome if she really thought she was ever going to see $15000 out of a guy who never worked or had anything of value and who practised by the phrase 'reap what you sow'.   
My glaring gaze must have been easier to read than I expected and this gave me time to my thoughts and eventuated in my duly granted leave of absence back to my safe haven in Coona.
I didn't eat all day. I threw up once. I curled up into a tiny ball on the Motor Inn bed and cried until the paracetamol kicked in and let me drift off into a spasmodic dream state. When I woke I was disorientated and stiff. The sun had gone down and there was just the throaty growl and rush of air-breaking from road trains non-discretely creeping past on the main artery outside. My worst fears flooded back again, but this time I was numb, and that was a little better than raw. I decided to read 'Breaking Dawn' to escape reality and back to sleep.
The next day, my complimentary breakfast was delivered to my outside table and chairs by the young and aspiring chef from the Motel's Restaurant. He seemed sincerely sweet and empathetic, as were the rest of the Management and staff, and this helped my outlook on the day of horrors to come. I knew I could escape everyday back to this bizarre niche of genuinely compassionate strangers. I had another four days to survive before I could retreat back to Dubbo with my tail in between my legs. I was going to need any form of kind communication I could get.
I eventually drove back out to the little house of horrors and was confronted with a phone call with the funeral director on loud speaker needing to ask a thousand questions about Dad, his immigration to Australia, his parents, his marriage, his usual occupation, to which I fought hard not to say Professional Bum. I had forms to sign at the Hospital and it was unlikely that the Health care system was going to grant a subsidy for funeral costs. The best part I hadn't told you all about yet was that Dad's funeral plan was cancelled three weeks prior to his death, on the 29th December 2011, for unpaid fees that were being automatically deducted from his account but recently and back-dating for 3 months there had not been enough funds in the account when the payments tried to transfer.
So now I am dealing with the sudden loss of an irresponsible father, an inbred granny gold-digger and funeral costs in the thousands that were now being inherited by the oldest surviving relative. Fuck this.
The funeral guy was sympathetic in tone and said he was filing a claim for a state funeral but I was given no promises that it would be honored. After signing the funeral forms at the hospital I retreated like a broken, whipped soul out of Baradine the closest to Hell on Earth I've ever come to.
The pool was waiting and beckoning for me to drown my anger in physical exercise that knew no boundaries except for when I could no longer move my aching arms and legs. Every evening I swam laps while it was dark and until everyone had gone to bed. Every morning I got up at 6:30am and ran down the straight Newell highway into Coonabarabran's township and back again, giving me another hour away from the reality. The exercise was ritualistic and methodical and allowed just enough endorphins to flow into my burning veins to give me the strength to get through another day and to find sleep through the nights.
I was summoned by the local Police Officer in Baradine the morning of the third day, via a late phone call from the 'carer' at 9pm, stating I should attend the meeting in the morning and around 9am, to which I adhered, so that he could determine through 'bad-cop' interrogation techniques if myself and/or the other surviving siblings were destitute enough to qualify for a State funeral. The man was literally built like a brick-shit-house and cleary unhappy when he had been awoken by my 'expected 9am' arrival. Intimidation was his forte undoubtedly. After answering personal financial questioning about myself and my husband and then grudgingly offering second-hand information in regards to my brother's newly appointed employment in Karratha and my half-sister's current situation (to which I barely know), I then watched on as this half ape, half Sasquatch attempted to pen my statement. It was painful to watch and oh so painfully obvious what the outcome was going to be from his tight-lipped expression of dumb witted concentration of one letter at a time. I was right again.
So the funeral costs were the first of many blows that reigned cruelly down on my already battered mind. I had to relay the new costs to my brother who was surprisingly supportive from a far and I tried to not think of where we would get the funds from.
Sick-with-worry was well behind me know.  I had phased into life-crippling damage control and I still had 3 days left before I was putting Baradine and Coonabarabran behind me forever.
Salvation came on the forth day, and in the form of a female family friend of Dad's. This woman had a confident aura about her that you can only acquire if you are a sort after health practitioner. The many years of practice refining this authority came in handy, for when the 'carer' met the 'saviour' it was obvious who was pulling the strings now. I had no trouble from here on in from the gold-digging inbred granny who was shown as the true convict she really was when faced, out numbered by only two. It was as though a burning cross had been pointed in her direction every time the 'saviour' spoke directly to her; there would be a hiss and a withdraw every time. I was enjoying this balance in my favour a lot more. And it granted me the invaluable access to Dad's electric and hand tools that Daniel so desperately had hoped to inherit from father to son and had only a day ago seemed like a hopeless pipe-dream. The 'saviour' managed to effortlessly render the 'carer' powerless and small. It was a fleeting and minuscule victory in the scheme of misfortunes really though.
The fifth day saw me sitting on Dad's makeshift porch with the 'saviour' watching a fleet of at least a hundred pink and silver galah's put on an aeronautical show that was spectacular and had answered the unspoken question of what Dad had seen in the place. It was a nice goodbye.
Back in Coonabarabran we were both invited to a meeting with the 'carer' and the free legal aid representative that she had sought. It was amusing to hear, what I already knew; that the 'will' wasn't worth the paper it was written on, and that was really making a loose statement considering the state of the 'thing' to begin with. The hope of the $15000 win fall evaporated from the geriatric face of evil and replaced with the consolation prize draw of the sale of Dad's goods. I was pleased and bitter-sweetly resentful when it was brought to all of our attention that in actual fact at this stage in time it was illegal that anything to have been removed from the property, let alone sold. The money that had already been collected would need to be put towards the funeral costs immediately, along with the cash in Dad's wallet that the 'carer' offered up at this time, obviously deciding that this was as good a time as any to declare not only that she had it but that she had also accessed Dad's account after he had died and withdrawn his funds. What was left was to be put towards the funeral costs also. Unfortunately, as all items sold had been done previously to my arrival and knowledge, there was no way to know if the receipts produced were correct, and all transactions had been conveniently in cash. I managed to raise $1280, including $200 (from funds my brother had wired me from Western Australia to help me survive the week on more than just bread and 2-minute noodles) towards the funeral costs that heavily discounted still came to $2700; for a cremation that no one would be able to attend (a service and any attendees would cost more money, that we just simply could not afford despite the fact that we were rich according to the Sasquatch in Baradine). It was a sad state of affairs. Forget the indignity of a man who probably didn't deserve a celebration of life let alone a proper funeral service, the indignity of it was that we (his children) were quickly labelled uncaring and barbarically disrespectful by all those who had expected a hugh booze-up and free bar tab to say good-bye to one of the most dedicated alcoholics this world has ever known. What more fitting way would a man of this calibre be sent out of this world and into the unknown dimensions? And wherever that happens to be, it will no doubt need to be toasty warm to judge some of his crimes.
So with the 'will' behind me, more legal jargon followed and finally heated discussions through clenched teeth concerning all the removed property from Dad's place and the realisation that none of that was going to be recovered now, including a stringed macrame hanging bowl  that I made and gave to Dad when I was in grade two. He had proudly displayed it every place he lived, including the most recent dwelling, however this had found it's way to local tip before I had even arrived two days after his death all the way from New Zealand no less. So things of sentimental value had been lost forever. For this I unleashed some of my pented up anger on the 'carer' and I took no comfort in her repeated wincing this time. I felt as though I could have run her over and not looked back.
After some aggravated formalities at the local Commonwealth Bank the next morning, closing and freezing accounts and transferring the raised funds to the funeral directors, I was finally able to kiss Baradine and the 'carer' good riddance. Coonabarabran was in my rear-view mirror also after gentle hugs from my new and short lived family from the Motor Inn. I was finally begged by them to take care and to take my story to A Current Affair. I was abhorred by the idea of such a cruel experience being relived through public media, but I humoured them without making any promises of such a request. They really were sweet people, with good intentions.
I drove back to Dubbo and handed back the keys to the hire car unscathed and without an impressionable dent of a geriatric care-giver embedded in the hood. I was proud of myself for driving away from that opportunity.
Dubbo was warm and inviting compared to Baradine. I walked the CBD until it was time to head to the Motel and bed down for one last night in the sun-burnt land. I slept fitfully and missed my husband and our menagerie of a family on the farm.
One taxi, three flights, one long drive home and nearly 16 hours of travel in total and my wish of being embraced by my husband came true. It was such a relief to be home. It was necessary to my continued existence in fact. I was welcomed home to the smell of roasting lamb with jersey potatoes and fresh vegetables from our little garden. I could forget all about my woes, and wash away the hurt and pain in a deep and relaxing bath that was also awaiting me with dissolving Himalayan salts to top off my utopia.... "Now what was I worried about again?"