The Christmas bong and great aunt Ros

A story about drug paraphernalia and my 96-year-old great aunt

A couple of Christmases ago, my sister Tamara and I decided to split the cost of a Playstation as a gift to ourselves. Our parents also chucked in a bit of money, wrapped it up and put it under the tree.

Knowing this, my brother Jeremy planned his presents accordingly. 

With great care he wrapped the following:

These were opened by Tamara and I in front of our whole family, including our religious 96-year old great aunt Ros.

At the best of times, Ros was in a near-constant state of disapproval. And, to be fair, in the company of me and my siblings, she had plenty to disapprove of. When we’re together, we can be loud and boisterous. If someone were to put a swear jar in the house, I wouldn’t make rent. Our behaviour was met with frosty displeasure and pursed lips.  

Occasionally Ros could manage to be warm. Tamara said she spoke glowingly about me when they were alone. Ros would talk about the lunches and shopping trips I’d taken her on, how generous I was, how kind. This was particularly great, because Tamara had been the one to do all those good deeds. She’d go to so much effort, and would then sit there, grinding her teeth, hearing me get the credit.

The only person who got more ill-deserved praise than me was former talkback host Alan Jones. He is a genius she would say with breathless reverence. Suffice to say Ros was not the kind of person who would be amused by a bong.

Luckily for Jeremy, his intended audience were. Tamara and I laughingly complimented his craftsmanship and dedication to the gag. My parents rolled their eyes and ignored us as best they could. 

Ros just looked confused.   

I decided not to take this bullet. 

“Jeremy,” I said sweetly. “This was your present. Do you care to explain it?” 

“Well Ros,” he said. “What do YOU think it is?”

We shouldn’t have underestimated Ros. Afterall, she was a long-time resident of the Central Coast, Australia’s cone-punching capital. A district whose coat of arms should feature a bong in the middle.

Drugs were very high on the long, long list of things Ros disapproved of. But to her credit, she saved us all the lecture and let it go.

She didn’t even complain when I got drunk, used the bong as a prop, and ruined the annual family Christmas photo. 

Twice. 

We only did two takes. Neither were framed that year.

Not to bring the mood down or anything, But I’m telling this story because Ros died last week at the impressive age of 98.

The end happened very quickly. Less than a month ago her son came over to visit, realised Ros couldn’t get out of bed, and called an ambulance. She was taken to hospital where they ran some tests and determined that there was a large tumour pushing on her lungs.

My sister happened to be visiting when the doctor talked through the test results. Ros was a bit hard of hearing towards the end, so when the doctor was gone, Tamara relayed the news. She had a tumour. It was terminal. 

“Well!” Ros wheezed cheerfully “That’s good news!”

Tamara and my mother both agreed it was the happiest she’d been in years.

It wasn’t long before the doctors decided they’d have to start palliative care using morphine. Perhaps the prospect of having one last good time drove Ros to a faster demise. She never liked a fuss, so surely it was a choice to slip away when no one was around. She had a quiet death in a hospital bed without the fun of opioids. Not a heroic end, but certainly a fitting one.

There’s no need to be sad. No one would be happier to hear of Ros’s death than Ros herself.

She always seemed a bit ambivalent about life, as though it were an appointment with a tax accountant, or a trip to get your license renewed. Some of that was age, I suppose. Some of it was inherent to who she was.

It makes me wonder, is it better to leave life wanting more? Or to be so thoroughly over the whole thing you’re pleased to go?

Either way, I’d like to think Ros isn’t looking down on us — she got bored of this big party long ago. I hope she’s found a better suited one somewhere else.