Free Mother of Ten by J. B. Rowley Page B

a virus,” she said.
    “Yeah,”
Dad smiled ruefully. “That’s what the doctor said. It could be just a virus;
some sort of new virus upsetting the balance of blood cells, or something like
that.”
    Mum
smiled hopefully.
    Dad
decided to drive down to Melbourne on the day of his appointment at the Alfred
Hospital, setting off around two in the morning. We all went. It was too far
for Dad to drive on his own as he was not well, although he protested that he
was ‘perfectly all right’.  Mum could not go with him unless we went too.
They packed us into the back of the truck and set off. Dad had rigged up a
makeshift canopy over the tray at the back to make a mobile bedroom, with
blankets and pillows from our beds. Mum nursed my sister Irene on her lap in
the cabin.
    Dad
knew the way well. We had made many trips to the Alfred Hospital before with my
brother Kevin (one of the twins) who had epilepsy and suffered with sudden and
severe convulsions.
    I’ll
never forget the first time I saw him having a fit. He lay on the kitchen
floor, his head yanked back by an invisible force. His thin body jerked up and
down as though in response to sudden electrical shocks. Legs kicked. Arms
flailed. Eyes rolled upward. Lips turned blue. His breathing sounded like a
dentist’s suction hose.  White froth spilled out of his open mouth.
    My
mother ran to him and tried to hold his head still. “Get me a pillow,” she
yelled, “and a blanket.” 
    We
all stood around gaping, my three other brothers and me.
    “Quickly,”
yelled my mother. Panic warped her voice to an unrecognisable screech.
    I
ran as fast as my eight-year-old legs could carry me, grabbed a blanket and
pillow from my parents’ bed, ran back and dropped them on the floor next to
Mum. She deftly slipped the pillow under my brother’s head and draped the
blanket over him. All the while, his body continued to jerk like a crazy,
robotic machine.
    When
he was quiet, my mother carried him to his bed and made sure he was warm. He
slept for hours afterward.
    Mum
had become very efficient in handling Kevin’s sudden seizures. On instructions
from the doctor, she always had a soft wooden peg handy to place in his mouth
lest he start to swallow his tongue. He had such an angelic face, it was weird
and frightening to see it distorted and grotesque during his fits.
    Our
journey to Melbourne was not easy. Much of the road was bumpy and the springs
in the truck’s seat that were threatening to push through the upholstery would
have made the trip uncomfortable for my parents. Added to this discomfort was
the noise coming from the back where their non-angelic kids were not sleeping.
Dad made regular stops to reprimand us. Each time he stopped, he was bombarded
with complaints.
    “Maxie
keeps rolling over onto my blanket.”
    “She
keeps moving around and waking everyone up.” (‘She’ was the way my brothers
referred to me when they were annoyed with me – which was most of the time.)
    “Bobby
snores.”
    “Kevin
lets off poot poots,” said Georgie.
    Kevin
giggled.
    “And
they stink,” added Georgie.
    When
Dad had finally had enough of the frequent stopping to adjudicate our squabbles
he used his sternest tone to threaten us.
    “One
more peep,” he said, shining the torch on us. “One more peep out of any of you
and I’ll have the strap around your legs.”
    This
was met with subdued silence from inside the back of the truck.
    “Do
you hear me?” he roared.
    None
of us spoke. With eyes on the belt around his waist, we nodded our heads,
intimidated by his tone and his threat.
    “Now
lie down, all of you.”
    We
obeyed meekly.
    “And
I don’t care who is bumping into who. You can’t expect to be sleeping in the
back of a truck and not have someone bumping into you. It’s not the Ritz you
know.”
    He
waited until we all settled back with our blankets curled around our thin
bodies, eyes closed feigning deep and peaceful sleep. His anger, which was
exaggerated for