“If These Four Walls Could Talk”: An Aged Care Resident’s House of Heartache, Hope, and Happiness

Talking to the ladies about where they were born, Helen intercepts and tells me she took her first breath in the house she lived in all her life. It was her parents’ home, and her mother was born there too.

She tells me, “If the four walls could talk,” they would scream out the good, the bad, and sometimes the ugly memories of the small two-bedroom home on the central coast of NSW.

Helen describes her childhood as simple and carefree; we never had much growing up, and her mother would knit and sew clothing handed down from family and friends.

Although there was never much money in the house for luxuries, there was always unconditional love and affection from her parents.

Bringing her sweetheart home at the tender age of seventeen, who then became her first husband, was exciting and yet naïve about the ways of life; her husband Bert was five years older than Helen and loved a drink, like so many Aussie men of the time; this should have been a red flag, but Helen was so head over heels in love that she was in denial that it would ever be a problem.

Going on to say that the arguments and screaming started only months after they were married and were living in her parents’ home. Bert would spend most of his earnings as a labourer in the local pub, coming home at all hours, often staying out all night on the weekends.

“If these four walls could talk,” they would speak of the heartache, sorrow, tragedy, and loss but also echo happiness, laughter, and joy. As Bert’s drinking became more of a hindrance to everyday life, his abuse increased until one day, during a heated argument, Bert struck Helen, sending her hurtling across the room.

That was the final straw for Helen’s father, telling me that both her mother and father had had enough of Bert’s behaviour, and he was thrown out of the house that evening and told never to return. A divorce soon followed; Bert was never heard of again.

Two months later, Helen discovered she was pregnant; unfortunately, happiness turned to tragedy when she suffered a miscarriage at home when she was five months along.

It was an excruciating labour with no baby to show for it at the end. Helen became depressed and lived a solitary existence after that, only going out to work as a secretary from 9-5 and never venturing out after returning from work each day.

She regretted meeting Bert and following her heart instead of her head in marrying so young and mourned the death of her unborn baby.

Five years later, Helen married her second husband, Ronnie, a kind, caring, hard-working teetotaller. They spent fifty-six married years together and had two sons, Gerald and Anthony, both born in the living room.

Recalling happy memories of birthday celebrations and Christmas excitement filled the house with joy and merriment, rooms that once cried out in anguish and pain.

Both Helen’s parents died at home in their sleep, which was a blessing. Her beloved Ronnie died from a massive heart attack three years ago.

Helen had hoped to spend her last days in that little house, although it became apparent she needed extra care, so she came into residential care and is happy with her lifetime memories.