Northern Territory writer, journalist and musical satirist Andrew McMillan, 54, died in February, after a long illness. Described as one of the Territory's great eccentrics Andrew was among the Top End's best contemporary writers. Up until his death he was still performing, producing a CD with his latest band, The Rattling Mudguards, and finishing an anthology of his writings. Here, a friend reflects on his last days.
A death has been happening in Darwin since October, 2010 and was last month resolved.
Andrew McMillan died in his home one year and three months after waking from a coma in the Royal Darwin Hospital. He was the same age as his father had been when he died.
They still call it cancer up here but it’s a few things combined. It’s liquid lunches and cigarettes and not enough sun. It’s isolation. It’s mould and dust and grass. It’s not seeing a doctor for 18 years. It’s writer’s lung and journo’s eye. So Andrew embraced the inevitability of the situation as soon as its details were settled upon and rather than dwell on the fact he’d made a few bad health choices, he made some plans for a fitting end.
The hospital would only get the first 55 days of Andrew McMillan’s death. He took the rest home to the Marrakai apartments where he set up a table and opened his ground-floor door. It was understood that a Grand Final was hopeful, a Christmas would be lucky and a birthday, a victory. He celebrated the latter a month before he died.
His old friends let him know in a hundred ways over that year, that they’d get him anything he needed. Some agreed by their absence that disagreements would be kept away. The old school and new made sure he was honoured, sponsored and humoured. A death is for believers and backers so no offence was taken by Andrew when he occasionally discovered, or rediscovered a detractor. Palliative Care sent him Velvet Ray, a gentle, wise and thoughtful man who introduced Andrew to an endgame he’d seen played out before, skilfully monitoring his ‘home care’ and two-pronged medication regime. He put a calm mask on the reaper.
Old friends found excuses to come back to town for an hour, a day, a week, a year and the flow remained unabated.
Of all the words that crossed that table only a small percentage were Andrew’s. He’d said most of his in the years before and now simply wanted to be awash in those of other people. He engineered a rolling, pseudo-community to which he played host and focus but which worked because people with interesting lives were forced to interact. He always introduced guests with their full name and often included their by-lines or employment history or in the absence of that knowledge, their immediate purpose at the table or just the last interesting thing they said. After you left he would explain to those remaining what he thought about your contribution. He would often tell your most flattering story and offer a brief pathology of your politics or gripes.
The whole year was a shock and awe campaign with a ballpark deadline and definite goals. The pain stayed away, the discomfort and immobility tempered by frequent assistance. Opiates had never been his tipple and he barely had to scratch their surface. A whiskey and grass man til the end.
With the love and the help of friends, he wrote, produced and performed three gigs, cut a live album, prepared an anthology and chaired a year-long meeting before closing his laptop.
Andrew ’s last year was a parade of respectful contributions to a contributor’s life. He called on any help he could reasonably ask for and still, by the end, had given back more than he’d taken. I knew him for six years of his life and all 15 months of his extraordinary death. My dear friend, I’ll miss you.
