1) A couple of weeks ago, I purchased some beautiful Christmas cards, in two different varieties. They are sparkling and pretty and very festive. I secreted them high up in the cupboard where I keep cards, ribbons and wrapping paper - safely away from peanut-buttery fingers and spilled cups of milk and cut-cutting scissors that cut my magazines I haven't even read yet. So there they sat, forgotten, but pristine, until today, when I went looking for a special card I'd put away to send to a friend.
Dazzle! dazzle! winked the cards. I smiled, and lifted them out in their two packs, admiring them all over again. I congratulated myself on my wise purchase, and sighed contentedly, pleased to think I had the Christmas card thing all sewn up. I stood there beaming, until a nasty niggly thought intruded upon my happiness, twisted and turned, then swelled and balloooned, until it exploded in my head like an egg in a microwave and I realised drat blast and bother! I still have to write on these things!
I know. You'd have thought that was obvious.
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2) At work yesterday, I saw a darling old lady called Mrs B. She is warm, funny, anxious, hopeful and sad in turns. Her husband died earlier this year, and she misses him very much.
One of the things I like best about Mrs B is her humour. Her attitude to life could be summed up in the way she approaches her ailments: from time to time she tells me about a particular symptom, but then follows up with the disclaimer "I suppose it's nothing more than galloping old age!". Sometimes, I am able to suggest a remedy, while other times I am only able to suggest a way of easing her symptoms, but either way, Mrs B's laughter in the face of her grief and her health problems is so inspiring. 'Galloping old age' may test her endurance, but it has not dimmed her light.
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3) Chin hair. (ah yes, stop reading now if you are squeamish about hair) We all have it, some more than others. Mostly males have more, females have less (see what I learnt at medical school? Incredible.). But somewhere around the age of 30, or was it 35? - my soft blond tiny chin hairs began to mutate, grew subtly longer, and then I grew a couple of strange wiry ones, which I pluck assiduously. That's all OK - I've discussed this with friends and they have a few chin hair issues, too - it's no biggie. Except something very worrying has happened now...... my prize chin hair has disappeared!!
I've been plucking the stubbly little sucker out every two or three weeks for months, and then out of the blue ...... nothing. No sign of it. No telltale roughness under the skin. No bump. No prickle poking through. Zip. Zero. Nothing for a few months now.
I'm worried it is growing darker, thicker, longer, hidden under the skin. I'm frightened that one day it will suddenly unfurl, in a great wave of horrendous hirsuite hairiness, rolling out and falling in a curling wave to my feet. I might even be in the middle of a consultation. Its extreme wiriness could knock the patient out of their chair; the hair might unroll itself into the patients nose while I'm examining their throat. This could be a disaster of momentous proportions.
Where's my chin hair?
I just want to know that it's safe to go out.
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Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Something Cheery (for Isabelle!)
Here is what I learnt this week : A little kindness goes such a very long way.
There is a girl in my son's class called 'Daisy'. Daisy has an intellectual impairment, and struggles to write her name, to maintain attention, and to follow instructions. Daisy's mother, 'Jenny', often arrives a little late for school, with her baby strapped to her chest, her 3-year-old trailing by her side, and Daisy chatting loudly as she meanders into the classroom. Jenny always appears calm despite the chaos, has a smile for everyone, and I have never heard her lose her temper with Daisy. Jenny seems to have it all together, and speaks confidently to the teacher when she needs to discuss Daisy's progress. I can be a bit shy initially, and I am also often racing off to work in the mornings, so I have only spoken to Jenny a handful of times this year. I have enjoyed chatting to her, though, about school news, Daisy, or life in general.
Imagine my surprise to hear, from another doctor where I work (who sees Jenny and Daisy as her patients), that our conversations had meant a great deal to Jenny. Jenny told this doctor that many of the other mothers didn't speak to her, and that whenever Daisy 'acted up', Jenny felt embarrassed, and worried what those other mothers were thinking. The 6 or 7 conversations we'd shared, to Jenny, were worthy of mention because of how much better they made her feel. Astounding!
I was glad to have made a difference in Jenny's life, but at the same time I wished I'd started chatting to Jenny earlier in the school year, wished I'd spoken to her more often, wished I'd thought more about what it must be like for her dealing with the school community. I felt guilty that I'd done the bare minimum; I felt undeserving of her appreciation. The fact that a few conversations were so important to Jenny tells me she is not receiving the support she deserves.
However, this post is not about guilt, because whilst I regret not doing more for Jenny, I am kind enough to myself to know that I cannot be everything to everyone, can't save the world, can't be some sort of superwoman. If I had realised, I would have been more attentive to Jenny, but I didn't know.
What I do know is that I will go on from here trying to remember that everyone, for whatever their own reasons, and however outwardly poised they may appear, may be 'Jenny' - in need of conversation, a smile, a shared laugh. I'll keep in mind that a little kindness goes such a very long way.
There is a girl in my son's class called 'Daisy'. Daisy has an intellectual impairment, and struggles to write her name, to maintain attention, and to follow instructions. Daisy's mother, 'Jenny', often arrives a little late for school, with her baby strapped to her chest, her 3-year-old trailing by her side, and Daisy chatting loudly as she meanders into the classroom. Jenny always appears calm despite the chaos, has a smile for everyone, and I have never heard her lose her temper with Daisy. Jenny seems to have it all together, and speaks confidently to the teacher when she needs to discuss Daisy's progress. I can be a bit shy initially, and I am also often racing off to work in the mornings, so I have only spoken to Jenny a handful of times this year. I have enjoyed chatting to her, though, about school news, Daisy, or life in general.
Imagine my surprise to hear, from another doctor where I work (who sees Jenny and Daisy as her patients), that our conversations had meant a great deal to Jenny. Jenny told this doctor that many of the other mothers didn't speak to her, and that whenever Daisy 'acted up', Jenny felt embarrassed, and worried what those other mothers were thinking. The 6 or 7 conversations we'd shared, to Jenny, were worthy of mention because of how much better they made her feel. Astounding!
I was glad to have made a difference in Jenny's life, but at the same time I wished I'd started chatting to Jenny earlier in the school year, wished I'd spoken to her more often, wished I'd thought more about what it must be like for her dealing with the school community. I felt guilty that I'd done the bare minimum; I felt undeserving of her appreciation. The fact that a few conversations were so important to Jenny tells me she is not receiving the support she deserves.
However, this post is not about guilt, because whilst I regret not doing more for Jenny, I am kind enough to myself to know that I cannot be everything to everyone, can't save the world, can't be some sort of superwoman. If I had realised, I would have been more attentive to Jenny, but I didn't know.
What I do know is that I will go on from here trying to remember that everyone, for whatever their own reasons, and however outwardly poised they may appear, may be 'Jenny' - in need of conversation, a smile, a shared laugh. I'll keep in mind that a little kindness goes such a very long way.
Sunday, October 04, 2009
my sister's dog
His paws were enclosed in baby socks, and his honey-brown head lay sadly on the vet's examination couch. There was a pool of blood a palm's width across where his muzzle rested on the paper mat beneath him. Two clear tubes snaked into his nostrils, and a bag of fluid hung nearby, connecting into him. I expected I'd get teary but didn't expect I would lose the ability to speak altogether when I saw him. He's not my dog, he's my sister's. Was my sister's.
My sister called him Waltah. Not Walter, but Waltah, to reflect how she always said his name - in a mushy, silly, adoring way. We all teased her when she named her dog Waltah. But in the end, we forgot he had a silly name, and we came to love him for his adoring, affectionate ways, for his earnest obedience and for his doggy joie de vivre. Staffy dogs are the bomb. And he was a wonderful Staffy.
Yesterday, my sister's friend took Waltah for a short walk (my sister is overseas). Within minutes, Waltah began to pant heavily, and his breathing became laboured. The vet diagnosed heat exhaustion, and Waltah was cooled, given fluids and oxygen, was catheterised, plied with medications, and sedated. He rallied at first, but then his kidneys failed. After several hours, the vet told us Waltah could not survive this. A decision had to be made. Waltah looked exhausted. He turned his brown eyes my way and my sister's friend and I told the vet to go ahead.
First we held a mobile phone to his sweet doggy head and my sister crooned her love for her 'hairy child' (as she calls him) into his ear. We laughed at the ridiculousness of holding the phone up to Waltah while we cried at the sadness of my sister not being able to say goodbye in person to her beloved pup. His eyes stayed open as she talked to him, and I believe he heard my sister's voice. I hope it gave him comfort.
And then, as Waltah looked at us wearily, and as the vet pushed the plunger on the syringe, my sister's friend and I stroked Waltah's head and ears gently, and I told him, "Good boy Waltah, you're such a good boy." Because he was.
My sister called him Waltah. Not Walter, but Waltah, to reflect how she always said his name - in a mushy, silly, adoring way. We all teased her when she named her dog Waltah. But in the end, we forgot he had a silly name, and we came to love him for his adoring, affectionate ways, for his earnest obedience and for his doggy joie de vivre. Staffy dogs are the bomb. And he was a wonderful Staffy.
Yesterday, my sister's friend took Waltah for a short walk (my sister is overseas). Within minutes, Waltah began to pant heavily, and his breathing became laboured. The vet diagnosed heat exhaustion, and Waltah was cooled, given fluids and oxygen, was catheterised, plied with medications, and sedated. He rallied at first, but then his kidneys failed. After several hours, the vet told us Waltah could not survive this. A decision had to be made. Waltah looked exhausted. He turned his brown eyes my way and my sister's friend and I told the vet to go ahead.
First we held a mobile phone to his sweet doggy head and my sister crooned her love for her 'hairy child' (as she calls him) into his ear. We laughed at the ridiculousness of holding the phone up to Waltah while we cried at the sadness of my sister not being able to say goodbye in person to her beloved pup. His eyes stayed open as she talked to him, and I believe he heard my sister's voice. I hope it gave him comfort.
And then, as Waltah looked at us wearily, and as the vet pushed the plunger on the syringe, my sister's friend and I stroked Waltah's head and ears gently, and I told him, "Good boy Waltah, you're such a good boy." Because he was.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
writing a wrong
After two months of writing nothing more than a permission slip for a child's school excursion, I've noticed a restlessness begin to permeate my life. I'm edgy and unfocussed. I try to read but I lose interest. I watch TV but even my favourite show fails to fully entertain me. I accuse my husband of being grumpy, but perhaps it's me who is grumpy. Life is good, the sun is shining and the kids are blooming - all is well in my world. I just have this niggle I couldn't quite identify - until today. I realised I need to write.
I don't care who's reading this. I doubt anyone will still be reading here - why should they? I've been away such a long time in this fast-paced world. So it's not really with any audience in mind I write. I just need to write. I miss expressing myself, rendering experiences forever immortal on a page. I miss feeling that I have something worthwhile to say (whether this be true or not). I miss the fact that when I write here, I realise what I've been thinking and feeling more clearly than at any other time in my busy life.
Re-reading the above paragraphs, I'm aware I sound like a self-obsessed loser. And maybe that's true when it comes to writing. But in my defence, I do think of others throughout my day. I care for my family, I stay in touch with friends, I try to be a good listener at work. But writing is my little bubble, my refuge. I want to do more of it.
I don't care who's reading this. I doubt anyone will still be reading here - why should they? I've been away such a long time in this fast-paced world. So it's not really with any audience in mind I write. I just need to write. I miss expressing myself, rendering experiences forever immortal on a page. I miss feeling that I have something worthwhile to say (whether this be true or not). I miss the fact that when I write here, I realise what I've been thinking and feeling more clearly than at any other time in my busy life.
Re-reading the above paragraphs, I'm aware I sound like a self-obsessed loser. And maybe that's true when it comes to writing. But in my defence, I do think of others throughout my day. I care for my family, I stay in touch with friends, I try to be a good listener at work. But writing is my little bubble, my refuge. I want to do more of it.
Monday, July 06, 2009
outback odyssey
We've been on a week's holiday in central western Queensland. I loved it all - the wildlife (we saw emus, kangaroos, wallabies, wild budgerigars, an echidna, a red-bellied black snake and even a reclusive platypus), the quaint little towns, the barren landscapes and the dinosaur remains, displayed in unassuming museums.
This is a photo The Birdman took of the wild budgies.
Here Laura and I are stretching our legs, on the way from Winton to Richmond ...... a rough and ready sort of road. In a few places we thought we were going to lose something crucial from the car's undercarriage! - but in the end we made it in one piece.
Ben and I inspected dinosaur bones in Winton. It's amazing that these priceless bones, from millions of years ago, are kept in this tiny, dinky-di display. It cost us $10 (for a family) to enter. The museum was staffed by volunteers, who also sold jam, crochet-edged tea towels and doilies on the other side of the room.
The shops were unbelievably cute! This one is in Richmond - a gorgeous little town.
This gorge (Porcupine Gorge) is to be found at the end of another dodgy road, and appears as if out of nowhere in the flat, dry landscape.
I know I'm biased, but I do love our country, with all its extremes of climate and landscape. And although I enjoy overseas travel, there is something celebratory and patriotic about travelling in your own country. Yay for the Aussie holiday!
This is a photo The Birdman took of the wild budgies.
Here Laura and I are stretching our legs, on the way from Winton to Richmond ...... a rough and ready sort of road. In a few places we thought we were going to lose something crucial from the car's undercarriage! - but in the end we made it in one piece.
Ben and I inspected dinosaur bones in Winton. It's amazing that these priceless bones, from millions of years ago, are kept in this tiny, dinky-di display. It cost us $10 (for a family) to enter. The museum was staffed by volunteers, who also sold jam, crochet-edged tea towels and doilies on the other side of the room.
The shops were unbelievably cute! This one is in Richmond - a gorgeous little town.
This gorge (Porcupine Gorge) is to be found at the end of another dodgy road, and appears as if out of nowhere in the flat, dry landscape.
I know I'm biased, but I do love our country, with all its extremes of climate and landscape. And although I enjoy overseas travel, there is something celebratory and patriotic about travelling in your own country. Yay for the Aussie holiday!
Sunday, June 21, 2009
restraint
If you're looking to read about handcuffs, turn back now. This is not the post for you. I mean restraint in the sense of holding back, pausing before acting or speaking - not rushing in with an immediate reaction.
Restraint is not one of my better qualities. Those of you who read here regularly will have been subject to my lack of restraint at times, when I have commented on your posts with opinions or advice or 'helpful suggestions' which were, let's face it, unsolicited and possibly quite patronising. Not that I mean to be this way. It's just that lack of restraint kicking in. Where others might think to themselves, "Gee, I hope he/she does x, y or z. I'm sure they'll sort it out for the best", Jelly Overinvolved & Overopinionated will wade right in there and start rabbitting on about how what might help is to do x, y, and z, preferably simultaneously. I know, I know, it's not very attractive.
Because I am a godless heathen, and don't attend church or any other organised religion, I try to read books that remind me to keep working at my flaws. One such book I read about a year ago was Stephanie Dowrick's "Forgiveness and Other Acts of Love". It's a beautiful book, full of wisdom and compassion. There are chapters on courage, fidelity, forgiveness, generosity, tolerance..... and restraint. It's a shy, retiring type of virtue, and one I hadn't thought about much before. I mean, we all know about courage, about being faithful, about being generous .... but restraint? Isn't that kind of insipid? And is it really so important?
Lately I've become aware of my tendency to leap in and open my big mouth. I recently made a comment to a friend, querying a rule she had for her children which didn't make sense to me. And of course I had no right to. She is the parent of that child. I need to learn to shut up and butt out. I need to show restraint.
I've realised that when you care about someone, one of the most loving things you can do is to say nothing. You don't question their decisions unless they affect your own life in a significant way. You can listen, you can acknowledge a problem, you can offer empathy, but you don't need to offer advice. If you truly are a kind person, you show restraint. You hold your tongue. Where possible, you let others' mistakes go without comment, just as they let yours slip past. You don't say anything to cause unnecessary pain. It could be that restraint is, in its own understated way, the brightest jewel in the crown of virtues.
Which is something for me to consider while I'm restraining from eating a second scone.
Restraint is not one of my better qualities. Those of you who read here regularly will have been subject to my lack of restraint at times, when I have commented on your posts with opinions or advice or 'helpful suggestions' which were, let's face it, unsolicited and possibly quite patronising. Not that I mean to be this way. It's just that lack of restraint kicking in. Where others might think to themselves, "Gee, I hope he/she does x, y or z. I'm sure they'll sort it out for the best", Jelly Overinvolved & Overopinionated will wade right in there and start rabbitting on about how what might help is to do x, y, and z, preferably simultaneously. I know, I know, it's not very attractive.
Because I am a godless heathen, and don't attend church or any other organised religion, I try to read books that remind me to keep working at my flaws. One such book I read about a year ago was Stephanie Dowrick's "Forgiveness and Other Acts of Love". It's a beautiful book, full of wisdom and compassion. There are chapters on courage, fidelity, forgiveness, generosity, tolerance..... and restraint. It's a shy, retiring type of virtue, and one I hadn't thought about much before. I mean, we all know about courage, about being faithful, about being generous .... but restraint? Isn't that kind of insipid? And is it really so important?
Lately I've become aware of my tendency to leap in and open my big mouth. I recently made a comment to a friend, querying a rule she had for her children which didn't make sense to me. And of course I had no right to. She is the parent of that child. I need to learn to shut up and butt out. I need to show restraint.
I've realised that when you care about someone, one of the most loving things you can do is to say nothing. You don't question their decisions unless they affect your own life in a significant way. You can listen, you can acknowledge a problem, you can offer empathy, but you don't need to offer advice. If you truly are a kind person, you show restraint. You hold your tongue. Where possible, you let others' mistakes go without comment, just as they let yours slip past. You don't say anything to cause unnecessary pain. It could be that restraint is, in its own understated way, the brightest jewel in the crown of virtues.
Which is something for me to consider while I'm restraining from eating a second scone.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
reality check
There's nothing like a kid to keep one's feet planted firmly on the ground.
My daughter, aged 8 1/2, turns to me as I prepare to read a chapter of 'Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban' this evening:
"You're so beautiful Mummy" she sighs adoringly, and I smile because this means that at least one person in the world truly believes I am gorgeous, but then she adds, " ..... in your personality".
Darn.
My daughter, aged 8 1/2, turns to me as I prepare to read a chapter of 'Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban' this evening:
"You're so beautiful Mummy" she sighs adoringly, and I smile because this means that at least one person in the world truly believes I am gorgeous, but then she adds, " ..... in your personality".
Darn.
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