Just memories.

There are so many memories. But they are mine and wouldn’t have the same resonance if I tried to share very many, I don’t believe. 

 

You see, tomorrow, January 21, will be five years since Magucha died. Now it never has been my intention to solemnize this day into a “mourning” day.  Magucha would never have wanted that. It is after all just another day – the sun will still rise in the East and set Westward over the Indian Ocean (viewed from Perth).

 

Tomorrow will, in a sense, be a day of celebration for a life well lived. Magucha refused to be cast down. Her whole approach to life seemed to be “Life is to be lived. Live it. To the full!” And so she did. She was never still, just like a sparrow – my pet name for her was “pardalito” – Portuguese for “little sparrow”  – always busy with something or someone. 

 

Rather than adopt an attitude, “What can I expect from Life?” Magucha approached it differently with a, “What does Life expect from me?” So she was always up to something – more often than not helping some wayfarer who has stumbled on their journey through life. 

 

And I was glad to be part of that. And I respected her, almost unconscious, desire to help others. And I hope I helped too. I loved her, you see! 

 

But in retrospect one always remembers the better times – the many rushed journeys to hospital and the many days spent in hospital, just became part of the background and tend to recede further as time goes on. Just as does the fist full of medications she had to take twice a day – I still have her hospital pharmacy list.

 

Magucha was  tough. Ever since her late teenage years she had suffered from kidney failure – she died just short of 63 years old – so nearly 50 years of illness. This she endured with stoic fortitude, never complaining, always ready for tomorrow! She was like spring steel – always bouncing back with a smile and a thank you.

 

In many respects I think that what the American rebel and “Gonzo” journalist, Hunter S Thompson, wrote gives a good insight into Magucha’s whole approach to life:-

 

“ Life should not be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in a pretty and well preserved body, but rather to skid in broadside in a cloud of smoke, thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and loudly proclaiming, “Wow! What a Ride!”

 

And it was a ride – being her partner, lover and friend! I wouldn’t have missed any of it. But it is the memory of her gentle side that I remember so fondly. She loved children. Having been told not to have a child - that having a child of her own would overload her compromised kidneys, she was so proud to give birth to a healthy little girl. Her love for Caroline was palpable and wonderful to see. 

 

Being the person she was she gave equal loving attention to Rob whom she refused to call “step son” but always “MY son Rob”. And I loved her for that – her innate kindness and sense of justice.

Then when the grandchildren arrived she was always there to offer help. She was their beloved “Vovo” (Portuguese for grandmother).

 

So, as you can see there are so many memories.

 

As the anonymous poet Atticus wrote:-

 

“What a beautiful thought” she said,

“that even death does not conquer love and sometimes even makes it stronger.”

 

And:-

 

“She had an uncanny energy for life, 

thankful for every little miracle it bestowed –

and it made her entirely impossible to live without.”

 

I know I have used this poem before but it fits my mood so I’ll end with it:-

 

My Wife

Trusty, dusky, vivid, true,
With eyes of gold and bramble-dew,
Steel-true and blade-straight,
The Great Artificer
Made my mate.

Honour, anger, valour, fire;
A love that life could never tire,
Death quench or evil stir,
The Mighty Master
Gave to her.

Teacher, tender, comrade, wife,
A fellow-farer true through life,
Heart-whole and soul-free
The August Father
Gave to me. 

             

                            Robert Louis Stevenson

In her own words.

I have a book, “Australian Volunteers at work – 101 stories” sponsored by Volunteering Australia, published in 2000. Magucha’s story as a volunteer is one of those recorded.

This what she said and which I have transposed:- 

“It feels like home”.

I’m Portuguese, born in Mocambique. I also lived in Angola for many years, but because of all the troubles and the war, we left and ended up in Rhodesia, which today is called Zimbabwe, where I met my husband. From Zimbabwe we came to Australia as refugees in 1982, when my son was eight years old and my daughter one year old. 

I worked in the Fremantle Hospital for ten years as a pantry maid. In those days it was for the children’s future which counted rather that a career for myself. During this time I developed a kidney deficiency. My kidneys actually stopped working, and in 1993 I received a transplant. I had to give up work a year later as the work was too heavy.

But when I went home I thought ‘I don’t like this’. The children were at school, everyone had a life, and I didn’t. I found out that the Fremantle Women’s Community Health Centre needed help, so I began volunteering. I did a lot of translations including pamphlets for Portuguese ladies about breast examination and pap smears. It was all about preventative medicine. I was then asked to join the committee of the Centre and I became the secretary for four years. I help where needed – for instance fundraising and general administrative help. I love being here – it feels like home.

Because of my interest in preventative work we invited Portuguese women to come to the Centre, feel comfortable, and become part of the group. There are a large number of Portuguese women in Fremantle. The group meets every Wednesday and we have a ball! The women who come to the group hardly used to go out before. They lived a restricted life, dedicated very much to children and grandchildren. I tell them nothing is wrong with having a bit of fun. Sometimes we go out for a cup of coffee or lunch. They do things like embroidery, knitting, sewing – whatever can be sold at the annual fete, and the money raised goes to the crèche. We started meeting only one day a month, and now we meet every week.

The women give each other support and tell each other little secrets, how to do this and when to do certain things. Some of the women have health problems. Many worked very hard before they came to Australia, and are now suffering the consequences. Apart from the fun side, there is still serious stuff going on – talk of going to doctors, about prevention of disease, pap smears, breast examination and diet.

It is six years since I had my kidney transplant, but now I’m back to square one because I’m rejecting the transplant. So I’m on a waiting list for another kidney. I could be three years. Apart from that, I feel fine!

                                                            ---///---

NB. Magucha was, with love and great generosity, given a kidney by her younger brother, Joao-Miguel, who came out to Perth for the transplant operation. That, as far as I can now remember, was in 2003. Anyway it lasted right through until she died in January 2016. 

The word "Help"

The word ‘help’ is a short four letter word with a wide range of meanings – it can be a verb or a noun. Its meanings range from a scream for assistance, or offering succour to those in need, to being a servant (a ‘help’ around the house). The word comes from Old English, Old Frisian (helpe), Old Saxon (helpa), Old High German (Helfa) and Old Norse (hjalp), so the word has obviously been around for quite a while.

What brought this to my attention is the crying need for more help (in the sense of succour) for many people in all walks of life and in many countries. What particularly bothers me is the plight of so many children – on the streets (any city you care to name), malnourishment (Sudan, Ethiopia and even in Australia and the USA), abused (any society anywhere), injured in wars (ie Tamil Tigers 27 year insurgency - and now the terrible aftermath of the conflicts in Syria, Iraq, Yemen and Myanmar) – these are the most defenceless and vulnerable in our society.

Regarding this subject (which is actually about injustice) I remembered reading something which took me quite a while to find. It is a little story written by someone who has faded from view in recent years – Sir Rabindranath Tagore (1861 – 1941). He was a Bengali and the first Asian to receive the Nobel Prize – in his case for Literature. He was also Knighted by the King in 1914 (I think). He was what is called a polymath (a man of knowledge) - a poet, visual artist, playwright, novelist, educationist, social reformer, nationalist, business-manager and composer whose works reshaped Bengali literature and music. He was also fluent in English.

In a little book he wrote called “Fruit Gathering” is a short piece titled ‘XXXI’. This piece shows how even the most humble of us, given the will, can change society by helping, one small piece at a time:

“Who among you will take up the duty of feeding the hungry?” Lord Buddha asked his followers when famine raged at Shravastri.

Ratnakar, the banker, hung his head and said, “Much more is needed than all my wealth to feed the hungry.”

Jaysen, the chief of the King’s army, said, “I would gladly give all my life’s blood, but there is not enough food in my house.”

Dharmapal, who owned broad acres of land, said with a sigh, “The drought demon has sucked my fields dry. I know not how to pay King’s dues.”

Then rose Supriya, the mendicant’s daughter. She bowed to all and meekly said, “I will feed the hungry.”

“How!” they cried in surprise. “How can you hope to fulfil that vow?”
“I am the poorest of you all,” said Supriya, “that is my strength. I have my coffer and my store at each of your houses.”

Such is the will and power to help that even just one can offer!