Ginya and Clayton were amazed at how Sophie’s communication skills had developed, and were drawn to her sweet personality. Then one day, Ginya said, ‘We’d love for Sophie to stay with us and go to St John’s School. It’s one of the best schools in America.’
‘That sounds nice, Ginya,’ was my polite reply, but it actually sounded ridiculous to me. Sophie was only twelve and there was no way I was going to let her go. Li had heard of the school and was really taken with the idea. He was excited, but I was sure nothing would come of it.
Occasionally Li went away for a weekend to write, or stayed at work late to focus on his book. But mostly he was at home with us, with Sophie’s therapy lessons happening in the background, Bridie rollerblading down the stairs and Tom kicking or hitting balls around. I was enjoying teaching professional dancers and the children were doing well; even Sophie was calm and accepting despite her struggles. We had good friends nearby. Australia felt far away from international ructions, warm and safe. Sometimes I marvelled at how lucky we were.
But things were looking dire for Neil George. Five years on oxygen was enough, and to see the shadow of my once energetic father having to use a wheelchair was painful. He was a different person, almost unrecognisable. His face was pale, his limbs were thinner, but he would never lose his beer belly. He was determined not to have to go to hospital or a nursing home. Under Coralie’s loving care, we didn’t think he’d have to. I hoped Mum could keep going.
The early weeks of 2002 went by in a blur. With three children at school, I couldn’t get up to Brisbane often and was on the phone regularly to Mum and Dad. Even speaking seemed to take his breath away, but he always managed those dear words from my childhood that I knew so well: ‘Hello, beautiful!’
Stoic to the end, he didn’t spend one night in hospital until 9 April 2002. Coralie had to call an ambulance because his breathing worsened. His first night in a hospital would be the last night of his life. I got the call from Mick at 2 a.m. to say he was gone. Coralie was with him at the end, which was what he wanted. He died with his rosary beads in his hand.
Paddy spoke beautifully at Neil George’s funeral and mentioned how the moment Neil George married Coralie he knew he had struck gold. And we all knew it, too. Li and my brothers carried the coffin out of the church after the service, with such care and heavy hearts. We wept at the funeral service and again when his coffin was lowered into the grave.
Even though I had mentally prepared for this day, at that moment I still couldn’t quite come to terms with the idea that Neil George – that kind, interesting and brilliant man, the centre of our universe – would never make us laugh again. The giant figure in our lives was gone forever. He had shown such kindness and generosity and instilled those qualities in all of us that would continue to guide us through our lives.
I’ll forever miss you, Dad.
15
Enrolling four-year-old Bridie in gymnastics was the best thing. Her body was made for it – lean, agile, strong and small. She soon became obsessed, to the exclusion of all else. It was astonishing to watch her perform the manoeuvres. The movements were so different to ballet, and yet the power and beauty of the body on display was just the same. It was a relief to see all that energy contained at last! She was put into the intensive stream and just lapped it up.
Sophie, on the other hand, seemed to be coming apart in new and unexpected ways, though perhaps we should have been prepared. After all, she was nearly thirteen, dealing with all the hormonal activity that happens at puberty. I was surprised when the school counsellor called me and said Sophie had come to her very upset. She told me Sophie didn’t want to do ballet any more.
‘Really? That’s news to me,’ I said to her. I was annoyed. She was ignorant of Sophie’s situation and the benefits we had seen emerge from ballet.
When I picked Sophie up from school that day, she spoke to me as soon as she got into the car. ‘Mum, I don’ wan’ to go ballet any more.’
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Where is this coming from?’ I wondered. But when I thought about it, I could guess why. At that stage, ballet gets really hard. There’s a huge change in the skills required when it’s time to learn jumps and turns. Sophie was attending four classes a week – a big commitment – as well as fitting in homework, music practice and friends.
‘I jus don’ like any more. Too much ballet,’ she said firmly.
What Li and I knew for sure by now, and Sophie probably didn’t realise, was how much she gained from her ballet training with Miss Anna. Through ballet, she learned that she should work to her best capacity, be on her best behaviour and dance the best she could. She was good at it so it boosted her self-esteem. Ballet is learned in a controlled social and disciplined environment. This meant Sophie could follow the exercises, feel the music, and pick up visually what the corrections were. And ballet had revealed how naturally expressive Sophie was – and that’s something that can’t be taught easily.
I knew she was entering that stubborn teenager stage. I was firm with her. She would have to continue ballet until the end of the year, I told her. She had to work hard every day and in everything: in speech therapy, in ballet and at school. I knew she just had to do it if she wanted to get ahead. And she had started learning the piano instead of the cello.
Outside of ballet things were becoming harder for her, too. Children of around thirteen don’t play, they talk. All talk and no play was impossible for Sophie. How must it be, I thought to myself, to be nearly thirteen but still in Grade 6, in a world where your classmates are already talking about boys, movies and music, but you simply can’t catch what is being said? No one her age was going to wait around while Sophie tried to work out what was being said and then wait for their turn to speak.
For this reason I often thought about signing. I understood that in this form of communication there was a protocol for waiting for the other person to finish what they wanted to say before responding – unlike the speaking world, where people often talk over each other, particularly young girls. Girls can be so hurtful sometimes, even without meaning to be, and it distressed me just thinking about it. The possibility that we may have set Sophie on the wrong path from the beginning often niggled at the back of my mind.
Sophie’s struggles became clear to me when we celebrated her becoming a teenager. We decided on a sleepover at home, just three girls. We played it safe there, or so I thought. She and the girls were very excited. During the whole excruciating night, Sophie pretended to be having a good time but I could see it wasn’t working. I watched the other girls and they were having fun, but they didn’t understand that with a deaf person, everyone has to take their turn talking. In their excitement, they didn’t even realise that Sophie was being totally excluded. And at her own birthday party!
The next day, the girls couldn’t get out of bed as they’d been up all night. But Sophie had taken her implant out and slept – isolated once again. I couldn’t wait for them to leave. I was angry and berated myself for not realising that a sleepover would end in disaster. I never seemed to get Sophie’s birthday right!
Sometimes I felt I was the worst kind of mother, pushing and pushing, never letting up, especially when I could see that it was all too much for her, and then I’d be filled with remorse and think about whether she could ever really catch up. In less than six months we’d finish climbing the mountain that was primary school, only to face the taller peak that was secondary school.