Jason Om - All Mixed Up

For Mum

All Mixed Up is a work of non-fiction, based on recollections, interviews and found documents. The names of some people and some details have been changed.

This book contains sensitive themes. If it raises any issues for you, you can contact Lifeline (13 11 14), Beyond Blue (1300 22 4636) or QLife (1800 184 527).

The sound was alien. Repetitive. Guttural. It was coming from Mums bedroom.

I was on the couch, watching the Wimbledon Championships on late-night television.

Mummy?

No answer. Only the strange noise. It drowned out the polite clapping and the soft pock pock of the tennis balls.

Normally Mum kept me company at night because I was easily spooked. Stay with me, Mummy, I would beg her, tugging on her arm like a bellringer.

Why, are you afraid of the bogeyman? she would tease.

Of course I was. There were shadows moving under the trees along our dimly lit street. Our dogs wild barking, at noises only canines could hear, made me jump out of my skin.

Mum was usually my protector on the lonely nights when Dad was working in the city or out with friends. Snuggling up to her warm body was a comfort, but on this night shed gone to bed early.

The noise from her bedroom continued. It sounded as if a wild animal were attacking her.

I called out a second time. Still no answer.

Forcing my legs into action, I crossed the polished floorboards and ran down the darkened hallway.

Mums door was open, as usual, but the room was pitch-black. My fingers searched for the light switch.

The brightness revealed Mum flailing about in the double bed, the covers shrink-wrapped around her body. She was reaching out as though trying to grab me. Beside her on the bed, looking alarmed, was Spike, our little dog.

Mummy, whats wrong? I cried, falling to her side.

Mum was fighting for air.

All I could do was hold her hands. Whats wrong? I pleaded. Whats wrong?

She was fading fast. Eventually, the sound from deep inside her throat stopped, and the room fell silent.

Mum became a statue. The colour drained from her face, her eyes shut, and her body sank into the sheets. Spike shrank away in fear.

I panicked. I ran to Dads study and stood in front of our rotary phone, paralysed. If I called the ambulance, my worst fears would be realised. My world would be ending.

Perhaps things were okay. Perhaps Mum would wake up again.

Nan Ruby, Mums mother, lived a short drive away. I spun the dial on the phone.

Hello? she answered in her slow, suspicious way. An unexpected call late at night might be from unwelcome market researchers.

Nanny! I panted through the receiver. Mums not breathing.

What? Your mother is bleeding?

Breathing! I screamed through tears, emphasising the r and the th. Shes not breathing!

Why couldnt Nan understand? Was she pretending to be deaf?

Oh, she said, breathing!

Time was running out. Minutes had passed. Nan was no use.

I hung up and called triple zero, hooking one finger at a time on the dial. I dialled twice, terrified the first two zeros had failed to go through. I needed to do it perfectly.

The call connected to a womans calm, clear voice. She told me to check on Mum, who was still unconscious. After Id done this and reported back, I took in every word of the womans instructions for CPR.

Jumping onto the bed, I did as Id been told: pinched Mums nose, blew into her mouth, pumped her chest with my hands. I exhaled into her dry mouth as hard as I could, like they did on Baywatch. Her head felt like a ripe melon in my small hands.

After the first puff, Mums body convulsed. Her throat gurgled, a sign that my attempts were working, my stale air circulating in her lungs, rebooting her system. A foul stench came out of her.

I blew a few more times, but my breaths were meagre. I staggered off the bed. I cant do this, I said out loud to myself. I cant do it. I dont know what to do! I give up. Im hopeless. Im useless.

I cant do it! I wailed to the woman on the phone.

The ambulance is on its way, she said, then told me to fetch an adult.

I bolted into the blackness of our street, my bare feet springing on the asphalt, my wet cheeks chilling in the winter air. I ignored the shadows there was only one way to end my terror, and that was to find a grown-up who could comfort me.

No one answered next door, so I darted across the street and tried an old couple, Ian and Joan. Walking up the steps to their front door, I saw the flicker of a television between the metal blades of white venetians and sensed someone moving around.

The porch lit up. Ian, a gentle man with steel-wool hair and dark-lensed spectacles, emerged, blinking down at me.

Its Mum. Shes not breathing. Ive called the ambulance.

As we returned to the house, red flashes illuminated the end of the street like a lighthouse beacon cutting through the darkness, but there was no siren.

The ambulance is coming, its coming, I said to Ian.

Suddenly, the house was illuminated. Two large ambulance officers entered our narrow hallway, lugging medical kits and strange devices. While the adults took charge, I hovered as far from Mum as I could. I heard the men exchanging instructions and pumping air into her mouth.

My father arrived in his white Camry. Hed been attending a Cambodian wedding reception, celebrating with friends. As Ian headed home, Dad burst through the front door.

By the time he reached Mum, the paramedics were about to leave. Theres not much we can do here we have to get her to the hospital, one of them said to Dad.

My father didnt sweep me into his arms or ask if I was okay. Instead, he was spluttering, She is sick. My wife is sick. He spat out the words in his Cambodian accent, with a mix of anger and disgust. Sick! Dad was erupting while I flitted around the house without any bearings.

After the ambulance officers stretchered Mum outside and into the van, one returned and sat me down on the couch. Tell me what happened, he said gently. He had soft eyes and dark hair, and next to me he seemed like a giant.

I was watching TV, then I heard a growl. It sounded like an animal I tried to find the right description like a pig.

The minute the word left my mouth, I realised how harsh it sounded. I thought the ambulance officer would burst out laughing, but his face was grave.

Then I found her and called the ambulance.

Mums older brother Uncle Johnny lived with Nan Ruby, and after my phone call hed come straight over on his pushbike. For the rest of the night, he minded me while Dad sat by Mums bed in the intensive care unit.

At some point, I snuck back into Mums desolate bedroom. The bed had been moved. The doona was splayed open. Paper wrappers and little glass bottles with metal caps littered the carpet. I sat on the floor among the mess for a while, my head spinning. What had just happened? How could this be happening? Why was God doing this to me? Why was he such a bastard?

Back in my room I cried into my pillow, exhausted and numb. The door opened, and Uncle Johnny poked his head in, a shadow against the light from the kitchen. He told me he had to get to his job as a hospital assistant; it was already early morning, and his shift was about to start.

Whens Dad coming back?

Hes still at the hospital. Hell be there for a while.