jellyhead

old loves

2011-04-27T21:07:00.003+10:00

What is it about recalling long-ago love that causes such delicious pain? Why do we hang on to our happy-sad memories, cling to thoughts of past love affairs, muse about old lovers with fondness and regret, even when we are perfectly happy with what we have now? Is it some twisted form of self-torture? Is it an example of our eternal ingratitude; is it sign of our grasping greedy times?

Recently, I heard news of an old boyfriend. He sounded much nicer than when I dated him. It seems he has grown up and changed (not so surprising, since it was almost 20 years ago that we dated!). Since part of the way I had gotten over him, all those years ago, was to remind myself of what a jerk he was, this news of his seeming kindness and stability was somewhat disturbing. I found myself wondering what he is like now, and I caught myself remembering some of the good times we had, long ago. Then I felt guilty, because that seemed treacherous. I love my husband, I think he's gorgeous in every sense of the word, and he and I just fit. I can't imagine being married to anyone else. So what's with the daydreaming of lost love?

I am remembering what it felt like to be infatuated. That silly, idolising, heady sort of love. That immature, not-always-self-respecting, slightly-obsessive sort of love. It usually ends in pain for someone, but it is exciting and exhilarating and it mostly happens when you're young. It seems to me that what this is really about is me being nostalgic about my silly, giddy, anything-is-possible youth. These days I am middle-aged, my right knee keeps hurting, I am getting jowls, and my husband rolls his eyes at most of my jokes, but back then I was a fresh-faced, willowy strawberry blond who was smart and passionate and funny, and it seemed like the world was just unfolding in front of me in all its wonder.

My ex-boyfriend seems to have turned out to be a decent enough sort of man. I'm glad he has made a good life for himself. I remember the fun we had together, but I also remember that he didn't make me feel adored; there was no constancy. We were wrong together. We didn't fit.

I remember my long-ago love with a certain fondness, but it is like a garment outgrown or worn thin. It used to be my favourite shirt, but now it is shabby and faded and I can hardly remember why I liked it so much. I fold it and put it away at the back of the cupboard. It is only a rag now (but I can't quite throw it out).

floods

2011-01-12T13:03:00.002+10:00

An update on the floods:

Our house remains unaffected by floodwaters, but others nearby are not so lucky. Floodwaters are expected to peak in about 2 hours, and then reach an even higher peak in another 14 hours. Already the road at the end of our street is under water. The suburb next to us has required some evacuations. Our neighbours are housing friends whose house is ruined by flood.

We are so sad for those who have lost homes, vehicles, businesses, and even loved ones. We are thankful that we are ok.

beginning all over again

2010-12-12T16:03:00.008+10:00

How can it be the end of December already? I'm sure it was June just the other day. And I'm not alone in this sense of bewilderment ... I've heard this sentiment repeated countless times by others. How could the entire year have all but slipped away? My heart is beating faster than usual, and I have a nagging sensation that I've forgotten something.

I have actually forgotten a few things. I've forgotten to be more patient with my kids. I've forgotten to visit my grandfather more often. I've somehow forgotten to write regularly - to record thoughts and moments and stories. I've forgotten to shut my mouth in that moment before it gets me into trouble, and I've forgotten to meditate every night. How did this happen? To be honest, I didn't even totally forget - I just didn't quite bother to do all these things.

Oddly, I don't feel too daunted by my failures. I feel a little regret, yes, but right along with that is a great whack of hope, of energy, of purpose. Because a new year is coming - a brand new, wrapped-in-plastic, never-been-opened set of 365 days lies ahead. Never mind that the start of this 'new' set of days is arbitrarily designed, never mind that in reality one could pick any set of three hundred odd days and call it a new year. Never mind all that! Soon it will be 2011, and that means everything will be different. Or at least, it could be different. It can be different if I make it so. If we all make it so.

I wish you joy in 2011.

for Pa

2010-09-26T18:43:00.008+10:00

Pa. It's strange to think you are gone. I can still hear you humming hymns as you pottered about your house. I can still feel your favourite cardigan under my fingers as we hugged. I can see you yet, sitting deep in thought, your hand absent-mindedly smoothing down your silver hair.

I remember raucous games of cards around the kitchen table, and your astute and daring plays. I recall your speech at our wedding - a rambling discourse full of love and pride. You liked radishes with your lunch. You took your coffee black, two heaped sugars.

You had a sweetness and a generosity and a naivete about you that moved me to the verge of tears whenever we parted from you - even before you fell ill. You were quick to tears, too; you wore your heart on your sleeve.

You brought up your son, my husband, to be the strong and gentle and honest man that he is. He misses you.

Wherever you are, Pa, I hope you can feel how much you are loved. I hope our affection and adoration surrounds you, holds you up, keeps you warm and safe. May you rest in peace.

magic

2010-07-25T10:50:00.003+10:00

My daughter asked me the other day if I believed in magic. She knows me to be a sceptic, a person not readily convinced of fanciful ideas. And yet there are many everyday occurrences that seem to me unexplainable and astonishing. So while I don't believe that David Copperfield's performances are real and true, I told Laura that I do believe in magic. And this is the example I gave her:

A middle-aged man sat wringing his hands by his father's hospital bedside. The silver-haired father tossed and turned, muttering and grumbling. His mind was affected by his pneumonia, and he was confused and agitated. Over and over, the dark-haired son patiently explained to his father where they were, what was happening. He pushed the oxygen prongs back into place. He quietly beseeched his father to take his medication. The father scowled and refused.

With his wrinkled right hand, the father reached out in front of him, grasping at something that wasn't there. He muttered to himself, bitterly, "They're trying to poison me, I know they are." The son sighed. "No, Dad," he reasoned. "They're trying to help you get better." The old man continued to pick and grab at nothing, his tired arms working as he reached and reached for some imagined object.

The son turned wearily to his father's bedside table, and picked up his father's bible. In a slow, calm voice, he began to read his father's favourite section of the bible. The son read patiently, steadily, while his father's hands plucked at the air and his father growled and shifted and mumbled to himself. The father showed no sign of listening. Still the son read in his quiet, measured tones - he didn't know what else to do. The son read for an hour, maybe two. It seemed like a long time, reading to his dear Dad, who was too sick and too delusional to understand. It seemed pointless, but he read to his father out of heartbreak and love and despair. When the nurses began to turn the lights off all around him, the son finally closed the bible. He touched his father's hand, and wished him goodnight. The old man didn't even glance his way.

The next morning, the son returned to the hospital to an entirely different scene. His father was sitting up in bed, smiling at his nurse, and eating breakfast. He greeted his son warmly, and his son sat down in a chair near the bedside. They chatted together, father and son, and the son's relief was huge. The father spoke of politics, and of family, and of football. The son was amazed at the change in his father, and he laughed in shaky gratitude at all his Dad's jokes

Towards midday, the dark-haired son stood to leave. The father turned his kind, lined face to his son, his second-born, his much loved grown-up boy.
"Thank you for reading the bible to me last night."

The son's eyes blurred with tears.

(My eyes blurred with tears, too, when I heard this story a few days ago. Because the father is my father-in-law, and my husband is the son.)

endings

2010-04-20T15:56:00.005+10:00

That last post, the second part of the story .... that was it! That was the end. Apologies to those of you who don't like ambiguous endings .....

Speaking of endings, it seems this worn out old blog of mine has run its course, reached the end of its natural lifespan. But being the nostalgic person I am, I don't quite seem to have it in me to shut it down altogether. I neglect it, yet I can't face letting go completely.

For those of you who still stop by occasionally, firstly - thank you. Thank you for listening to my ramblings and offering thoughtful, kind and/or funny comments. And secondly, please don't worry that there is anything wrong if I don't post for weeks or even months at a time.

Take care of all your good selves.

game, set and match (continued)

2010-02-26T06:56:00.007+10:00

It was only eight o'clock, but Sandy was weary. One of the great delights of her single status was that she could do as she pleased - eat cake for breakfast without causing comment, wear stretched tracksuits at home without rebuke, leave unwashed plates on the coffee table if she so desired. Sandy stretched, and headed to the bathroom. She would shower, and change into pajamas. Perhaps tonight she would finally make some inroads into 'War and Peace'.

Stepping into the shower, Sandy felt a flicker of fear light up in her belly again. Something about standing under the water, both vision and hearing obscured, gave her the creeps. This was one of her least favourite things about living on her own. She blamed the movie 'Psycho'. But she knew she was being melodramatic - after all, she had a shower every night and lived to tell the tale. Sandy gave herself a mental talking-to as she scrubbed her face. What she needed was some reading as distraction.

A few minutes later, with towel-turbanned head and dressed in her flannel PJs, Sandy moved confidently about the flat, switching lights off and checking locks. Her earlier jitters had been soothed by the shower, and by the simple rhythms of her evening pattern. She propped herself up in her soft queen bed, pressed a speed dial button.

"Hi Mum, it's me. I just wanted you to know I'm okay."

Her mother's voice had a definite tone of relief. "Oh love, I'm glad you called. Your Dad and I do worry about you, you know."

"I know Mum. That's why I rang. But I'm safely tucked up in bed, ready for a solid attack on Tolstoy."

Sandy's mother laughed. "Are you still trying to get through that doorstopper?". They chatted for a few minutes, and wished each other sweet dreams before Sandy hung up. Sandy was still smiling as she replaced the phone in its cradle.

It was only when Sandy reached for her thick book that her smile fell away. There, underneath where the book had rested, was a half-open packet of matches, embossed with the words, 'Hotel Forum - Bratislava'. Bratislava, Slovakia. A single match lay loose from the pack, charred at the tip. He had been here, he had lit a match in here, maybe even smoked one of his cigars. Sandy's heart began beating frantically, so loudly she could hear nothing but the frenzied thudding. She let the book fall to the bed beside her. She was more frightened than she'd ever been in her life. Then, from within the haze of her panic, another sense intruded. She could smell his aftershave again, stronger than before. She heard a movement from her walk-in wardrobe. Her mouth was too dry to form words; she could only gasp. Viktor stepped from the shadows, twisting a scarf in his strong brown hands.

Sandy's eyes widened, her breathing erratic, thoughts spinning madly in her head. She could try to yell, and kick, and fight, but the walls of these apartments were thick and sound-proofed for privacy. Viktor was six foot four and muscled, powerful. Her chances of surviving this were almost zero. Sandy's voice choked in her throat; she sat rigid with terror. The game was over and she knew it. Then the phone began to ring.

Viktor glared at her, his face vicious and contorted. "Don't answer that!" he hissed, as he strode forward, pinning her arms to her sides.

Sandy stayed motionless as the phone rang and rang, announcing the caller ID at intervals, "Call from 3434 2612 ...... call from 3434 2612 ....". It was her mother calling. She was checking to be sure Sandy was really alright, double-checking with some sixth sense that a mother often has. She would let the phone ring out, and then she and Sandy's father would come over with their extra key. They were five minutes drive away. Don was a big man himself, and still a strong man despite his age. Sandy was in with a chance. She began to holler, and twist, and kick, and bite.

* This story was written in response to a visual prompt on the fabulous new blog magpie tales (thank you Rel, for your imaginative post, which inspired me to go check it out!). Go visit - it might inspire you to try a tale or two, too!

game, set and match

2010-02-25T19:59:00.005+10:00

She opened the door and felt a cold rush of fear. He'd been here again. There was that familar, spine-tingling, terrifying scent of his aftershave. She stood in the doorway of her tiny flat, waiting for her racing heart to slow down. Slipping a hand into her tote bag, she withdrew her mobile phone.

"Sandra, is that you?". Her mother had caller ID, but never seemed to fully trust it.

"Hi Mum." Sandra felt a little silly now, hearing her mother's sensible voice. This was not the first time Viktor had been in her flat, and it shouldn't rattle her so much. He was playing mind games with her, that was all. She couldn't go running to her parents every time this happened.

"What's wrong Sandy?", her mother queried. Her mother always knew when something was bothering her, even when she tried to hide it.

Sandy sighed, stepping inside, and plonking her bag on the kitchen bench. "Oh Mum, I'm embarrassed to tell you. I feel like such an idiot. I should never have agreed to date him in the first place." She didn't have to explain further. Sandy and her mother knew each other so well that their conversations often took this oblique form. Sandy sat down on the crumpled suede couch, removed her shoes one by one. She could hear her mother's voice, faint and worried as she turned away from the phone - "Don, it's Sandy. That man has been in her flat again." Sandy listened as her mother breathed quietly, the rumbling low tones of her father's reply unintelligible. It was excruciating to be in her late thirties and still calling home like a child. She had to stop this.

Her mother's voice was falsely bright in her ear. "Sandy, your father's coming round now. Why don't you bring your things, and stay the night?"

"No, Mum! Tell him not to." There was a tiny note of irritation in her voice now, although she'd tried to hide it."I'm perfectly capable of driving myself over you know." Sandy frowned, rubbing a strand of her dark hair between finger and thumb as she walked into the kitchen and pulled a plate of leftovers from the fridge. "But Mum, I can't keep staying at your place. I have to live my life. I can't let him get to me."

There was a pause. "Are you sure sweetheart?" her mother prompted gently.

Sandy deposited the plate in the microwave, pressed reheat. "Yes Mum, I'm sure. I'm alright now. I'll talk to you soon, OK?". She tossed the phone on the bench, poured herself some wine, retrieved the now steaming-hot food from the microwave, and settled herself back on the couch. She had just flicked on the TV when she saw the vase. She inhaled sharply, stiffening.

It was a lumpen pottery vase she'd made herself, during a series of pottery classes she'd enrolled in after she and Steve had separated. She'd been terribly, desperately lonely, reeling from the loss of her marriage, her husband. Suffice it to say she'd quickly realised pottery was not her thing. She'd kept the lopsided blue vessel, though, out of a sort of affection and kindness towards the sad and lost woman she'd been back then. These days she could smile at her inept attempt to get back into the dating world. In fact, with her new job, and finally owning her own flat outright, things would have been pretty much perfect, were it not for Viktor. She stared at the vase, now, her heart accelerating once more. What was it doing beside the TV? She kept it out of public sight, on her bedroom chest of drawers. He'd been in her bedroom.

She moved now with a kind of reckless courage, still holding the plate in her hand. Angrily, she strode into the bedroom, glancing wildly about. Nothing else appeared to be out of place. The bed was made neatly, as she'd left it that morning. Her stack of bedtime reading was still topped by 'War and Peace' which she never seemed to manage to read for more than two minutes before falling asleep. Sandy sighed, and her shoulders relaxed a little. This was just what he would want her to do - to freak out, feel edgy and scared. She'd stay calm, keep her head. She'd get the locks changed again tomorrow, and file another report with the police, for what that was worth. It was hard to prove your ex-boyfriend was stalking you when all you could testify was that an ornament had been shifted, or a piece of fruit eaten. Sometimes she even wondered if she was imagining these subtle changes, or if maybe she herself was the one wandering around the flat in her sleep, moving things about.

Sandy retreated to the couch, and ate her curry in front of the news. The newsreader's words washed around her, meaningless and unheard, as she marvelled again how naive she'd been to fall for Viktor. Not that she'd fallen for him, exactly - it was more that she'd been consumed by him, overwhelmed by him, hopelessly flattered by his passionate attentions. After Steve's indifference, it was so thrilling to be adored, worshipped and pursued. She'd fallen in love with Viktor's love for her. She could see now that she had never troubled to get to know who Viktor really was. Victor was handsome in his brooding, European way, he was well-mannered, he was clever. He smoked cigars sometimes at night, and he drank fine wine. He had even white teeth that flashed when he laughed heartily at her jokes. He was a facade of a perfect man.

The first hint of a problem between them had arisen about a month into their romance, when Sandy had invited Viktor to her firm's Christmas party. Viktor had offered to drive, and Sandy had felt a little bubble of joy in her chest as she accepted. Steve would have tried to convince her to drive. It had been so nice to feel taken care of. But the night had not turned out well. Viktor had upset her by sweetly suggesting she change her dress, before they even left the flat. He claimed it was the wrong colour for her, which had annoyed her, as much for the fact that she doubted this was his true reason. Her cream-coloured sheath dress had a low, cowl neckline which showed off her cleavage nicely. Sandy had been curiously stubborn, refusing to swap outfits. Viktor had been surly all night. From that night on, the relationship had slowly begun to unravel - Viktor becoming more possessive and prone to bouts of anger, as Sandy tried to ease her way out of the ties she'd allowed to form. The night she'd finally ended things for good, Viktor's face had been impassive. "You're making a very foolish mistake", he replied softly, in his precise but accented English. When Sandy had repeated this statement to the young sergeant, after the first time Viktor had been in her flat, he had seemed unimpressed. As the sergeant rightly pointed out, there had been no threat of violence, no swearing, no angry name-calling. But the sergeant hadn't seen Viktor's eyes when he'd uttered those simple words -glittering, malevolent eyes. Sandy shivered, and stood up.

(to be continued)

waterfront walk

2010-02-13T21:46:00.005+10:00

The tall houses stare blankly at the water. Despite their premier location, and the time of day - sunset - few people are sitting on the balconies or terraces that overlook the river. I wander along, intrigued by these dwellings worth millions of dollars.

The homes are grey, and taupe, and grey. Their walls are within an arm's breadth of the dividing fences; windows face into windows of adjacent homes a mere 3 or 4 metres apart. The buildings themselves are long, and sprawl down the length of the narrow blocks of land. The few houses that have a patch of grass sport lawns the size of a large tabletop.

I pass a schoolboy in his matchbox back yard, leaning listlessly on the low wall. He looks lonely and bored. He hunches in his school uniform. He has nowhere to run about, no trees to climb, no pet to play with. He has a very glamorous abode, but it doesn't look as though he's impressed by it.

It strikes me that as much as I love the river, as much as I love to be near the water, I wouldn't want to live in one of these skinny mansions, even if we could afford to. I actually prefer our rambling, haphazardly-decorated home in suburbia. I love that we have lots of grass, lots of trees, a vege patch and a dog. Oh, and possums, rats, mice, geckoes and cane toads. Birds, frogs, lizards. Friendly neighbours. And kids with room to play.

give me land, lots of land (and a calf to feed and pat)

2010-01-31T12:49:00.005+10:00

Australia Day, January 26th, dawned hot and sunny. We piled into the car and drove to see Mum and 'Joe' on their farm. My sister and her husband made the trip up, too.

These little tykes, Jewel and Gem, are new additions to the farm menagerie. They are happy to be patted, and the kids were even able to feed the furry calves their milk in 'bottles' - plastic milk cartons with rubber teats attached.

We wandered down to the orchard and picked some sun-warmed grapes to eat. Laura and Ben checked the chook pen for eggs, and each of them took turns to hold Caramel (one of the chooks). We ate lamingtons for morning tea (for those of you not familiar with this Aussie sweet delight - lamingtons are pieces of sponge cake, encompassed in chocolate icing, and rolled in coconut). At lunchtime, Joe barbecued sausages and hamburgers, which we ate in buns with coleslaw, lettuce, tomato, beetroot, and tons of barbecue sauce. The juices dripped between my fingers as I ate, and I politely licked up the mess.

Later, we filed down to the creek, and Laura and Ben scooted about on their boogie boards, investigating nooks and crannies. A watersnake scared the pants off everyone by suddenly darting towards us as we waded in the shallows; everyone threw small stones into the water in front of it and it dived, no doubt perplexed by our panicking.

We returned to laze about on Mum & Joe's wide front veranda, chatting and drinking my sister's magical homemade punch. My sister pulled a grey hair from my head, despite my (admittedly feeble) protests. I plaited my sister's hair, then undid it, then plaited it again. Everyone teased Ben about his freaky front tooth - a baby tooth being pushed out and forwards by a new tooth, causing the old tooth to poke out sideways and upwards. My husband Fatty peered through his binoculars, spotting for birds.

When we left there were hugs all around, and everyone was smiling. We couldn't help it - we'd just had the happiest Australia Day on record.

new beginnings

2010-01-13T12:59:00.002+10:00

There's nothing like a brand spanking new year to fill a person with hope and optimism - at least this person, anyway! January seems to bring an array of possibilities that didn't seem credible in December - capricious December - when it seemed there was a never-ending list of things to do, gifts to buy, and places to be. January is a fresh start. In January it feels like life begins anew.

I've noticed this year there have been a number of articles about the silliness of New Year's resolutions - both in print media, and on blogs. New Year's resolutions seem to have gone out of fashion. It seems they breed a sense of failure and disillusionment when they are not maintained.

Personally, I've always liked to think about what I want to do better, or more of, or less of, at the start of each year. I can't recall ever writing down formal resolutions, but I like to take stock. I like to try to learn from the mistakes I've made the previous year. I like to plan for new ways to extend myself - learning something new, helping someone out, travelling somewhere I've never been before. It's so exciting to think that even as we grow older, we can do new things. I hope to be taking up Tai Chi in my eighties. If I'm not strong enough, I'll start cryptic crosswords. If I've lost my marbles, well hopefully I won't know and I won't care!

If anyone feels brave, maybe you could leave me a comment with your thoughts on the coming year. Any travel plans? Anyone going to learn a new language, take up a new sport? Anyone planning new careers or volunteer work? What about just a change of hair colour?! I'd love to hear your ideas ... silly, sensible and anything in between.

Happy 2010 to all of you lovely people.

Three Things

2009-11-24T21:06:00.003+10:00

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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Something Cheery (for Isabelle!)

2009-11-15T11:13:00.006+10:00

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.

my sister's dog

2009-10-04T13:58:00.003+10:00

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.

writing a wrong

2009-09-13T16:14:00.003+10:00

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.

outback odyssey

2009-07-06T17:40:00.008+10:00

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!

restraint

2009-06-21T10:00:00.005+10:00

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.

reality check

2009-06-03T21:10:00.002+10:00

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.

rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated

2009-04-10T16:54:00.003+10:00

No, no, I'm not dead, nor am I depressed. I'm sorry this blog has been so dull lately. I imagine it sitting here meekly, quietly, like an untended garden, lying fallow. Perhaps no-one is even passing by anymore to notice all the brown, shriveled plants and the crumbly dry soil. Nevertheless. I am watering a little and turning over the soil with a shovel, huffing and puffing as I dig and even getting a small smile on my face. Ahhhhh! I do still like this garden.

My brother is still away. I hear his news regularly, and he is doing it tough. There have been casualties close to him. His job involves a huge amount of responsibility. He is working horrendous hours and he has lost a lot of weight. I don't know what he will be like when he comes home. I miss him.

My brother's wife is enduring his absence with a determined good cheer, which wavers only occasionally. There is so little I can do to help from afar, and I hate that she is dealing with their two small children, house and dog, as well as worrying about her husband and missing him terribly. This is the life of an military wife, but that doesn't make it any better. I am just thankful that my sister-in-law is such a capable and courageous woman.

My Grandfather has turned 95!

My daughter has asked me about s-e-x. I tried to get away with the old 'it's a sort of very tight cuddle' line, but was thwarted by her query, "And then what? Does anything else happen?". Dammit. So I briefly and simply explained the technical details, and then paused for her reaction. "Okay", Laura remarked calmly. I asked if she had any questions; was she worried about anything? Thoughtful gazing into mid-air....... "No." Frankly I was prepared for incredulity, disgust, gales of laughter, even abject terror. But I was forgetting this was my lovely, laid-back Laura.

My son has declared himself to be gay, over breakfast this morning. After some inquiry, I determined that he really loves his friend Harry, and he's heard that if you're a boy and you love another boy, then you're gay. I explained that if you're a boy and you love a boy in a romantic, want-to-kiss-on-the-lips sort of way, then you might be gay. Ben pulled a face and quickly amended, "No, no, then I'm not gay!". So the coming out party has been postponed for now.

My friend 'Chooky' is having a baby next month - her first, and possibly only, child. I am so excited for her, and I can't wait to meet her baby. There is no miracle like the miracle of new life.

I wish anyone ambling by this poor, overgrown & wilted blog a very HAPPY EASTER! May you find peace and love at every turn this Easter.

something beautiful

2009-02-27T16:26:00.005+10:00

It has been fascinating and entertaining and heart-warming for me to 'meet', and converse with bloggers from around the world. I often take comfort from a wise post or comment, I frequently laugh, and I sometimes find myself covered in goosebumps, or close to tears ..... all on account of what others have written. It is a wondrous world out there, and I am now connected to many other people on this earth via the internet.

I met Heather via her blog almost 4 years ago now. What first drew me in was that the things she wrote about parenting just resonated with me so strongly. She sounded like a firm but fun mother. She knew when to enforce the rules, and when to throw them away (like taking her two boys out late to the first night of a long-awaited Harry Potter movie). She knew when to cuddle and pacify, and when to get tough. She sounded like the type of mother I aspired to be. We exchanged comments many times, we began e-mailing, and eventually we became friends. Real friends.

Heather has a best friend named Sharon - an artist who is becoming more and more sought-after. She has had several gallery showings, and in fact has one this weekend. And when Sharon saw a photo of my daughter (from a beach holiday late last year), she had the urge to paint the scene. I told her to go ahead, and was excited just to think she was painting a picture from a photo I'd taken.

And then she SENT me the original watercolour. It is beautiful.

But what is even more beautiful is the generosity of this gift. A woman whom I have never met, who lives on another continent, who knows me only a little, has sent this precious piece of art to me. There was no reason, there was no ulterior motive, she did not ask for any money (and I know for a fact she would have been insulted had I tried to pay). Sharon painted this and she gave it to me, simply because she wanted to make someone else happy.

Sometimes things get me down, sometimes I feel weary with life's trials and tribulations. But every day, if only I take time to notice, there are all sorts of kindnesses shown - thoughtful acts, warm words, or even simply the gentle overlooking of my mistakes by the people around me. I am surrounded by beauty.

I am so grateful not just for the painting, but also for the spirit in which it was given. Sharon, thank you.

********************************************************************************

Thank you also to everyone who offered words of empathy and encouragement in response to my last post. I was a little in the doldrums, and it meant a lot to me that so many of you took the time to verbally give me a boost out of the pit of self-pity I'd fallen into! Many thanks :-)

the error of my ways

2009-02-17T17:02:00.003+10:00

I haven't had much to say lately - mainly because my mind's been on other things; things I haven't wanted to talk about. I've been waiting until a cheery topic came along, but I've decided hang it all, I'll write about this.

I made a mistake at work. (Although it is by no means the first time, I still get a small lurch in my stomach just to write these words down.) It was not an error due to lack of care, or laziness. It was not even an error due to lack of knowledge - the type of faulty diagnosis that haunts my dreams some nights. No, this was a simple case of misremembering routine guidelines, getting muddled, being wrong. I gave a patient incorrect advice, telling him that certain steps were not necessary. Thank goodness, due to an inbuilt follow-up system, I discovered my mistake. I have contacted the patient, and revised my advice. I have taken the appropriate steps, and, although the results are not yet final, it seems that the end result for the man concerned will be unaffected. However. What scares me is not so much the consequences of this particular mistake (although I won't truly relax until I know the definite outcome for this patient), but rather the failure on my part. My brain let me down. My brain let this patient down. And however sweet anyone I've told has been - telling me I'm only human, I should forgive myself an honest mistake - the fact is, I did wrong by a patient. Their health could have been affected. It's one thing to be, say, a travel agent, and stuff up a hotel booking for a client, but its another altogether to mess with someone's life expectancy.

Rationally, I realise I cannot be perfect, and that I will inevitably make mistakes. But a voice from the centre of my being shouts You can't afford to make mistakes! Your patients trust you with their very lives!

So what is the solution? How do I make this better, how do I sleep at night? I have recalled all my patients with the same condition in the past year, to check that they have been correctly managed. I have talked over my medical misdemeanour with colleagues; I have confessed to friends. I have felt anxious and uptight and distracted and ashamed. In the end, I can do nothing. I can try to do better, to be more careful, to read more journals. I just try to let the anxiety wear away over time, wear thinner and thinner until it is as fine as gossamer and I barely notice it.

Until the next time.

five senses on a Saturday

2009-02-01T08:24:00.006+10:00

Overheard yesterday (a thirty-something woman talking on her mobile phone):
"Well, I knew this when I married him seven years ago!"

Spotted yesterday - a tiny tot down by the sea, skin brown as a berry, her hair the whitest platinum blond, wearing sequinned gold shoes.

Smelt yesterday - the briny sea air, blowing clean and cool in the late afternoon, despite the heat.

Tasted yesterday.... fresh crumbed fish and fat potato chips.

Touched yesterday - Fatty's warm hand in mine, as we walked out on the jetty, children charging ahead.

couch potato goes too far

2009-01-28T18:24:00.011+10:00

My day started rather oddly, with this single sentence emanating from my clock radio, as the alarm went off:

'A bloke in Britain survived more than two days under a couch by sipping from a bottle of whisky'.

That was it. The radio announcer must have just drawn breath to speak when my alarm went off, and although I fumbled to turn off the alarm, I finally pushed the 'silence' button right at the end of the announcer's sentence. If I was schizophrenic or psychotic, I'd have been convinced that someone was sending me disturbing messages through the airwaves. As it was, I pondered over this unusual pronouncement, as I changed into running shoes, T-shirt and shorts.

For starters, why was someone trapped under a couch? How does one get stuck there? Was the poor fellow reaching to remove a dust bunny he'd spotted, and then erk! his arm was irretrievably wedged? Was he passing the couch, which was propped against the wall to make the living room appear more spacious, when suddenly the couch slipped, pinning him to the floor? The mind boggles. (Certain types of getting stuck, on the other hand, are completely understandable)

And secondly, how would sipping whisky help one survive? I mean, I suppose it might help get you in a better mood. You could tell jokes to yourself, slap your leg as you snort laughed, and then hiccup softly as you dozed, forgetting you were in actual fact stuck under a couch - but apart from that? Surely the alcohol would dehydrate you? Perhaps the man survived despite the whisky, rather than because of it.

These questions and more tortured me as I prepared to go walking with my friend Belly. I shook my head in amazement just thinking about the couch-squashed man, as I latched the dog lead onto the beagle and went out the front gate. But then beautiful Belly arrived, all smiles and morning cheer, and we strode off into the day, leaving all thoughts of couch-dwelling whisky-swiggers behind.

wild coastlines, wild animals and wild children

2009-01-22T07:01:00.012+10:00

We've been away for a short break down the south coast of Australia, to spend time with Fatty's family. I've never been along the Great Ocean Road, and the scenery along there is superb.

Down on the beach, I found this very cute, fat-legged nephew creature. It made lots of noises such as 'Daddeeeeeee!' and 'Dat!' and it apparently does bite on occasion, but refrained from biting any of our family.

There was a sign up in this nature reserve, telling us that if an emu approached us aggressively, we should 'raise a hand above your head, so as to appear to be a larger emu'. Are emus really this clueless, that they would believe a middle-aged woman in a bright pink sweatshirt with her hand held up above her pink-hatted head was a very large emu? I didn't get a chance to find out, thankfully.

This Highlands Copperhead, a highly venomous snake, was peacefully sunning himself (herself?) by the side of the track. We said hello, but didn't stop to chat.

We made it home safely. No one was attacked (except Fatty on one occasion but does he think I'm his slave?). All's well that ends well.

finding the silver lining

2009-01-09T08:07:00.004+10:00

This morning it occurred to be that although I can be a worrier, I'm probably not the closet pessimist I always thought I was.
I mean, would a true pessimist look at these skies......

...... and hang these clothes?..........

I think not.

P.S. It hasn't rained yet either!

New Year

2009-01-06T21:35:00.003+10:00

I find myself starting 2009 with a curious mixture of anticipation and trepidation. I'm looking forward to many things, and yet I am fearful of others. I am counting all my blessings, but looking over my shoulder as well. I know the anxiety is pointless, because 'que sera sera' - it's just how I am right now. I think having my brother in a war zone is messing with my head a bit. But he has made it in safely, and his position does not put him at the front line. Of course, I still worry.

It's been fun having time at home with my kids, as they enjoy their school holidays. Laura is drawing some fabulous, inventive pictures, and mucking about with plasticine. Benjamin is reading more every day, and watching documentaries about animals mating ('Whoops!' I thought as I actually watched to see what he was viewing. Thankfully, no pertinent questions followed). We all have fun playing soccer in the backyard, and playing 'Three of a Crime' (a card game) whilst lazing around on our living room rug.

Christmas was actually very easy this year - cold meats and salads, no fussing, no family tensions ..... lovely! My dear Fatty gave me a book on creative writing which I am devouring. It's amazing how some simple advice has made me want to write, write, write. I am scribbling away secretively. We shall see whether anything worthwhile comes out!

Now it is well and truly 2009. I hope you have all had some time to relax over the holiday season. Thank you for reading my blog and for all your kind, funny and interesting comments.

I wish you each a year full of happiness.

dear diary

2008-12-16T20:02:00.005+10:00

Sunday:

Under the water I went, down to the blue-grey depths of the pool where it was quiet and half-lit, like the ocean. I swam breaststroke, pulling at the water with strong arms, kicking in great powerful sweeps. It was silent save for my own bubbling and swishing sounds. I thought of my friend fifi, who is part woman, part fish - I thought this is what she loves, this privacy and secrecy and intimacy in water. I felt hidden and invincible, and I wanted to stay down there all afternoon. When my need for air became too urgent, I burst to the surface in a great eruption of foam and pale flesh and trailing wet hair. Breathed in gulps, then more calmly. Then back under I went, like an addict.

Monday:

Like a traditional husband, I came home from work to find dinner being served. I sat with Fatty and the kids on the back deck and watched the fruit bats come winging past, to roost in trees near and far. The air was warm and soft on my skin. Laura and Ben were giggly and exuberant. Later, I read aloud to the children - Winnie the Pooh, from a childhood edition of mine, all tattered and smelling of dust and days gone by.

Today:

We boarded the train, my kidlets and I, and we stood in the foyer (if trains can have foyers), hanging on to rails. A woman sat nearby, in a pretty knee-length red dress and high heeled sandals, with ankle-high stockings on. I was mesmerised and fascinated. This lady was attractive, and otherwise well-dressed. She sat quietly reading, and gave no outward signs of mental illness. She looked like she wore the foot stockings simply because it suited her; they were comfortable, maybe cooler than pantyhose? She obviously didn't care that they looked odd. I didn't know whether to despair of her dress sense, or to admire her nonchalance.

The art gallery visit, much maligned by my son beforehand, was a great success. I decided that artists exist in another dimension altogether - their imaginations are exaggerated and immense; more creative and expansive and wondrous than my mind can even grasp. I am awed. My children were awed. We stared and gasped and pointed. I am still thinking over what I've seen.

innocent remarks

2008-12-02T21:56:00.004+10:00

I'm not sure if all kids are this weird or if mine are weirder than most. They do have my DNA after all.

This is what my son said to Fatty and I, apropos of nothing, as we all sat eating dinner tonight.

"So! What do you think about each other since you've married?"

We both almost choked on the spaghetti, and I'm sure I snort-laughed. I went running for a pen so I could write down Ben's latest quote. When I returned, Fatty was soberly telling Ben that he was quite happy with his decision so far. (Quite happy? I needled. Just 'quite' happy? Not really happy, or plain happy? Just 'quite' happy??)

It was all laughter and happiness and fun and games, and 'isn't Ben funny' indulgence. And then Ben came up with his second quotable quote for the evening, as I was standing in shirt & undies, ironing a pair of pants to wear to a work meeting.

Ben (approaching me, peering at my legs): Are you wearing stockings?

Me: No, why?

Ben: Oh, no, you're not. So why are your legs all crinkled?

Me: (inwardly cursing my cellulite, hating my cellulite, wishing I had killer thighs and a bouncy butt) Oh, that's just what happens to legs as they get older.

Fatty looms around the corner grinning silently, herding Ben towards the bath before he can crush my self-image further.

Gulp.

I am not my cellulite. I am an intelligent, interesting, independent woman and it shouldn't matter what my legs look like.

Double gulp.

morning glory

2008-11-28T05:37:00.004+10:00

My dog may be a grumpy old beagle who snarls if I try to trim her toenails, but she is very attuned to her owner. As I lay sleepless in bed in the early hours of this morning, she barked dutifully at the paper delivery van - something she never does. She sleeps below our bedroom, and she must have sensed I was awake. I am strangely fond of that narky old mutt.

Too much coffee yesterday has undone me. From midnight onwards I slept only in fits and starts. By five am I gave up on sleep, and simply lay thinking. As much as I like to get enough rest, there is something exciting about being the only one awake in the household; I can think with no risk of interruption.

I thought of Mama, my maternal grandmother, and I thought of her quiet laugh, the glass of sherry she often drank as she made herself dinner, her cornflower blue eyes, and her face at the moment when she died. I thought of watching my daughter on stage tonight at her dance concert; how she moves her little body with grace, while her face shows every anxious thought. I thought of my patient yesterday who unexpectedly told me I'd made her feel 'a million dollars'. I thought of how trying to Christmas shop for my brother makes me want to cry. I thought of my friend, Belly, and the incredibly gentle guidance she gives me when I need advice.

I tiptoed out of the master bedroom, feeling the lure of writing. I sit in a silent house, gazing out the window. The sky is the colour of faded jeans and the sun is sparkling on leaves and grass and flowers.

It's a new day, full of possibility and promise.

moustaches

2008-11-21T06:51:00.004+10:00

Here in Australia, and in other countries around the world, the month of November has become a time for all men who are so inclined to grow moustaches. The idea has been generated by the Movember foundation, which aims to raise awareness of men's health issues, focusing particularly on prostate cancer and depression. Community-minded, caring and hirsuit individuals grow moustaches, and request that friends, family and colleagues donate to the foundation in support. Non-moustache-growers often give generously, whilst sniggering, hooting, and teasing the mo-grower unmercifully. I often wonder how permanently-moustached gentlemen feel during the general ridicule of the month of 'Movember'.

Schools sell fake moustaches to raise revenue, and my children will buy theirs today. They've been discussing what type they'll purchase (it seems there are different styles available for purchase. And here I thought a mo was a mo)

I give you the above information not because I am a good person who is aiming to promote men's health. I wish I was! I wish I'd thought of this as a genuine topic before now, but no! I am merely leading in to a comment made yesterday by my 6-year-old son. This is what he said to me:

"If you're a big person, and you have something wrong with you, or a moustache, would it be hard to get married?"

Seems a moustache rates right up there with a disability. Please dig deep.

thinking of you

2008-11-16T20:44:00.007+10:00

She brought you home, swaddled against the biting cold, and laid you in the middle of the double bed. You slept there, wrapped up like the most unassuming gift - my brother. I felt expanded and light with sheer happiness; I felt as if I should hold my breath in awe. I slipped in every few minutes to watch your tiny chest rise and fall, to be sure you were alive and well.

Your head was dusted with the faintest blond fuzz. You smelt like warmth and comfort. I slipped my index finger into your curled-up hand, and you gripped on tightly. In my eight-year-old innocence, I believed this reflex hold meant you wanted me there. I stayed a long time, hunched over the bed awkwardly. I began right then to understand unconditional love; the ferocious and protective love I would have for you then and have to this day.

You have grown and gone now, far from here. You don't need my protection or care; you have a family yourself. You are no longer the chubby blond baby; you have grown beyond the shyly smiling, amiable small boy; you are stronger and more confident than the laughing, gangly teen. You are an adoring husband, a besotted father, and a military man who has been promoted quickly through the ranks. People like you; they are drawn to your understated leadership, your quiet assertion and wisdom. You are a good man.

Soon you will head into a volatile battle zone for several months. I know you are keen to play a part and to apply your years of training, and I am proud of you for your skill and courage. But fear clots in my throat and my stomach aches. And when I touch the soft blond head of my son as he sleeps, I think of you, my faraway brother, and my cheeks are wet.

Stay safe, be careful. Tell your enemies to beware your big sister.

Know that the delight I felt when first we met is undiminished.

sneaking back in

2008-11-13T06:51:00.004+10:00

I guess when you post as infrequently as I've been, no-one thinks you're dead/ill/seriously depressed when you don't post for a month. No-one leaves worried little messages saying 'Hello Jelly? Are you OK?'. Which is a good thing, because I am none of the above. However, it does make me realise that I need to write more often. After all, I have gotten to know (in a fashion) lots of lovely bloggers out there, and it seems my communication with you all has been slowly slipping away.

Like everyone, I get to feeling overwhelmed by the demands of work and home and life in general. I wrote an e-mail to a good friend of mine saying, tongue in cheek, "I've decided I don't want to see any patients who are sick. I want to see only happy, healthy ones, and even then only rarely." Sounds awful, doesn't it? In truth I think I was just a little burnt-out; in need of a break from work.

So part of the reason for not writing has been that we took a ten day holiday. Much to the shock of other parents at the school (some of whom actually tutt-tutted me!), this holiday was taken during school term. The photo above shows what our kids were doing instead of being at school. (Fatty and I like to think of education in more flexible terms!)

So anyway, I'm back - both physically and in spirit. I'll be visiting you all very soon.

farming out the kids

2008-10-13T20:03:00.007+10:00

We headed off to Mum's farm on the weekend. It was overcast, and even drizzling at times, but the kids (ours, and our friends' son) didn't let that dampen their enthusiasm (smirk).

Laura and Ben made friends with Mum's latest rehabilitation projects - a pair of wallabies being prepared for release back into the wild.

Our friends' son wisely declined to swim (it was cold!), but our two took off up the creek on their boogie boards as if it was delightful, balmy weather.

The two boys were thrilled to be allowed to pick the last of the carrots (Mum saved them especially so the kids could pick them). The carrots were inspected, held aloft, washed under the tap outside, and then rapidly consumed. Vegetables never tasted this good!

The native flowers showed off their vibrant colours ............

and of course no visit is complete without a disinterested glance from one of Mum's cows.

Thanks Mum. We love to escape to the peace and solitude of your bush retreat.

dance party

2008-09-27T14:02:00.005+10:00

We had a disco at our place last night.

I wore a purple dress with gold lame pants and gold platform shoes. The kids wore their version of disco clothes. We turned up the music in the kitchen, loud.

Laura left Fatty a note on the bed, on top of a silver 'Peter Allen' sequinned shirt. The note read:

"Put this on NOW and join us for the dance party!"

There was grooving and moving to 'Hot Stuff' and 'Give it Up', until we heard Fatty come in the front door, when we danced wildly to 'We Are Family'.

Despite having been at work for 11 hours, dear Fatty dutifully put on his bling, and even wiggled his butt for the camera. I knew there was a good reason I married this man.

We stayed in full disco attire for dinner. I felt slightly conspicuous wandering out on the back deck to pick parsley but I decided it was my civic duty to entertain the neighbours.

Brushing his teeth before bed, Ben sighed contentedly, "I've had so much fun tonight." I smiled, and had to agree.

in stitches

2008-09-23T08:00:00.004+10:00

I think my son Ben may have been watching too many wildlife shows.

You would think the fact might have dawned on me when Ben chose to dress as David Attenborough for the fancy dress school disco. Every other boy was dressed in some sort of superhero outfit, while my son wore beige dress pants, a blue button-up shirt, and had his hair slicked over in a side-part. Nice.

I finally twigged that Ben's brain has been overtaken by documentaries when the following exchange took place:

Laura: Mum, have you ever had stitches?

Me: No, I don't think so

Ben: Yes you have, Mum. Remember? - you had stitches after giving birth to live young.

If that's not a statement to make a gal feel glamorous I don't know what is.

in sickness and in health

2008-09-20T16:31:00.005+10:00

In general I'm a peace-loving sort of woman. Except when sparring at karate. Or when arguing with my husband. Except for those situations, I do try to be accommodating and understanding; I'm happy to 'go with the flow', as they say.

At work I am certainly no tough nut. If a patient tells me they've been sick, even if they appear to be thriving with good health, I tend to give them the benefit of the doubt. After all, some symptoms aren't readily apparent to the observer. A person may have pain, or nausea, and I have no way of assessing this definitively. Similarly, I try to be generous when a patient has emotional distress and doesn't feel able to attend work. I wouldn't say I'm a pushover, but I'm certainly not hard-line. If a patient is just feeling overwhelmed by life and is completely stressed-out, a day or two off work may prevent them spiralling downwards, and needing several weeks off work. I'm happy to supply a medical cerificate.

I can only recall a few instances in my working career in which I have refused to give a medical certificate. One I clearly recall was when a cheery young man told me he was going fishing the next day, and requested a medical certificate to cover him for the day. I had to try hard not to laugh as I refused this request. (I mean, couldn't he have at least tried to invent a sore throat, a stomach pain, something?!)

Then last week, there was Unhappy Chappie*. Mr UC came to see me with a long list of requests - scripts, referrals, results and the like. I scurried to try to fulfil Mr UC's wishes. After twenty minutes, I had whizzed through it all, and was wrapping up the consultation. He then piped up with one more query:

"Could I have a medical certificate for the next couple of days please?"

"Why? " I queried, concerned (and also imagining further lengthy discussions about this new problem!). "Are you ill?"

"No", Mr UC replied blithely. "It's just that I've taken today off to trim all my hedges right back, and I always get a sore back the next day, so ... I take another day off afterwards."

I blinked. For a minute I was speechless. Then I ventured tentatively, "So, is your back any worse than usual at the moment?"

"No. No, it's fine right now. It's just that I like to get the hedges done in one fell swoop, and the weekends can be busy, so..... you know..... I take the full day, no kids around, get it done." I sat, stunned. "And then I pay for it the next day", he finished.

"Well," I began gently, "I can give you a certificate saying you attended for a doctor's appointment today. But I can't give you a certificate saying you're sick. Because you're not sick in any way."

Mr UC's eyebrows shot up. He glared at me. "But Dr Doodlehead* always used to give me a certificate for this. Every spring!".

I smiled wanly. "Um, well ...... I can't speak for Dr Doodlehead, but ...... it's not legal for me to give you a certificate to trim your hedge. And if your back gets so sore from doing all the hedges in a one day, then .... as harsh as it sounds .... perhaps you shouldn't be doing it all in one go."

Mr UC's eyeballs bulged. He muttered to himself something about 'Dr Doodlehead never had a problem with this'. He seemed to simmer down though, and took his prescriptions, and thanked me as he left. But later that day, the practice manager e-mailed me, saying 'I just had a complaint from a most unreasonable man. See me about this sometime."

Anyone who knows me would know that I am not a person brimming with self-confidence. I have an average amount of confidence, I suppose, but with my work is probably an area where I have the least confidence. I have had patients complain about me a few times in the past, and it has always upset me quite a lot, and made me question myself. But this day last week, when I got the e-mail, I just laughed. I laughed out loud in my room, and I decided not to spend a moment worrying about displeasing this gentleman. Because you can't please everyone, and you can't trim their hedges either.

*Patient and minor incidental details have been changed to protect the guilty!

on being the Mum

2008-09-17T19:45:00.005+10:00

Now & then, when telemarketers ring, they mistake me for a child. I answer the phone as I always do: "Hello, Jelly speaking!", and they respond sweetly, "Oh hi! Is your Mum or Dad there?". I usually pause, laugh, and then assure them that I actually am an adult of the house. As they bumble and stumble over their words, I briskly dispatch them, telling them we are in the middle of dinner/I'm at home with a sick child/I'm just not interested in their product - whichever excuse happens to be true at the time.

Today, a young man telephoned. I answered in my usual way, and he politely stated his name, and his company, then asked if my parents might be around. A little tired, a little testy, I sighed and snapped, "I'm the Mum!". Then, realising just how silly that sounded, I added quickly, "and I'm not interested in re-financing the mortgage".

Not missing a beat, the young chappie chirped, "Well, take it as a compliment!"

"Mmm", I humphed. "Thanks anyway. Bye."

I hung up and began to grin. My words echoed back to me in my mind. "I'm the Mum!" I repeated to myself incredulously. I rang my husband at work, giggling. "I just told a telemarketer 'I'm the Mum'!", I snickered. Fatty didn't seem to find it particularly funny.

Perhaps I am over-tired. Perhaps I am losing it. Perhaps I am snowed-down under the weight of cooking and scouring the bath and ironing and homework and folding and swimming lessons and work and childrens naughtiness and husbandly misdeeds. I've finally cracked and my family will be very sorry they were ever less than deeply loving towards me. Because dammit, I'M THE MUM!!!

crash

2008-09-16T07:18:00.005+10:00

There we were, having a perfectly lovely Sunday. There she was, silently coasting away from us down the hill, as Fatty and I chatted to a friend who'd chanced by the same playground.

There was a godawful crash of metal-on-metal. "What was that?", one of us exclaimed. I moved around to where I could see the metal pedestrian bridge. There was a kid on a bike, sprawled over. Our friend, who was closest, ran down to help, Fatty following. I stayed where I was, thinking there were plenty of helpers. Then I saw the green shirt, and heard her begin to cry, quietly. My girl.

I dashed down. She had stopped crying already, but was pale and sweaty. Her chin was dripping blood. I held the gaping cut together with my bare hands to stop the bleeding. Fatty ran off to get the car.

In the ED, they joked with her and checked her over. Her jaw was tender and swollen just near her left ear; she couldn't open her mouth far. The doctor suspected a fractured jaw and I felt slightly sick, but the Xray came back clear. The jaw was only badly jarred. Sweet relief!

Laura lay still and dry-eyed as the doctor injected the local anaesthetic. She closed her eyes and said not a word as he stitched and snipped, stitched and snipped. We took her home and she went straight to sleep, uncomplaining.

Later she woke, whimpering and sweating, her eyes wild and scared. It took me ten minutes to calm the shaking.

Now she is languishing at home on her soft diet of yoghurt and mashed potato. I am kissing her and stroking her cheek and telling her she is the best daughter I've ever had, which makes her laugh.

It's good to hear that laugh.

nothing much is really something

2008-09-13T08:32:00.012+10:00

The book I am reading right now................

The people I am spending the morning with....

The dog I am forgiving for stealing the last piece of date loaf .................

The flowers in my world........

Nothing too exciting going on here folks, but that's a good thing.

Mama's funeral was beautiful. The readings were words from her children, and words Mama had written herself. The mood was respectful, loving, sad and humorous all at once. Afterwards, my brother and sister and brother-in-law all congregated at our place. We had lunch together, and sat around chatting and drinking coffee. Ben showed off his burgeoning reading skills; Laura offered some of her more intricate drawings to be duly admired. Photo albums were pored over, and we discussed the funeral, and Mama.

Last night I made homemade pizzas and read to the kids lying down in bed.

Tonight I'm off to the movies with Fatty.

Tomorrow we're going bike riding, then having friends over for drinks and a sunset dinner on our back deck.

It's more than enough for me.

she is

2008-08-29T16:39:00.003+10:00

On my way home from the nursing home today, I stopped at traffic lights. As I waited, I pressed the buttons on my phone, sending my friend a text message. The last word of the 3-word message kept coming up wrong - at least it was not what I was intending to say. Although I kept pressing 'options', somehow each 'wrong' message struck me as incredibly true and right.

My message said this:

'She is good'

then

'She is home'

then, finally, what I was trying to say all along

'She is gone'.

Mama, my darling Mama, may you fly free and rest easy.

a close shave

2008-08-24T16:59:00.005+10:00

I'm often running late. Not more than five minutes usually, but just a wee bit late. If I set my mind to it, I can be perfectly on time, of course. It's sheer laziness when I time things too finely, not allowing for lost hats, the applying of sunscreen, or the kids' last-minute toilet stops.

My running-latedness extends to school drop-off, too. I'd say fifty percent of the time I'm just 2 or 3 minutes late dropping off Ben (he starts earlier than his sister). Usually there are other kids still arriving, and the teacher is still chatting to parents or children. I tell myself it's not such a big deal.

My children, however, are not impressed when we are running late. They hate being bustled along, and they hate the thought of not being punctual. (Bloody neurotic kids - where do they get that from? Don't answer that please it was a rhetorical question) Laura once asked me plaintively, "Why are we always late for school?". I snapped, "We are not always late for school! And anyway, if you stopped dancing around in your underpants instead of getting dressed, we'd probably be on time!". Suitably chastened (or perhaps just frightened into submission), Laura gave up her protest as we pulled up to the school. Three minutes late.

The truth is that it's usually my fault when we're late. I get wrapped up reading blogs, or I take too long to make the lunches (do these kids of mine really appreciate my fancy salad wraps? I sincerely doubt it), or I just can't get my hair to look fit for public viewing. So I try to admit this to the kids, and apologise.

Last Friday, we were properly late. I'd taken extra time to wash my hair, and to shave my legs (lest I turn into some sort of hairy wildebeest). We arrived to find the class seated, and the roll being taken. I kissed Ben and told him to have a good day. He scuttled in, anxious to be marked as present.

I was chatting quietly with another mother when the teacher aide burst out of the classroom. She was breathless and laughing.

"Ben just told us it wasn't his fault he was late - it was because his mum had to shave her legs".

I think I may have been taught a lesson.

Shave your legs in utmost secrecy.

********************************

Last-minute addition: Feeling somewhat shamed by all these very punctual commenters, I must add that I am never late for work (in fact I always get there early to check results etc), and I am never late if meeting someone out somewhere. So obviously I am capable of being efficient, if I only shave early enough!!

hearing right

2008-08-21T20:40:00.004+10:00

I've been trying to become a better listener.

I read in a book recently that to listen to someone fully and attentively is to give the other person one of the most precious gifts in the world. Reading those words struck a chord. I thought yes. Oh yes.

My closest friends are all incredible listeners. When I have a problem, they focus. They hear me out; they take time to comprehend. They let me express my fears. And this time and kindness that they give to me is of untold value. I believe that without their friendship, I would find life wearying and difficult.

My children seem to talk to me an awful lot, as I suppose all children do. They tell me what they've read, they ask me how to spell words as they write, they ask obscure questions which stump me and secretly frustrate me. Sometimes the flow of endless chatter feels like a tidal wave of words, and I want to shout "STOP! Stop this infernal talking!" Yet at the same time I am delighted that I am still privy to their worries, their queries and their day-to-day stories. And I want to be someone to whom they can speak, knowing that I will give them my full attention whenever possible. I want them to say, when they are grown, that they always knew they could talk to their mum.

At work, I listen to people all day. I hear their problems, I ask questions and hear their answers to my probing. There is a lot of conversing involved. Because a lot of talking occurs, I sometimes kid myself that I'm a brilliant listener. I begin to believe that I am well on the way to winning the inaugural Australian GP Listening Trophy 2008. Then I catch myself wondering what I'll cook for dinner, or I hear myself butt into the patient's story with a premature question, or I ask something my patient has already told me. Occasionally I ask the same question three times. Oh yes sirree, there is plenty of room for improvement here.

I suspect I am even worse at home. After all, I have already, in my delusional mind, won the listening trophy at work, and by the time I've lugged that sucker home, I'm exhausted. Fatty tells me about his footy team's injuries and I make vague 'hmmmm' noises, as if that should suffice. Laura tells me her dream from the previous night blow by blow and I fight desperately to retain enough detail to sound like I was paying attention. Benjamin explains his drawing of underground worms to me at length, and I stare and exclaim at the wonderful squiggly creatures while my mind is figuring out when Laura's jazz ballet fees are due.

So lately I've been trying to pay more attention, and by doing this, to pay more respect - to the people I love, and to the patients who entrust me with their medical care. It's hard work, but I'm enjoying the challenge.

(No-one's awarded me any trophies yet, but I'm sure it's only a matter of time)

seeing the world

2008-08-02T19:18:00.004+10:00

The beagle and I went walking today. It was late in the afternoon, a clear day, with just the slightest chill beginning to touch the air.

Only minutes into the walk, we encountered a white-haired older woman, walking her beagle. The two dogs snarled half-heartedly at each other, then subsided as they realised their owners were stopping to chat. The lady and I discussed beagles and their insatiable greed. The woman suddenly asked, "Is this Millie, from Smith Street?". When I replied in the affirmative, she smiled indulgently. "Oh, Ruby and Millie always growl at each other", she laughed. The two dogs stood staring off in opposite directions, like bored teenagers. The woman and I bade each other farewell. I was amused to realise that we knew our respective dogs' names, but not each others'.

I took a route past my friend Belly's house. I knew she and her family were out, but I walked past anyway. I felt a pang of loneliness. The dog and I passed by.

Up a steep road went Millie and I, to my very favourite street. It is a crescent at the top of a hill, and from there I can look out in all directions. The sun was glowing orange in the distance, turning the sky along the horizon a soft tangerine. I felt that surge of happiness that I always feel at the sight of natural beauty.

Down through suburbia the dog and I plunged. We passed a man and his son, kicking a football to each other across a quiet street. The boy, perhaps five or six, watched Millie and I intently as we strolled past. He piped up, "Dad, I wish I had a soccer dog!".
"One that likes to play soccer", he added, in explanation.
"Me, too", his father replied good-naturedly.
I grinned to myself as I strode along.

Closer to home, Millie and I passed a slim, athletic-looking couple. From a distance, I thought they were in their twenties. As we passed, I realised they were in their fifties. Their faces were a little lined, their hair was greying, but I could tell they had been a handsome couple in their youth. They were still a good-looking couple now. I wondered if they were ever sad; wondered if they ever missed the recognition that used to be given to them because of their younger glory. They nodded hello to me and kept talking amiably to each other. They didn't look sad at all.

Our street was bathed in every shade of yellow as the dog and I reached home.

missing

2008-07-31T20:56:00.005+10:00

I miss everyone in my life.

What I mean is - I never have enough time to spend with anyone, so I miss everyone.

I'm tired.

I'm going to burrow under the doona.

I miss everyone.

faraway friends

2008-07-19T18:47:00.000+10:00

Have you discovered that there are certain blogs you just keep coming back to above others? Have you found yourself drawn to someone's way of thinking, or the way they express themselves, or their sense of humour? Have you felt a sense of connection with another blogger in another town, another country, another continent, but felt unsure as to whether the connection was real?

I have often wondered what it would be like to meet a fellow blogger. Would they be as they seemed on their blog, or would I find them to be completely different to how they represented themselves in writing? Would we chat easily, or would the conversation seem forced and superficial? Would the experience be a thrill or a disaster?

Well, now I know. I had the opportunity to meet with an effervescent blond blogger whilst we were both on holiday, and she was just as I'd imagined.

We met for breakfast, and despite my fears that we would have some embarrassing sort of greeting along the lines of - "Are you...... are you, um?..... Are you a blogger? I mean, are you meeting...um..... another... well.....I'm Jellyhead anyway!", this thankfully did not occur.

I was quite nervous. I confessed this right away. Yet we chatted away for almost two hours, and I had a great time. I think I rambled on too much. I walked away wondering if my blogpal would report back to her husband that 'Jellyhead' was aptly named. I told myself not to worry because I knew my blogger friend was a positive and forgiving type.

From my point of view, the sense of friendship was not imagined. Even though we had never met before, it seemed we knew each other a little already - rather like you might feel seeing an old school friend you hadn't seen for years, but still remembered fondly.

It's incredible that you can meet and make friends that, but for the internet, you would never have known. It blows my mind, and it renews my faith in humankind.

wedged

2008-07-13T14:41:00.004+10:00

I knew I'd gained a couple of kilos on holiday, but this fact became cruelly evident to me when, during a game of hide-and-go-seek with my kids, I became wedged in Ben's dirty clothes hamper.

After being 'found' by Ben, I tried valiantly to free myself. I wiggled and wriggled. Laura offered me a hand and tried to help. Nothing worked. I was stuck at the hips. I sent the children to get their father, who was glued to the football on TV.

From my seated position in the blue container, I could just discern the conversation in the TV room.

"Da-ad. Mum's stuck in Ben's dirty clothes basket."

"What? She's what?" (this snorted derisively)

"She's stuck! She tried to hide in there and now she can't get out!" (this accompanied by gleeful twittering laughter)

Muttering grumpily, and taking his time, Fatty stumped through the house to Ben's room. By now I was grinning widely. I can always lose those extra kilos, but I believe I have set a new record for klutziness, and that can never be taken from me.

Fatty began to smile despite himself. "How on earth did you expect to fit in there?", he scolded. I gave no reply, merely lifting my arms up in supplication. Fatty pulled and heaved. My bottom remained firmly stuck within the depths of Ben's laundry bin. Fatty sighed, and tried lifting me from under my arms. Still I stayed hunkered-down tight. By now I was giggling, and Fatty's frustration only made me laugh more.

"We'll have to lay you down", decided Fatty, as he eased the laundry hamper into a reclining position. I was by this stage weak with laughter. Finally, I came unstuck, worming my way to freedom and lying leaking tears of mirth on Benjamin's bedroom floor.

I haven't laughed that much since Laura did her puffer fish imitation.

tropical tripping

2008-06-28T14:23:00.010+10:00

Last year, around this time, my dear friend Chooky whisked me away for a birthday treat weekend up north. We sat on the beach and talked, we dangled our legs in the pool whilst drinking mango daiquiris, we ate lunch on a veranda looking straight out to the azure blue waters you can see in this photo. That night we ordered room service, drank hot chocolate with marshmallows, and watched 'Under the Tuscan Sun' on DVD.

I should make it clear that Chooky is not a wealthy woman. She just scrimped and saved to do something truly special for me. Most years we celebrate each others' birthdays with cards and small, inexpensive gifts. Sometimes we make more of a fuss, and last year was the fuss to end all fusses. I had such a brilliant time. And I was so blown away by the beauty of the place that I vowed to drag husband and kids to the same town one day.

So, one year later, I am travelling with my small family in tow, back to this wondrous place. It will be a different sort of holiday - less lolling and chatting, and more snorkelling, swimming and sandcastling. But there'll still be that blue water and that soft sunshine.There'll still be that fine white sand to walk along, hand in hand with my husband, as we watch the kids run ahead of us.

I say bring it on.

gastrointestinal grievances (warning - graphic details may offend or cause significant queasiness)

2008-06-25T20:23:00.006+10:00

If it's not the dog's vomit that plagues me it's my children's. I suppose I should be grateful that until last night, neither dog nor child had spewed for a few months, but when my daughter hurls on the half hour for most of the night, I am nowhere near grateful. I'm not exactly grumpy, though, because after all I'm not the poor little body wracked with wretching. I am merely the holder of the bucket, the passer of tissues, the cleaner and the comforter. Much worse to be the bucket-filler. Still, I am weary. I need to sleep tonight in case tomorrow night brings another chundering child. Or heaven forbid, a sick moi. I am no good at vomiting. I have no style; no guts (he he) and definitely no glory.

Although I consider myself fairly stoic (rightly or wrongly), I admit to being a complete wimp when it comes to my stomach. I can go to work with a thumping migraine, I've walked around on a broken leg as a kid, I've given birth with but a whiff of gas. But give me a touch of nausea and I am a whimpering baby, a wuss, a sook. When I reach that point where I know that everything I've eaten is coming back to greet me, I feel panicky and desperate. I'd sell my first-born to stop the whole nasty business (well, maybe not my first-born but absolutely my dog). I mutter and shiver and shake and feel like bawling. I'm pathetic.

My son has inherited his mother's lack of vomit aplomb. He cries. He begs me to tell him when it will all end. He shakes and quakes just like his old ma.

My daughter is a calm, serene spewer. She coughs, spits, rinses then rests. She doesn't complain - I suppose she sees no point.

I feel a bit of a fraud bemoaning my lack of sleep last night, when it was not me bringing up my dinner with odd assorted chunks of what may have been pancreas. Really I ought to just go to bed and be glad I'm not (yet) ill.

Wish me luck (because I've grown quite fond of the dog)

planet of the apes

2008-06-15T20:18:00.003+10:00

So, today I found myself standing up in front of a very large crowd (several hundred people), doing a gorilla impersonation. This is where my life has taken me.

Fatty, Laura, Ben and I were singled out by the compere of a large theme park (mean! mean! mean compere!) and I didn't want to be a party pooper.

I wasn't very good.

interference

2008-06-06T06:25:00.002+10:00

You know, I don't get annoyed easily. Well, maybe I do, but I'm certainly not the type to get furious at the drop of a hat. And when I do get peeved, I am usually over it pretty quickly. I either say my piece, or I make myself think about what difficulties the other person may be dealing with, and that snaps me out of being angry. But this week I've been bothered by a couple of things, and I'm still stewing.

The first annoyance began when a patient, 'Victoria', returned to see me after trying a medication I'd prescribed her. I asked her how she was going with her tablets - were there any problems? Victoria reported that the medication itself wasn't bothering her, but that it was hard to remember to take it for 3 nights on, 3 nights off. I frowned. "The chemist told me to take it that way", Victoria explained. I felt myself getting steamed-up.

"Well, that's unusual", I replied. "This was a prescribed medication. The chemist should call me to discuss it if they feel there's a problem with the directions." And indeed that would be the professional thing to do. However, this chemist, without even having the courtesy to conference with me, had advised a patient of mine to take her medication in a fashion which will mean she never gets the full effect. Victoria may as well be taking jellybeans for all the good it will do her taken in this way.

I am the first to admit that a good chemist is the saviour of many a patient. There have been a few occasions where a chemist has called me to check my prescription directions, and has saved me from giving my patient an excessive dose of a medication. None of these medications would have caused a fatality, but they would have made the patient feel pretty awful. And as much as I try my best to be safe and careful, one day I could make a mistake that has the potential to kill a patient. Chemists watch for these errors, and they truly save lives, and save our doctoring butts.

That said, I object to having my directions completely over-ruled, without so much as a phone call. It is rude, it is presumptuous, and it has been to the detriment of Victoria. And I think I need to make a quiet phone call and politely express my thoughts about what occurred.

*********************************************************************

I was tucking Laura into bed last night, and had already kissed her goodnight when she called me back. "Mum?"

"What, love?" I enquired.

"Mrs D (the librarian at Laura's school) says 8 o'clock is too late to go to bed".

My frown from earlier in the week reappeared.

"Don't worry sweetie, she's not your parent", I soothed.

"But she says it's too late for going to sleep", Laura persisted.

"Well, she's not your parent", I reiterated. "Daddy and I will decide what's best for you".

I felt my annoyance rise anew against the chemist, and now against this teacher, too - advising my patients, and my daughter, without knowing the full details. The chemist did not know the full clinical details of my patient's condition. And this teacher does not know that Fatty & I have been trying to deal with Laura's nighttime insomnia, because of which Laura has been lying awake from her 7:30 bedtime until 8:45 or 9 pm most nights, tossing & turning. Mrs D doesn't know that we have recently instigated a new plan involving making sure Laura gets plenty of exercise each day, playing soft lulling music in her room at bedtime, and putting her to bed a little later, so she has less time to toss & turn. This may end up being a temporary measure, until her anxiety about getting to sleep dies down. But last night Laura was asleep within 20 minutes, and that has been a huge relief for both her, and for Fatty and I.

I would be happy for a chemist, or a teacher, to raise an issue with me. There have certainly been times when I have taken on board advice from either of these professional groups, and changed my way of doing things. I just don't like it being done behind my back.

This tirade is now over.

innocence

2008-05-31T20:02:00.007+10:00

I took my daughter shopping for shoes today. It's getting too cold for sandals, and black school shoes are not acceptable casual footwear for discerning seven-year-olds. We bought a pair of lurid hot pink sparkly sneakers. And then, as you do when you are sucked into the vortex that is a large shopping complex, we ended up looking around more, buying more. Purple flannelette PJ's with dogs on them for Laura, and a stripey blue jumper for Ben.

After a couple of hours of shopping, we stopped for coffee (for me) and hot chocolate (for Laura). We sat peaceably opposite one another, chatting and people-watching by turns. Laura acquired chocolate crescent shapes at either side of her mouth.

Eventually we headed for the car. Laura remarked that when she got home, she'd like to lie on her bed and read. "Oh yes, me too, " I rejoined eagerly.

"You can't lie on my bed to read, " Laura corrected gently.

"Yes, I can!", I argued. "If you scrunch over, we can lie side by side, and each read our books on your bed". Warming to my theme I added, "And when there's an interesting bit, or a funny part, we can read it out loud to each other!"

Laura paused, and then mused, "Well, yes, we could do that. You could read bits to me if they were appropriate for me to hear".

I laughed to hear this small girl speaking in such a dignified manner. Leaning down, I hugged her around the ribs and tickled her. "If it's appropriate, hey Louey?!". She sounded so grown-up.

"Well," Laura persisted, "you might not read it to me if was about someone being injured. Or if someone in the story was saying rude things.... like 'rack off you moron!'."

Just as Laura blurted the words 'rack off you moron!', a man walked past us, and did a double take. Meantime, I walked hand-in-hand with Laura, and marvelled at her innocence. Somehow I thought the world would have tarnished her more by now.

I know that this can't last. But for now I revel in my daughter's trust and purity. I kiss Laura's soft forehead and feel a thickness in my throat. She is all that is good in the world.

Allen

2008-05-27T11:15:00.004+10:00

He seemed to appear from nowhere. One minute I was sitting at the long, low table, drinking wine with some old high-school friends, and the next minute he was there.

I didn't see him arrive in his too-big checked suit. I didn't see him lay his cane down, resting on the bench seat beside him. But I glanced up from conversation and there he was - a wizened old gentleman, hunched at our table. It was 11 o'clock at night.

I stared, astonished. I was at a city bar, with music pumping, and lipsticked women chatting to business-shirted men. There were a few silver-haired men in their forties or fifties, but there were no Zimmer frames. This man who had joined our group was well into his eighties. I nudged my friend Kylie, who is divorced, and murmured that there was a new member at the table. She grinned and quipped, "I know you guys try to set me up with any man who is actually breathing, but I'm not sure that this guy is!" I followed her gaze. She was right! The octogenarian was leaning off at an angle, eyes drooping. Was he having a stroke? Had his heart stopped? Was he..... dead? I moved to get up, but just as I did, Mr Checked Suit sat upright. He blinked, and resumed examining his hands.

"I wonder if anyone has taken his order?", I worried out loud to Liz. I had only just met Liz, but I had already discovered she was smart and kind and brave. Liz didn't waste time worrying. The intrepid young Liz marched over, and sat down next to the elderly fellow. I watched as they conversed. Liz eventually disappeared into the bar, returning a few minutes later with a cup of coffee.

Liz had discovered that the suited man lived eight blocks away. He took his coffee with 5 sugars. When he gave Liz the money to buy the coffee, he had pulled out a wad of fifty dollar notes, and begun peeling off bills, telling Liz to buy drinks for herself and her friends. Liz had, of course, declined.

When Liz had asked the barman for a coffee with 5 sugars, the barman had cried, "Oh no! I forgot Allen's coffee!" The barman told Liz that Allen owned a huge chunk of nearby inner city land, and that he came to the bar every night for a cup of coffee.

I like to know that there are always these lovely quirky souls in the world who refuse to fit the stereotypes. I like to know that Allen can wander down at almost midnight and drink coffee at a city bar, where the barman knows his name, and knows how many sugars to put in his coffee.

I like that people are endlessly surprising, and that there truly is magic in everyday life.

love in a cold climate

2008-05-20T21:01:00.001+10:00

Yeah, yeah, I'm a bad dog. So what? You still feed me.

Sometimes I almost hate our dog Millie. My regular readers know this already. When this 'family' pooch snapped at my infant daughter, (for taking a nut Millie was chewing on) I was furious. When Millie bit the friendly builder who stuck his hand through from the neighbour's yard, I was mortified. When I find her sleeping on the living room couch, and she merely raises her eyes to me, but doesn't budge, I despair of her awful canine behaviour. And when Millie burrows under the fence into the neighbour's yard (a new habit she's acquired), I'm well aware that it's not just Fatty and I who are seething with irritation. But just when I think she is a nasty mutt who cares for nothing except food, she softens my heart with proof that underneath all that acting out, there is genuine affection for her owners.

This morning, I braved the snow, icicles and blizzards (although I could be exaggerating again) to go buy bread. Millie was already inside the house, luxuriating in the warmth of our small heater, curled up on her comfy dog cushion near the back door. She gazed at me hopefully as I put my shoes on, and then looked doggy-disappointed when I reached for the car keys. I strode callously out the front door, without a backward glance.

I returned with a still-warm loaf, my breath smoky in the chill morning air as I rushed from the car back to the house. And there sat Millie, waiting for me on the veranda. She leapt to her feet as I arrived, tail wagging enthusiastically. In spite of the fact the rest of the family were awake and clustered in the cosy kitchen, Millie had chosen to keep watch for her mistress out in the cold. I bustled into the kitchen, telling Fatty about our winter-braving watchdog. "She loves me!", I exclaimed. "She really does love me!" I'm such a sucker for love.

*****************************************************************************

Later in the morning, I passed Laura's doorway and noticed a small note stuck to the outside of her uniform.

Before I reveal the contents of the note, I should explain that lovely Louey has been in trouble a few times a week lately - mainly for being forgetful. Water bottles are left behind, hats lost, library books not packed (and all this despite repeated reminders). Even the daily things - such as hanging her bag & hat, and retrieving her reading folder on arrival at school - are regularly undone or half done (she'll walk away with hat still on, or without remembering anything to take into class). It's not deliberate - she's just a dreamy soul - but sometimes it drives her parents spare, and we get cranky with Laura-Lou.

Today I had to grasp the very sharp metal object that had penetrated my heart, and rip it painfully back out. Because this is what Laura's handwritten note said:

1) be good

2) be kind

3) try hard

4) be sencabal (sensible)

Laura, my sweet Louey. Forgive me for my own impatience. Forgive me for making you feel anything less than wonderful, just as you are.

for my mother

2008-05-10T13:37:00.006+10:00

I remember how you comforted me whenever I was scared in the night.

I remember how you drew a princess for me, in coloured chalk. She was the prettiest princess I had ever seen.

I remember how you answered my questions so patiently, day after day.

I remember how you made me dresses of all different colours and patterns - my favourite was the strawberry dress.

I remember when I was ten and my best friend moved away, and I sobbed in your lap like a small child. You held me quietly; you didn't offer platitudes. You just let me be sad until I felt better again.

I remember how you always told me I was beautiful. When I was a gawky, awkward teen, it meant a lot to me that at least one person in the whole world thought I looked lovely.

I remember how when I was in my final years of high school, you would bring me a cup of tea and a piece of cake, while I was studying.

I remember one night, before a major exam, when I couldn't sleep, and you came and rubbed my back for an hour or more. I had to pretend to be asleep, so you would finally go and get some sleep yourself.

I cannot remember you ever yelling at me. I remember you being angry a few times (and I always deserved it), but I never remember you screaming. Now that I am a mother myself, this fact astonishes me!

I remember you meeting Fatty, and telling me later, approvingly, "Oh, he LOVES you!" You have never criticised my husband, nor my siblings' spouses. You treat our partners like your own family.

I remember you holding my daughter, your first grandchild, and looking radiant and overjoyed. You brought your mother to see Laura, too, that day, and there were four generations of women all together in the hospital room.

I remember when I was tired and emotional, and trying to settle my infant daughter in her cot, and you came and stood with me, and told me I was doing a good job. You didn't make suggestions, or take over. You simply told me I was a good mother. Your words filled me with pride, and with new energy.

I remember how, every year around the time of our wedding anniversary, you have cared for our children so Fatty and I can spend time away together.

Each Mother's Day, I remember anew that I have been blessed with a mother with profound patience, kindness and strength. You have loved and accepted me just as I am, all my life. You continue to have faith in me, even though I know I am different to you.

Mum, I count my lucky stars that you are my mother, and I love you with all my heart.

Jellyhead's Wondrous Life - Chapter 354

2008-05-01T20:17:00.007+10:00

I've been pondering various pressing questions lately. Namely - why my softly-spoken patient 'Ella' has such bizarre lab results, why someone dear to me is having to deal with a spouse's dodgy behaviour, and why the damn dog keeps puking up her dinner. I was awake at 4 am this morning pondering all three dilemmas.

I got up around dawn, and stumbled out into the cold (note to readers from Canada, the US, the UK and anywhere else 'properly cold' - Australians think it is bitterly cold once the temperature drops below around 20 degrees celsius. Well, at least the ones who live in the tropics do! And it was only 10 degrees this morning, so I was practically risking frostbite). I picked up the newspaper and searched for evidence of upchucked dogfood. As I wandered barefoot in the shivery, wet grass, peering into all corners of our yard for vomitus, it seemed to me that the day had started ominously. However, as the minutes passed, I forgot my icy feet. I stopped wondering if the neighbours would be offended by my mascara-smudged eyes and bedhead. There was no spew! Oh joyous day!

Safely at work a couple of hours later, I spoke to the specialist to whom I had referred Ella last year. The specialist sounded edgy and evasive. "Yes, this is all getting out of my league now", she muttered. "I'd like you to send her to Dr X." I dutifully phone Dr X. The next available appointment is July. I may, if I wish, ring Dr X tomorrow, though, to plead my patient's case. I feel confident I can wangle a deal. I've become an expert at begging in as dignified a way as possible.

Later in the day I phoned the person whose partner is causing them grief. Things sounded happier.

My daughter came home from school wan and febrile. I set her up on the couch with DVD and drink and nurofen. Within an hour, she had recovered enough to eat pikelets with raspberry jam and wander the backyard with her brother.

Now, the dog-with-intact-stomach-contents (touch wood) is lying nearby, curled up on her dog pillow. My kids are asleep. Fatty is out playing squash - keeping fit and getting in touch with his masculine side and male-bonding and all that. And here sit I, telling you of my day.

In case you're at all confused, my day has been thus - ( in order) - puppy puke, patient problem, pissy partner, pale progeny, pikelets. I bet you're simply gagging for Chapter 355.

blue is the colour

2008-04-21T07:08:00.002+10:00

I truly don't know how people who struggle with depression keep putting one foot in front of the other. They must have to draw on such reserves of strength just to make it through each day.

I don't think I've ever been depressed - not according to the clinical definition - or if I have, I've been lucky that it righted itself without intervention. But some days I get a taste of what it must be like to be depressed ..... I have the blues and they're hard to shake.

Last night I thought about the week ahead and it seemed that my life stretched ahead of me in endless weeks - work, work, weekends, work, work, weekends. Occasional holidays - long anticipated, over in a trice - then more work, work, work.

I woke up this morning and was overwhelmed by a sense of dread for the day ahead, the week ahead, the months ahead. Already this feeling is slowly lifting, but it's a frightening emotion. I hate to be so gloomy, so negative, so introspective, and yet the dread seems to wash over me unbidden.

To all those who suffer on not just the odd Monday morning, not just a few days here and there, but weeks and months and sometimes years on end - you are heroes. Day after day, you battle what others like myself can only imagine, while we despair of a single day of sadness.

It's time to get ready for work. It's time to change that blue to purple, then merge to red, and maybe even rev it up to hot pink.

I wish you all a hot pink kind of day!

beauty and beasties

2008-04-16T21:11:00.014+10:00

Despite the fact that I am a non-church-goer married into a family of devout Lutherans; despite the fact that I always take seconds of dessert; despite the fact I boss their son around and am much louder and more assertive than is probably seemly - despite all this, my parents-in-law are nothing but loving towards me. They accept me as I am. I think they even love me (well, they say they do!). So when we go to visit them, I genuinely have a good time.

Last week, Fatty and the kids and I went to visit Nanna and Poppa. We drank lots of coffee and played several games of 500.

The Birdman could not help himself and even did a bit of twitching in his parents backyard. This photo was not staged in any way.... I simply snuck up behind him.
Laura and Ben spent hours watching their snails race. Yeah. 'Race' is probably not quite the right term.

I just hung around making strange finger gestures.

When not making odd gesticulations, I wandered around Nanna's beautiful garden, taking photos of the glorious roses. They are so perfect, and so fragrant.

One day, Fatty and I took the kids to a wildlife park. I have never seen these particular Australian animals up so close. Normally these species are to be seen in the distance in some cage. You squint your eyes, and your companion says, "See! See that brown fur?", and you say, "Oh. Oh, OK", with disappointment, because really, it could be a stuffed toy for all you can see of it. But these guys were careening about their open-topped enclosures, as if to say "Look at me! La-di-da!"

Wombly wombat

Dastardly Dingo

Enchanting Echidna

Devlilish (Tasmanian) Devil

And now, this devilish woman better get some sleep, or I'll be devilishly obnoxious tomorrow.

Goodnight!

ninety four

2008-04-06T07:16:00.004+10:00

He lay in the narrow cot, covered up to his chin by a light cotton blanket. His skin was almost as parchment white as the blanket. His mouth was agape. He was as still as a mountain. I came close to Grandpa, and touched his shoulder gently.

Red-rimmed eyes opened. A slow smile of recognition spread across his pale face. "Hello darling!" he exclaimed. "Happy Birthday Grandpa", I proclaimed proudly.

Later, we sat around a plastic table in a courtyard - Grandpa, my daughter, my son and I. The children drew with pens on scraps of paper from my handbag. Grandpa watched the children as we talked of his health; as I told him a funny story; as he recalled tales from his life. He ran his hand over his grey hair as he declared himself pleased to have reached 94 years of age.

Out of the blue, Grandpa declared earnestly, "I'm staggered by the beauty of those children!". I felt a flash of motherly pride (Yes! Someone else has finally realised! My children are unusually and incredibly beautiful!), before I recalled that Grandpa has quite poor eyesight.

After half an hour, the (astoundingly gorgeous) children and I said our goodbyes. Ben permitted himself to be hugged, and Laura gingerly kissed Grandpa's dry stubbled cheek. Grandpa's eyes watered and he murmured huskily, "I'll never forget this day".

And now, in writing this down, I'll never forget either.

taste sensation

2008-03-28T07:27:00.003+10:00

It's been my experience that as soon as kids go to school, their parents become completely ignorant, and no longer possess any worthwhile knowledge. All wisdom previously considered the domain of their parents is magically transferred to the teacher. Nothing you can say as a parent will budge your child from this viewpoint.

My daughter, Laura, seems most affected by this transition. Her teacher, Mrs M, has achieved the status of some sort of deity, and every word she utters is the gospel truth. Once, when I dared to dispute what Mrs M had said regarding a medical matter, I was howled down by my daughter, as she wailed tearily, "But Mrs M said so". Mrs M is an experienced and excellent teacher, and seems very switched-on, but as a mother and doctor, I felt entitled to correct the minor mistruth. It seems I was out of line. Mrs M rules supreme.

It was with great amusement, and a sense of pride in my questioning son, that I overheard the following conversation:

Laura: "Mrs Marshall says that you should keep trying foods you don't like to eat. She says if you eat something you don't like every day for two weeks, then your tastebuds will adjust, and you'll start to like the food."

Ben looked sceptical. There was a brief pause.

Ben: "So...... what about if you tried to eat poo every day for two weeks?"

(I couldn't wipe the grin off my face)

all sorts

2008-03-26T19:50:00.004+10:00

It's true what they say - it takes all sorts of people to make the world go 'round. I'm always astounded by the vast array of different personalities I come across in my work and social lives. And some of these people are just so darn entertaining.

Her permed curls bobbed cheerily as she squeaked across the hospital ward floor towards my grandfather. My grandfather's face is affected by Parkinson's disease, and his face at rest is set in an expression of solemn contemplation. He seemed to regard the cleaner warily as she bore down upon him.

"Hello my POPPY POP!", shrieked the cleaner, with a look of glee on her face. Grandpa's face moved slowly into a bewildered smile, as the woman leant closer.
"How are YOU, Poppy Pop?", she yelled, as if speaking to a person who was another room away.

Grandpa smile widened. He glanced across at me and I knew he was thinking exactly what I was thinking: 'This woman has escaped from the Psychiatric Unit and has nicked a mop and begun cleaning'. Well, perhaps he wasn't thinking exactly that, but his look was amused and surprised and conspiratorial.

"She's got her own nickname for you, Grandpa", I teased, in a quiet undertone. Apparently the cleaner had very keen ears, even if she assumed no-one else did.

"Oh, I call them all Poppy Pop!", the chatty cleaner chirped, as she bustled about replacing a bin liner. "Why, what do you call him?", she queried, sounding surprised that Grandpa wasn't actually called Poppy Pop.

"Hmmm, Grandpa, hmmmm", she muttered in response to my reply. It seemed clear that she considered 'Poppy Pop' to be a far superior name.

"There you go my Poppy Pop!" she cried, as she fixed the bin liner onto his tray with two pieces of sticky tape. The cleaner stepped closer to my still-handsome, grey-haired, fleecy-vested grandfather. Her grin was stretching her face into previously unseen dimensions. She laid a hand on each side of Grandpa's jaw, and lowered her head until her forehead touched Grandpa's.
"I just want to ADOPT you!" she shouted.

The other men in the four-bed room began to laugh out loud. Grandpa's shoulders began to rise and fall as he chuckled uncontrollably. I sat in my visitors chair, stunned - not just at the cleaner's offer to become Grandpa's legal guardian, but at her sheer volume. I swear my ears were ringing and I was a full two feet further away.

The laughter did nothing to daunt our boisterous cleaner - if anything she seemed to become more effusive. "You're just so GORGEOUS!", she crowed, vigorously pinching Grandpa's cheeks. Grandpa's eyes began to leak tears of laughter, and he and I kept sneaking incredulous glances at each other as we both struggled to suppress our mirth. Just when I thought Grandpa's laughter might trigger one of his coughing fits, the cleaner bustled away. "See you tomorrow, Poppy!". She stalked away, and the four men slowly wiped the tears from their cheeks, chuckling quietly to themselves.

She may be bordering on certifiable, but that cleaner made those elderly gentlemen laugh like kids. And I don't know any sweeter medicine than that.

It takes all sorts alright.

comeback queen

2008-03-23T19:45:00.002+10:00

There is only so long a person like me can hold their tongue. That time limit has now been exceeded. I'm back, and I'm chatty. Don't say you weren't warned.

While away from blogging, I've read a lot more, I've played some online Scrabble, and I've talked to my friends and family a bit more, too. I've kept up to date with your blogs via Bloglines. But I've missed expressing myself. This blog gives me a voice beyond mothering, beyond mundane household discussions, beyond the interactions I have in my work persona. And let's face it - you, my blogfriends, are some of the world's greatest listeners!

I hope you are all having a lovely Easter. I'll be visiting you all on your blogs very soon.

I'll be posting again soon, too, but right now there's a box of Lindt chocolates that's calling my name.....

goodbye for now (but not for ever!)

2008-02-21T16:12:00.003+10:00

I've been a blogger for 2 1/2 years now, and it's been a truly wonderful addition to my life.

Blogging opened my eyes to a whole new world of communication, and sharing of lives. I've been fascinated, awed, touched and amused by all manner of posts, from all kinds of people. I have made real friends. I 'know' so many more people who have enriched my life in ways large and small.

I've written about my own thoughts and experiences, and in doing so have discovered unrealised feelings. Writing has always given me a sensation of expanding joy as I put words together, and through blogging I could write with a sense of happy purpose. Someone would read what I wrote, and they would even be reading it voluntarily! And to get comments on what I wrote .... well, that was (and still is) such a thrill!

There have been times when I have stayed up too late, addicted to reading blogs, or writing my own posts. There have even been times when I have failed to read or write for a week, or more.

Right now, I have lost the urge to blog. I've lost the inclination to read blogs, and I have no desire to write. I'm sure this is a temporary thing. Maybe I'm just blogburnt-out. Maybe I just need some time away, to read novels and talk with my kids and phone my family more often.

Whatever the reason, I'm sure I'll be back. I would miss all 'you lot' too much if I didn't come back to see how you all were. And I'd miss being able to rave on about whatever I pleased, on my own personal soapbox here. I reckon after a month I'll be back leaving silly comments and writing silly posts with gusto.

So take care everyone, and I'll come back to blogging with renewed vigour in March...

pride

2008-02-12T18:26:00.005+10:00

I had forgotten what they're like - the young interns, striding importantly along the disinfectant-scented corridors. I had forgotten until today, when I went to visit my grandfather in hospital.

Grandpa's had a fall, and at almost 94, he takes time to get over these things. He's healing well, though, and lapping up all the attention. He and I sat together and talked, looking out to the misty grey skies. Grandpa told me a tale from his days in the police force, a dramatic story of cornering and capturing a 'bad guy'. As we chatted, various health professionals came and went.

I hadn't recalled, or perhaps I hadn't ever noticed, just how self-satisfied interns look. I found it disconcerting and embarrassing to watch. They stalked along the corridors, almost bursting with pride, chins thrust forwards as they looked my way. Their unwavering gaze seemed to me to say, "Yes. You suppose correctly. I am indeed a doctor." With one or two of them, I felt their gaze flick over me, taking in my jeans and T-shirt, and I felt them dismiss me as of being of no importance. I was taken aback, to say the least.

Maybe I was reading their body language incorrectly. I don't think so, though. I doubt my instincts were wrong, because I have insider information. I remember when I, too, was new to doctoring, and I know I was hugely, incredibly, swollen-headedly proud.

For me, it wasn't ever that I thought I was the keeper of any sort of vital knowledge. I knew damn well that I was hopelessly ill-equipped for my new role; relying every day on kind nurses and older doctors to prevent me from harming or killing my patients. I wasn't arrogant or cocky. I was proud, though. I felt like I'd taken a leap up the social scale. No longer was I a shabbily-dressed student who no-one bothered to glance at, much less look up to - suddenly I was a respected member of society. I'll admit that I enjoyed feeling important. I liked to stride the corridors in my new tailored pants and blouses, knowing that people walking by could tell I was a doctor. Gad! I was such a jerk! And so are these hallway-stalking interns I witnessed today.

The longer you work as a doctor, the less proud you feel, or at least that's how it's been for me. You realise that you'll never know everything about anything. You realise that being a doctor is nothing magical - it's just a job like any other job. You meet patients from all walks of life; you admire people most of all for their goodness, or their humour, or their bravery. You experience some of life's joys and life's sadnesses yourself. You grow up because you finally have a job like everyone else. You realise that some clever people are incredibly stupid, and that many 'non-academics' are extremely smart. You begin to understand that a person's inherent worth is nothing to do with their place on the social scale, or their education level, or their occupation.

You also learn to respect people, and that's different altogether from simply 'being nice'. I winced as a ponytailed female intern came bobbing up to the woman opposite my grandfather.

"Hi, Gwendolyn!", she squealed in her girlish voice, as she touched the arm of the grey-haired octogenarian. (Gwendolyn??? Not Mrs So-And-So? C'mon, she's not your pal, she's your patient. Show some respect, Ponygirl!) Ponygirl asked the woman to bend her arm up.

"Good girl!", enthused Ponygirl. "You're doing so well!" Ponygirl bounced away, looking mightily pleased with herself. I had to fight my overwhelming desire to go to her and to pull her into a quiet corner. I wanted to tell her that her positivity was admirable, and that I'm sure her intentions were nothing but kind, but that she must never, ever call a grown woman 'girl' again.

Mrs So-And-So looked across to me from her recliner chair and rolled her eyes, smiling.

I sat with Grandpa as the rain came across in blustery sheets, gusting over rooftops. As we looked out, Grandpa spoke of his wish to reach 100 years old. He says he's never done anything 'remarkable' in his life, and that reaching a century old would be a real achievement. I held his calloused hand - calloused still, after a lifetime of hard work - and told him that his legacy would be not his age at death, but his shining example of honesty, honour and unconditional love.

I forgot the strutting interns; their pride seemed silly, yet understandable and forgivable. They are only young.

I sat beside a man devoid of pride; a humble man who is frail and old, but who is nothing short of remarkable.

being 'bleah'

2008-02-07T20:49:00.000+10:00

I haven't wanted to post, because as some wise person once said - If you haven't got anything nice to say, don't say anything at all. But after keeping quiet for several days now, nothing has changed. I decided to write. Sometimes writing helps.

It's not that I'm snippish, or bad-tempered, or ferocious, like the lion-fighter of my dream. I'm just a bit lacklustre. (Don't you love that word? Let me say it again ..... lacklustre)

I suspect I am grieving a little for my children's babyhoods ..... which I'm perfectly aware is silly and ungrateful, not to mention tedious for you to read about (again!). It's ridiculous to feel maudlin when your children are growing and thriving and happy. It's just that I am sensing the beginning of their breaking away from me, and I'm sad. I wonder how mothers the world over deal with this? How do we each carry these babies in our bodies, feed them from our breasts, hold them, comfort them, sing to them, walk with them, swim with them and throw balls with them....... and then watch as they roll their eyes at us, refuse offers to spend time together and push us away impatiently if we hug them too long? How do we go from skin-close to a respectful distance?

Maybe the answer is - gradually. Slowly. With a few tears, and with consolation and understanding from partners and friends and other mothers. With the knowledge that we have done well to raise children who are independent and resilient.

And, I hope, with the occasional quick tight hug from a growing-up child who still loves their mother much more than they show.

fierce creatures

2008-01-29T06:46:00.000+10:00

The lion padded swiftly towards us. I tried to move away steadily, without running. I herded the children in front of me, urging them on with low, insistent words. My daughter was in front and reached the door of the hut first. She darted inside, and I reached for Ben's hand to pull him inside, too.

The lion snarled and pounced. He seized my son betweeen his jaws; caught my son by the back of the neck as if Ben was an errant lion cub. The beast lifted my son in the air and I watched with a sense of hopelessness, and with a feeling of unbearable loss. In that moment, I felt a chasm of grief open up and I peered down into its depths with mounting horror.

And then I attacked the lion. I yelled, I howled, my rage knew no bounds. I grabbed my son with one arm, and began punching the lion's chest with my free hand. Sounds of such great fury came from my mouth that even I was astonished. There was a brief tug-of-war, and then all at once it was over. The lion released my son, and gave its head a shake, almost as if in disgust. The lion looked at me for a moment. His eyes seemed to convey that he could have taken my son; that this victory was only mine because he'd chosen to allow it.

***********************************************************************************
This was my dream, the night before Ben starts school (today). Do you think I might be feeling a wee bit protective of him?!!

a new era

2008-01-22T16:37:00.000+10:00

He's going to school. My baby, my youngest child, my chubby, ever-questioning, dimple-smiled Ben is starting school next week. In his over-large shirt and his shorts almost reaching his ankles, he looks too small to be a schoolboy. He's five, though, and he's ready to fly the coop.

My friend Heather consoled me, "He's going to be fine. He'll love school!"

"I know!", I retorted mock-tetchily. "I'm not worried about him! It's ME who's upset .... don't you realise it's all about ME?!"

Ah, yes, of course," she replied, smiling. "How silly of me. Of course it's all about you."

I pouted dramatically for a moment, then laughed. Because I know it's pure selfishness to be sad about something that will be thrilling and interesting and challenging for my son. School will mean a growing sense of independence for him. He will learn to feel confident with all different types of people. Ben will learn to read and write, and the magical world of books and communication will open up to him. He will hear differing opinions, and begin to evaluate situations himself. It will be the start of his boyhood.

For me, it is a chapter of my life coming to a close. No longer will I be a mother of pre-schoolers; no more will I compare notes with my friends about the drudgery and delights of staying home with small children. I will be working another day as a GP. On my two days at home, I will go about the housework, and grocery shopping without interruption..... and although that probably seemed like bliss when the children were babies, the idea now strikes me as faintly sad.

Others who have gone through this same change of role assure me that within days I will be whooping with joy as I whizz about, unencumbered. They're probably right. I've always enjoyed my own company, and I have plenty of projects - both pleasurable and tedious - to occupy me. It's not that I need the company of a child in my day. It's just that I'll miss it.

So goodbye little Benjamin and hello there, schoolboy Ben! I'm sure your days will be filled with fun, in new and varied ways. I really am excited, and proud, and happy for you to be starting school next week.

I just might need a tissue when I get back to the car.

awake

2008-01-19T04:26:00.000+10:00

I used to be a Sleep Princess. I could only sleep if lying down in a bed, preferably my own. If there was the slightest noise, I had trouble dropping off. Any discomfort rendered me an insomniac. My husband Fatty joked about checking under the mattress for peas.

And then I had children. Since that fateful day, I have found that nothing much deters me from sleep. I become dimly aware of Fatty snoring at 100 decibels, and I turn over and fall back to sleep. I slumber peacefully through storms. Just like 'normal people', I now may drift off whilst sitting upright, watching a movie. My children wear me out, and now I can sleep.

Except that it is 4am right now (or it was when I gave up on sleep after an hour of tossing and turning) and here I am sitting at the kitchen table. I have a wry neck. Not such a big deal. But I am remembering what it is like to be awake through the night, and how isolating it is, and how I used to not like it!

When I worked nights, I hated the feeling of driving in to work to start a 10pm shift. I experienced a terrible sort of jealousy towards all those who were just about to crawl sleepily into bed. Dreading what cases might come in to the emergency department overnight, often having slept fitfully during the day, I wanted desperately to flop into bed, too. I remember driving to the hospital feeling so alone, with a knot in the centre of my belly.

Other times I lay awake the night before an exam, or after a big spat with a boyfriend. Once I was awake most of the night after having a root canal done the day before. Yet I realise I have nothing to complain about, because these are all fairly isolated incidents, like tonight...or should I say today?! Some people struggle terribly with insomnia. Even the simple process of getting older causes a change in sleep patterns such that people in their 60's or 70's begin to sleep in 2 or 3 blocks of slumber, with periods in between where they are wide awake.

A friend of mine who has fought depression and come through it says the worst thing about her illness was the insomnia. I remember her despair at not being able to get to sleep, and she described her terror each time she woke after only a couple of hours' sleep. She was desperately trying to function on a few snatched hours here and there, and the tiredness and loneliness from being awake all through the night just floored her.

It's good to put one night of poor sleep into perspective. And now that the birds are beginning to chirp, and the panadol is starting to kick in, I may just head back to bed. If there are any peas under the mattress, I'll eat them.

Good night, good morning or good day, depending. I wish you a good night's sleep tonight, wherever you are!

dancing around an elephant

2008-01-15T07:11:00.000+10:00

One of my patients is dying. Perhaps I should clarify that - given that we all are, in essence, heading for that final curtain. One of my patients is dying, and will die soon.

I still find it disturbing and unsettling, no matter how many times I attend someone in their last months, weeks and days. Dying is such an unknown, and so brutally complete. There can be no encores - at least not in this world. I wonder how the person feels, and if they are afraid. I wonder if they wish they were well enough for just one more stroll along the sand, just one more lazy afternoon devouring a thick novel, just one more animated, wine-fuelled, late-night debate with family or friends.

I'm not sure whether it is coincidental, but my last two terminally-ill patients have seemed, to me, quite withdrawn and distant. Almost emotionless. I asked each lady how they were feeling, mood-wise. Each replied calmly that they had 'come to terms' with their situation. Yet, to me, it felt like more than 'coming to terms' - to me it seemed more like a slow 'checking out'. We discussed their wishes for their last days of life as if we were discussing a grocery list.

It was in this strange atmosphere of disconnected emotions that I visited 'Mrs E' yesterday. She lives alone in a small retirement village unit. She was sitting patiently and uncomfortably on a seat near the front door. Her arms & legs have wasted even more since I saw her last week. Her eyes and skin are turning a delicate lemon yellow. And when I felt her abdomen.... suffice it to say the distortion of her internal organs filled me with horror at the time, and brings tears to my eyes to recall it now.

We sat and talked about her discomforts, and made plans to relieve her symptoms as best we could. Arrangements for assistance in home and personal care were confirmed. I lightly stroked her swollen feet as we discussed the fluid retention - not because it would help, but because I wondered if anyone ever touches her poor puffy feet. Mrs E earnestly discussed a new medication, and mentioned troubles with her phone. And the enormous elephant, the subject of Mrs E's impending death, stood in the centre of the room. We both leaned to look around the elephant and continued to discuss nursing visits.

I know there is a cycle of life and death. I know that Mrs E is an elderly lady, and that this is the inevitable conclusion to her life. I know that she is wiser than I am, and I do believe she is accepting of the fact that she will not live to see winter. And yet her bony arms make me want to weep.

old flames, and love in the kitchen

2008-01-07T21:54:00.000+10:00

I've been away. Quite possibly this fact has gone unnoticed by all, but nevertheless - I've been away!

While away I spoke on the phone to my friend C. W. Woo. He had news of a fellow I dated for a few years. This Fellow I Dated (who from now on shall be referred to as 'FID') and I were only young at the time, but we were quite serious for awhile there. FID and I were youthfully, naively certain we were in love. In truth I think we were mostly in love with the concept of having a steady girlfriend/boyfriend. In any case, that was a long time ago (17 years, to be precise). We grew apart, we broke up, and although I have some fond memories, I also have plenty of memories to remind me how unsuited FID and I were to each other.

FID is now a politician. He is a member of parliament in another state. He is, in fact, a Minister for Rhubarb and Codswallop (can't get too specific here, for fear he, or someone he knows, discovers this blog!). He is married, with children. I have spoken to him a handful of times since we split up - always on friendly terms, but never with much sense of connection. We have taken different pathways in life; we have differing priorities.

Not so long ago, FID telephoned me at work, wanting to meet for coffee. He was in my city for an important meeting. He sounded lonely and wistful. He wanted to meet that day, despite the fact that I was at work. He seemed strangely unable to grasp the fact that I couldn't simply drop everything and come to see him. "Don't you have have any spare appointment times?", he queried persistently. "I'm meeting Neil & Ruth for dinner, then I have to fly home tomorrow".

I politely explained that I was fully booked, and had appointments scheduled all day. I suggested that maybe next time he was going to be in town, he could let me know in advance!

"Oh, right", he sighed. He seemed to grasp about listlessly for conversation. "So, you're working as a GP then?".

"Yes. I work two days a week", I explained. "It's good. I really enjoy it".

"So...... are you going to specialise?", FID asked.

I felt a rising irritation. Why do so many people assume that GPs are failed specialists? It's insulting, especially to those of us who thought long and hard before choosing general practice as our life's vocation, and to those of us who have done the post-graduate degree in general practice.

I took a deep breath. "No, " I replied patiently. "I like working as a GP. I don't want to look at eyes all day, or hearts, or skin. I like seeing whole families; I like trying to figure out what is wrong with patients of all ages, from all walks of life." Inwardly, I wondered if the question he'd asked was entirely innocent. After all, I have been working as a GP for more than ten years. If I was planning on specialising, surely I would have done so by now. Perhaps FID felt I should have done something more spectacular with my life, like, say, become a renowned brain surgeon, or maybe a Nobel-prize-winning physicist, or ...... a Minister for Something Important?

"Oh, right", FID murmured, disinterested. We talked a few more minutes, and then I had to excuse myself to call my next patient.

That night I told my husband Fatty of the conversation. We marvelled at the social ineptitude of this 'politician', this 'man of the people'. Because although I believe FID to be a good man, with honourable intentions and strong principles, I don't think he is man who truly likes people in a general sense. I think he likes some select people, but I don't get a sense of him caring about we Australians, all us 'great unwashed'. It seems he respects high achievers more than people in general. And if his words to me that day were any indication, he doesn't always stop to consider how his comments may affect others.

I'm not sure where I'm going with this. I'm not really annoyed with FID anymore. The more I think about it the more I feel a bit sorry for him. Our mutual friend tells me FID has no friends to speak of. He hinted that all was not well in FID's marriage. And all FID talks about is his next step up the political ladder.

Once FID told me that the worst thing about being a polititian was having to listen to his constituents talk, whilst pretending to be interested in them. If only he knew how that remark made me cringe. I pictured all those men and women, earnestly expressing their hopes and fears, with FID nodding seriously, as he inwardly wondered whether to have a pie or a smoked salmon bagel for lunch.

My husband doesn't address auditoriums full of people, he doesn't wear snazzy suits, he barely manages to get a haircut 4 times a year. He does not grace the pages of the newspaper and he's uncomfortable at parties. Yet he's kind and respectful to all, and never hints that I am anything less than what he's always dreamed of. He is the kind of man I imagined loving. And, here he is, right now, in our kitchen, loading the dishwasher. I need to go kiss him this minute.....

Boxing Day bumbling 'bout

2007-12-27T08:03:00.000+10:00

Christmas Day has come and gone, and in its wake left wrapping paper, half-naked Barbies, scattered Lego, wilting salads, and tired but happy children.

Boxing Day we spent with family up at Mum's farm, reading multiple sets of instructions. There were instructions for tamagotchis (given to the kids by my sister), and instructions for a game called Hyperdash (given by my mother). We puzzled over how to set up a magician's kit, a science project set and a remote-controlled car. We sat around talking silly talk, eating lychees and rumballs, and then went walking, looking for koalas (from left to right - my sister, Benjamin, me holding hand of unseen niece, and Laura).

This big sleepy-looking guy was more than happy to pose for photos.

This year, I wanted to get through the celebrations without getting frustrated with any relatives. Christmas doesn't feel very loving when you're mentally berating a loved one in your mind! I prepared myself beforehand, reminding myself that we are all different people, with different ways of thinking and living - none of them 'right' or 'wrong'. And miracle of miracles, I enjoyed myself, and enjoyed being with everyone else, and I don't think I drove anyone else nuts either (that I noticed!). Of course, there was the moment when my husband and brother got a bit tetchy with each other, but that's not anything to do with me!

Even if Aunt Sal made a snarky comment about your weight, or the fruitcake you'd slaved over turned out dry; even if you got a little snippy with your mother or yelled at your kids; even if there was sadness or sickness to face - I hope you all had some truly happy moments over Christmas.

Seasons Greetings my friends.

yuletide blues and gratitude

2007-12-13T19:43:00.000+10:00

"I sort of feel disconnected from everyone", Belly said softly. "Everyone's just so busy - I don't get time to talk to anyone."

Another friend wrote a blog post about feeling lonely in her own home, surrounded by kids and husband, despite the rapidly approaching festive season. 'It shouldn't be like this', she seemed to be saying.

I'm also feeling a little pensive. Belly was right - we get so busy attending Christmas functions (during which we buzz here and there, talk to this person and that, but rarely touch on anything more than the superficial) that we get stressed and harangued and lose the closeness to loved ones that we all so desire. We find ourselves sitting on the back deck with our beagles (or labradors, or Great Danes, or whatever!)

I always tell my patients that Christmas is never a good time to stop their anti-depressants. It's just too much. Too much family bickering, too many parties to attend and meals to cook, too much brandy eggnog, too many gifts to buy in crowded shopping malls, too many hours spent together in close proximity. We all adore the idea of Christmas .... it just doesn't always live up to expectations.

So if we aforementioned women - all women who have families who love us, challenging professions, plenty of food, safe homes, decent clothing, and good health - if we privileged and fortunate women feel inexplicably bereft with the approach of Christmas, then how do less fortunate women or men feel? How does it feel when your child asks for a remote-controlled jeep and you know the budget will only stretch to a supermarket Matchbox car? How does it feel to know the only Christmas dinner you'll be eating is baked beans on toast? How does it feel to know that your alcoholism/drug habit/mental illness has driven away everyone you ever loved, including your own family?

I don't know how it feels. I can only try to comprehend. I can try to comprehend, and then I can shake myself a little and put a minor mood swing into perspective. Because even if Christmas can become hurried and hassled, the goodness and giving is in there somewhere to be found. I'm going to sit and write some heartfelt Christmas cards tonight. I'm going to squeezehug my husband when he gets home from playing squash. And next week, Belly and I have a date for coffee, dessert and girl talk. Christmas is going to be flawed yet fabulous this year!

To all of you who take the time to read and to comment here - to leave witty, inspiring, empathetic or just plain silly comments on my blog .... thank you. Your support and friendship to me is one of the most truly Christmas-y things there is! And if any of you have been struck with a touch of the Yuletide Blues - fear not; you are not alone. I propose we all drink some spiced cider, hold hands in a circle (swaying a little from the cider), and sing "Auld Lang Syne" kind of off-key but spiritedly.

You are some of the most funny, interesting and kind people I have met. I am grateful to 'know' you.

good dog

2007-12-09T21:35:00.000+10:00

Now that she's middle-aged, bordering on elderly, my beagle is sweeter to me and nastier to others. She reminds me of those eccentric older women, who get softer and more generous with their children and grandchildren, but increasingly cantankerous and demanding with the rest of the world.

Rather like a human, Millie was all for cuddles and snuggling as an wee thing. She would lie on my lap for hours; she would follow me around. She loved pats from anyone, and would wag her skinny little tail in delight. But soon enough she became irritated by affection. She would wiggle away from pats and hugs - off to follow a likely scent. I would find her and come sit with her, only to have her spring up and run away. I jokingly described my dog as a cat to anyone who would listen (and apologies here to all cat-lovers, because I know that many cats are in fact affectionate!)

As time has passed, though, Millie has become both more loving and more snarly. She would let me rub her tummy until well into the next century. She would taste a small morsel of anyone who stuck their hopeful patting hand through our front fence.

I sat, just now, at the top of our back steps. Millie sat beside me, and leant into my side. I patted her tan fur, and scratched just behind her ears. Millie lifted her muzzle and turned towards my fingernails. I rested my chin lightly on her soft small head; "Good girl Millie", I crooned. I sat by my beagle dog in the dense and balmy evening air until mosquitoes began to bite me.

I reluctantly came inside. I sat down to write about the comfort of a warm dog, leaning.

tinned sardines

2007-12-07T06:38:00.000+10:00

Sometimes I forget how odd we humans can be. I fail to see the strangeness of a situation, because it has become so familiar.

Last night I was washing my face in the bathroom when I heard beside me a low, restrained cough. It wasn't an intruder. It was our neighbour Keith, whose master bedroom is a mere four metres from our bathroom.

All at once, I felt the sheer ridiculousness of urban living wash over me. I felt almost sheepish, thinking about my home. It struck me as fantastically bizarre that, with all the space on Earth, I have chosen to live in a wooden box, next to hundreds of other wooden boxes, in the middle of a veritable ocean of wooden and brick boxes. I live so close to the nearest house that I can hear my neighbour cough quietly in his bed. It's ludicrous.

I understand why, from a practical point of view, we humans have tended to congregate together. Now that we no longer till the soil and raise livestock to be self-sustaining, most of us need to live near other humans for employment. And with people grouped together comes the infrastructure we have come to rely on, such as roads, power and water. In cities and towns we find schools, law enforcement, welfare agencies, hospitals and many other important services. I also know that to own more than a standard block of land in the city costs a great deal - both in purchase price, and in annual rates. The larger city blocks have steadily been subdivided, until we are all living on tiny pieces of land, our houses teetering precariously close to each other. We live our lives scrunched closely together, witnessing each others' lives whether we like it or not.

I actually don't mind living near other people. I find people generally quite interesting, and I like our neighbours. I love living four streets away from my dear friend Belly. It's good to be close to shops and schools. And when I want some open space, I can retreat to Mum's sweeping acres of countryside.

I still find it strange to consider the closeness of city dwelling. Last night I could have piped up and offered Keith a cough lozenge.

I reckon I could have even chucked it in through his window.

*****************************************************************
N.B. - I suspect 'chucked' may be an Australian slang word, so for those non-Aussies - 'chucked' as we use it here means thrown or threw. For example:

"I got chucked out of class"

OR

"I am going to chuck it all in and run off with my gym instructor"

OR

"She got drunk and chucked up in the taxi"

OR (my personal favourite)

"If someone doesn't help me with this soon, I'm going to chuck a wobbly!!" (translation here - throw a tantrum)

As you can see, 'chuck' is a versatile and descriptive word. Try to use it at least once today!

Jelly

seven years ago

2007-12-02T21:00:00.000+10:00

When they laid her on my chest, all bloodied and limp, I felt concerned and protective. I prodded her gently, and said, "C'mon .... breathe, baby, breathe." I waited anxiously to hear her cry, but once she did, and the nurse had taken her to be wrapped, I felt not profound love, but relief.

After relief came fatigue, and giddy excitement, and pride, all intermingled. But within a day or so, no more, came love.

There came a love so all-consuming that it left me sobbing at the end of each day, because never before had I known a love so blistering. I was blindsided by emotion. Suddenly I knew that my life would never be free from fear again, even if I pushed my fear to the deepest recesses of my mind. I had a daughter. I knew I must protect her for years to come; I knew I would love her as long as I lived.

That baby has grown into a brown-eyed, pony-tailed, soft-hearted girl. She is different to her mother - she is more confident, less impatient, kinder - but she thinks like me. I understand my daughter in a way that bonds me to her, far beyond any genetic connections. I love her not only because I am duty-bound to, but because I see in her something recognisable and warm and familiar. Just as I am drawn to my oldest, closest friends, so it is with my daughter.

It has been seven years since this girl baby came into my life. Still I am blindsided.

Happy Birthday Laura. You are a wonder and a delight.

thank goodness for rhubarby friends

2007-11-22T21:24:00.000+10:00

I was around at Susan's blog the other day, and I loved the words of this poem she posted. The poem is all about being grateful for our many different types of friends. My favourite line was about being thankful .....

"For crotchety friends, sour as rhubarb and as indestructible"

I have a gal pal I have known since high school days, who is definitely one of the rhubarb friends. Not that she's nasty or always gloomy - just that she likes things the way she likes them, and she's not afraid to tell others precisely how.

If we plan to see a movie together, the options are quite limited. She only likes sweeping historical romances or quirky English comedies.

If we go out for the day, the schedule is entirely dictated by her stomach and its need for fuel every two hours.

She terrifies the younger nurses at work with her abrupt manner. KP once walked up to a nurse (who KP had heard had been scratched on the nose by a patient) and wordlessly began rubbing the more junior nurse's nose with an alco-wipe. The terrified younger nurse remained stock still, silently submitting to the nose-wiping, until another nurse came by and murmured, "Her elbow! Not her nose! The guy scratched her on the elbow!". KP told me this story with barely repressed glee - such was her delight in her ability to strike fear into the hearts of others.

When she orders a meal at a restaurant, she asks for so many ingredients to be removed that I'm sure the chef whips off his hat and stomps on it, out back. She has given me a list of foods she doesn't eat, for when we invite her family over. There are 19 or 20 items on the list.

My other friends think KP is fairly weird, and I know they wonder why I like her so much. Fatty calls her a 'crazy woman'. But I'll tell you why this woman is so dear to me.

She sends me cards for no reason.

She makes me snort laugh.

She cooks roasts and invites us all over (roast meat and certain veges are on the acceptable foods list!)

She asks me how I am, and actually wants to know.

She hates to kill anything, even spiders.

She bosses me into doing things I wouldn't have ever tried without her urging. (Not that learning to knit, wearing green or eating high tea are world-changing events, but they've been fun!)

She offers to give me a neck massage before I've given her one. She offers to mind my children. She brings lavish pavlovas when she visits. She lends me books she thinks I might like. She nurtures me like no other friend does, my sweet/sour rhubarby KP.

So charge your glasses please, for a toast - to all those pernickety, feisty, difficult yet spectacular friends......

and to KP!

in my dreams last night....

2007-11-20T08:10:00.000+10:00

I was a tobacco lawyer. My job was purely to defend cigarette manufacturers against lawsuits. I was striding through the city streets, not ever reaching a destination. I came across an old school pal of high integrity, and she frowned and avoided my gaze. I was accompanied by my fat beagle dog on a leash. The dog snarled savagely at anyone who came within a few metres.

I was surfing the net, and came across a comment on another blog left by the delightful fifi. She signed off with her last name, which was filiaria (it has a certain ring to it, right? Fiona Filiaria?). I was thrilled to discover fifi's full name, and decided to look her up in the phonebook when next I visited her city.

I was shopping, and came across an older couple who are both patients of mine in real life, in the car park. "Wait, Bessie!", I beseeched the lady. "I want to show you something beautiful I bought. I'll just go to my car and be right back." But instead of going to my car, I got distracted and went back into the shopping complex. Two hours later I emerged, to see the sweet older couple still sitting in their car, waiting. I bolted over, and breathlessly apologised, mortified and desperately sorry. Bessie calmly replied, "I am extremely angry with you. What you did was terrible." They drove off.

There were other dreams, too, but more jumbled and nonsensical and incomplete. I am a profuse dreamer, and can recall at least one dream from every night, often many more. Other people I know, like Fatty, say they rarely recall their dreams. What about you?

sinister

2007-11-18T21:31:00.000+10:00

It's unusual for me to be frightened. Not because I'm especially brave, but more because I'm not one for taking risks. There'll be no bungee jumping, paragliding or skydiving for this little black duck.

Calculated risk I'm comfortable with. At least - calculated risk where the risk is predetermined by myself to be very low. I'll happily fight an opponent at karate (knowing I'm wearing a chest guard, mitts, mouth guard and shin guards), I'll loop the loop on a rollercoaster (knowing that death by rollercoaster is not a common event), hell, I'll even occasionally NOT FLOSS. I am woman, hear me meow. This afternoon, though, I was genuinely afraid.

I was at the movies with Fatty, my husband. As he juggled drink, chips and tickets, I wafted off across the foyer to use the bathroom before the film began. Trudging ahead of me was a young man with scruffy hair. His jeans were so long that they trailed along the ground, obscuring all view of his shoes. He turned to look at me as I fell in behind him, both of us heading down the hallway to the toilets.

We came level with the women's facilities, and the man turned to look at me again, this time more of a stare than a look. I ducked my head and headed into the women's, noting with a feeling of disquiet that there was no main door - only a corridor that hooked around. Just before I disappeared from view, I glanced down the hall again. The long-jeaned youth was standing just outside the men's room, his eyes accusatory and suspicious, pinning me with a glare of pure malice. It was evident to me at this moment that the guy was not well.

The women's toilets were empty. For some reason, despite my unease, I went ahead and entered a cubicle. I was listening all the while for the sound of footsteps, knowing that if this mentally-ill man tried to harm me, there would be no-one to hear me yell. I was across a carpeted foyer, along a hallway and around a corner from my husband. This knowledge did nothing to calm me.

I was out of the cubicle in record time, washed my hands nervously and sped back to Fatty. I told him the story as we walked to our movie. I explained how threatened I had felt. I had to force myself not to twist around when, in the almost deserted movie theatre, someone came and sat in the seat just behind me. Fatty replied airily, "Well, really, you could be killed in lots of places." Thank you, my sweet.

So all's well that ends well (as they say), and I was not stabbed to death by a psychopath. It's all good. I'm happy. I presume my family are happy to still have me around. It's bound to be a relief for the cinema cleaners, too. But if I should fail to post for more than a week, you'll know what's happened.

I'll be in a psychiatric ward on account of my persistent delusion that someone is trying to kill me in a public toilet.

heart and soul

2007-11-13T16:38:00.000+10:00

I know I wrote a morbid-sounding poem last week, but I haven't fallen into a pit of despair. It was a bad case of Mondayitis, with a bad little haiku to mark the occasion. (Thank you, though, for the supportive comments and bloglove you sent me! I took a great deal of comfort from them all)

Although I'm not sad, I have been feeling very emotional. I've been gazing at the tiny freckles on Laura's nose, with sheer adoration. I've been thinking of my younger brother and sister, and how I love them more than they may ever know. Benjamin's cheeky attempts to boss me around have made me grin, and tell him, "Good try!", while we both fall about laughing. Tears run down my face when I watch news items about tragedy and loss. Every emotion seems intensified just now, but it's not unpleasant. It's like my world is programmed for high definition.

In a music store today, I listened to the album recently released by the Choir of Hard Knocks - an Australian choir comprised of homeless and disadvantaged people. Many of the choir members struggle with addictions to alcohol and other drugs; many have mental health problems. I had seen programs about this choir in which I heard them sing, and have read articles about the group. Yet despite this, I found myself listening today, transfixed, with goosebumps rising all over my arms. The music wasn't technically perfect, but it was sung with such intensity. And when the soprano soloist's voice rang out, the notes were so true and clear and unadorned that my throat went tight with the beauty of it.

I know the world can be a nasty, scary, awful place. Things happen that are sickening, sad and soul-destroying. And yet ............ flawed though we may be, we as people also have the most incredible capacity to bring joy into each others' lives. It doesn't take much to make another person feel cared for, feel loved, feel noticed. A wave, a brief conversation, a smile of commiseration, or lending a hand for a moment - these small acts become amplified, like ripples on a pond, radiating outwards and spreading happiness to all those around.

The future can be brighter, because we all can be kinder to each other. We may show kindness towards our own family and friends (well, for the most part!), but what about the mother who no-one ever talks to at school pick-up, or the cashier who looks exhausted, or the elderly man who looks unsure of his bearings on the street? There are so many opportunities for us each to make a difference. I'm trying to remember this.

It seems to me that life can get so busy, it is easy to race along in the current, never stopping to consider where we are actually going, or even to notice about what we are doing, day by day. So I relish these days of high emotion. Because what could be worse than not feeling anymore? What could be worse than ceasing to weep at sadness, ceasing to hoot with laughter, and ceasing to tingle at every nerve-end at the sound of voices sung from heart and soul?

Thoughts on a Monday Morning

2007-11-05T06:21:00.000+10:00

Monday

Monday sidles in
Makes snide remarks and sniggers
Hopes to see me weep

Giant Bug

2007-11-03T07:04:00.000+10:00

Children take time to notice their surroundings, and mine are no exception. I can't count the number of amazing sights I've seen because my of my childrens' powers of observation.

Benjamin wandered out onto our back deck earlier this week, only to come shrieking back, exclaiming, "Mum, Mum! You have got to see this!". I lugged myself up and away from my coffee and paper, and was rewarded with the sight of this huge Titan stick insect.

As fast as you could say 'enormous bug', Fatty had a wildlife book out, and we identified the insect. Although the blurb says the insect is around 25cm, our Titan stick insect measured 36 cm when I held the ruler directly next to him. We grow 'em big on our back deck!

As the Titan stick insect is the biggest insect in Australia, and as OURS (well, OK, the one on our back deck) was sooooo long, I informed the kids this morning that we may well have been visited by the longest insect in our entire continent. "Really?", Laura enquired in hushed tones.

"Really", I replied, smiling - glad that it's a Saturday, glad that such a small thing can enthrall our whole family, and thankful above all for children - the most astonishing creatures of all.

in which I record my dumbass tendencies for posterity

2007-10-26T19:33:00.000+10:00

I never claimed to be clever. My dear friend Mr Woo doesn't call me Jellyhead for nothin'. It's just that sometimes I go months without doing something majorly stupid, and I convince myself I'm just middle-of-the road silly.

I went to the shops today on an present-buying errand. Gift purchased, I left the shopping mall to go fetch my daughter from school. I headed for where I recalled having parked my car. No car.

After wandering that parking level for awhile, I decided to try the next level up. Feeling a lot like Jerry Seinfeld, except without any friends, I strode anxiously around the top car park. No car. I began to feel panicky. Time was ticking away, and even if I found the car immediately, I was going to be late to collect Laura. I tried phoning the mobile of another school mother, to see if she could help. No answer.

Now sweating in the heat, and with tears prickling at the corners of my eyes, I headed down to a lower level. Except, in my haste, I went down three levels, effectively skipping the actual car park where my abandoned car lay waiting. Half running, I scanned the basement car park as I jogged. No car. By now the tears were leaking out my eyes and running down my cheeks. I finally came to my senses and phoned my best friend, Belly, who lives not far from Laura's school. Belly promised to go meet my daughter, and to let her know that she wasn't forgotten - that she merely has a hare-brained mother.

With shaking voice and tear-stained face, I stopped an elegantly-dressed woman to ask her if she knew where there was a taxi rank. Kindly, and without further questioning, the lady explained how to find a cab. Running now through the shopping centre, I ignored the heads turning my way and prayed that none of these spectators were patients of mine. If any were, they probably wouldn't be for long. I wasn't a sight to inspire confidence - professional or otherwise.
It's a worry when your doctor can't find their own car, cries about it, and then runs erratically through a public place.

I found the cab rank. There were seven people waiting ahead of me. With quavery voice, I asked the elderly couple in front of me if they minded if I jumped ahead of them in the queue. The husband calmly suggested I take the same cab as they did - after all, they were going to the same suburb. I gave up on my queue-jumping plan, and stood meekly next to the very short old couple. I hoped fervently that Belly had managed to wrangle her two small children into the car, find the school gate, find a park, and meet my daughter before she became upset.

A taxi-driver leapt out of the next taxi, and spoke with the passengers ahead of me. The waiting crowd frowned, and the driver spoke with the old couple ahead of me. The small, round old man turned around. "He says he's not going to take passengers for any long distance trips," the old man informed me. "These others want the airport. You go with him".

With grateful thanks, I leapt into the cab, and we drove to Laura's school. My daughter stood chatting happily with Belly and Belly's daughters. I burst into fresh tears, before quickly controlling myself again. Laura looked puzzled. She tells me she's only ever seen me cry once before. She told me she'd been 'not one bit' worried when she'd had to wait back with the 'uncollected' children. "I knew you'd come, Mum", she soothed.

I thanked Belly for saving the day. Fatty came home and we drove to the car park. We found the car. We came back home at last. I apologised profusely. And Fatty neither laughed nor grumbled, but instead went and picked up pizza for dinner. The man's a keeper.

As you can tell, I'm feeling embarrassed and dopey. So if you have any stories you'd like to share involving lost cars, crying for no good reason or neglecting to care for your offspring properly...... this is the place to do it. Ready, steady, go!

longing

2007-10-17T12:34:00.000+10:00

It seems to me that the wanting of something can become an entity all its own - that even when we no longer desire a certain object, a hoped-for-outcome, a special person - that the yearning itself lives and breathes still.

As a schoolgirl of fourteen, I had a silly crush on a dark-haired boy in my music class. He seemed to be universally liked, he was handsome, he was friendly yet somehow maintained a slight reserve. I was angular, pale and had a tendency to blush. I had plenty of friends, but wasn't wildly popular. I was desperate to be noticed, hoping fervently to be adored.

The boy was nice enough to me, but never showed any interest beyond friendship. I don't blame him in the least - I was so insecure, so hopelessly romantic, so doey. I think back to how I gazed at the boy adoringly, and it induces waves of nausea.

After a couple of years of being politely dismissed, I stopped the gazing. I still thought the boy was a decent guy, I still thought he was cute, but I didn't pine for him any more. I developed some self-esteem, and I realised there were other boys who actually did think I was attractive. I dated a couple of guys. The boy was just another school pal. One day I saw him on campus at my university. He had grown a beard, and I teasingly told him he looked like a terrorist. There was nothing left of my past hankerings for the boy.

And yet....... at least once a year, I dream about this boy. I dream that I am young and fresh-faced and a single girl. I dream that we are talking. Sometimes I dream that the boy says he wants to be with me; mostly I dream he tells me he feels nothing for me. I am overjoyed, or wretched with sadness. I wake from the dreams and shake my head in disbelief. I haven't seen this boy, now a man, in years. I rarely think of him in my waking hours. I am married to a man who I respect, admire and love passionately. It seems ridiculous that my mind would return to this 'boy' who is of so little consequence in my life. I can only surmise that my dreams of the boy recur because he represents my first experience with longing. The boy means nothing, but the yearning he invoked goes on and on.

In just over a week, I'll be attending my school reunion. The 'boy' will most likely be attending. I am somewhat ambivalent about the possibility of his presence. After all, I spent the final two years of high school being underwhelmed by him. But I cannot deny a degree of curiosity. I wonder what he'll act like, look like, be like.

Mostly I wonder if seeing this relic from my past will flush away these dreams of inadequacy and rejection, and the rarer dreams of mutual puppy love. It's a waste of brain space to dwell on this rubbish - even if it is during sleep!

Maybe the dreams will disappear like so many strands of old spiderweb. But maybe they won't. Maybe my secret heart will keep on longing aimlessly - like the long-ago girl who wished for love but believed herself unworthy of it.

flora and fauna

2007-10-14T07:58:00.000+10:00

I'd never visited the South-West of Australia before, and I savoured the sights everywhere we went. Here are a few photos to entice would-be visitors, to bring back memories for previous visitors, and to allow others to live vicariously
This was a treetop walk in Walpole, where you can stroll along (or wheel yourself along - the walk is wheelchair friendly) 40 metres above the ground. Talk about having a bird's eye view!

This peacock boldly waltzed through the beachside cafe, unperturbed by the attention he received.

Flowers in the wildflower section of Kings Park, Perth.

A quokka, sitting pretty. These small hopping marsupials are found only in Western Australia, and mainly on Rottnest Island.

A red tingle tree, showing the staining patterns that make these trees so eye-catching.

Laura, feeding a Western Rosella with wild birdseed given to her by another tourist.

Happy Weekend to all!

making believe

2007-10-10T21:47:00.000+10:00

My kids are reassuringly kid-like. They do all the things I've seen and heard other children doing. They giggle, they wail, they butt heads (literally) and they hug each other. They charge from one end of the house to the other, leaving a trail of toys strewn in their wake. They tell me I'm beautiful and they tell me I'm mean. They make up imaginary friends. They come up with words that have meanings known only to them. So I don't know why I should find their latest carryings on so intriguing, but I just do. Maybe it's because I wish I was half as creative as they are.

When I write, I write about my life, my patients' lives, my family and friends' lives. I write everything based on the truth (or at least my version of the truth!). The only creative part of the process is finding words and phrases to convey meaning, to build atmosphere, to tell a story. I haven't written a work of pure fiction since high school English class.

While on holidays, I realised I'd been hearing the kids using a certain funny name over & over. I quizzed them about this - 'Where did you hear that name? Is it someone from a movie? Did you see something about this on TV?'. The kids sounded miffed as they retorted that no, they had made up this title themselves. It started as a joke, they patiently explained, as if there was no chance of me ever having done anything similar.

It seems one day, Ben (or Laura - neither of them can recall who) put a hand down onto a coverlet in the rented unit, and found it felt a bit damp, slightly slippery. "Ewwww!", they squealed, "This bed's all greasy!"
The other child, beginning to giggle, sputtered hysterically, "Greasy Grandma's been there!"

And so it went on the entire holiday. At times of peak boredom (probably whenever Fatty and I declared it was Quiet Time, during which we were not to be disturbed from our reading and coffee drinking unless in the event of gushing haemorrhages or other such crises), a sudden cry would come from the children's bedroom.....

CHILD 1: "Stop! Don't sit down there!"

(unintelligible response from child two)

CHILD 1, now crowing in delight: "Greasy Grandma's been sitting on your bed!"

Why Greasy Grandma? I don't know. Neither of their grandmothers are remotely greasy! It makes no sense. Unless there really is a Greasy Grandma, who silently slides her way sinuously across sheets and quilts, coating them in a fine layer of oil, giving bedding that 'slept in' feeling that has us pulling linen off the mattress and heading for the laundry.

Has Greasy Grandma been to your place today? Better go check your beds.

it does a body good.....

2007-10-07T08:11:00.000+10:00

to see new and beautiful places.

But it does a body a whole world of good to come home, too. I missed you guys! I spent last night reading your blogs and thinking how much I have come to be fond of all of you. For instance I am sad that fifi is going away, and I won't have her bright and quirky posts to read while she's gone (though of course I do want you to have a wonderful time fifi!)

I discovered that my wicked friend Heather was trying to sell my soul to the highest bidder! You just can't tame those Texas wildcats. But seriously now -thank you Heather, for keeping the home fires burning and posting for me!

I also remembered something I discover every time I go away on holidays to escape my life:

I actually like my life. I like my home, I like my job. I love my family and I love my friends. I even love my goddamn dog.

Now. If only I loved washing dirty clothes as well.

power

2007-10-02T14:30:00.000+10:00

*Most of you who read Jellyhead's blog regularly can probably guess who I am. I came to play at Jelly's place while she is away on holiday guzzling wine and cavorting on the beach.*

My friend Jellyhead called me tonight. She's away on a two week vacation thus we've not been chatting almost daily as per our usual routine. I'm suffering greatly. I think she may need to take me with her on her next holiday. I'm just sayin'.

I told her, "I almost hacked into your blog to write a guest post but wasn't sure how you'd feel about it." She answered, "Aw, that'd be okay so long as you don't reveal anything about me." I giggled, "Girl, I am gonna tell alllllll your secrets."

Then she said, in that lovely Australian accent, "You DO know how much power you have, right? Knowing so much about me?"

I assured her that I'd never tell her secrets to the world*. After all, she knows my secrets too. I also let her know that I don't feel powerful -- only lucky to be her confidante.

But I've been thinking tonight about how right she is. In my opinion, learning to love and trust someone new is an act of unparalleled bravery. We have to screw up our courage in order to let ourselves be seen and known -- the good and the bad. We have to emotionally disrobe and stand naked and shivering before we can be wrapped in the warmth of friendship and love.

Jellyhead's right. We hand over immense power when we decide to love someone new. And then we have to pull the soft cloak of friendship tighter about us and pray that no one walks away with our heart.

*Those of you who really want to know some of Jellys's secrets can send me payment in the form of cash, check or money order.

(Just kidding, Jelly. )

(And, I MISS YOU!)

missing in action

2007-09-20T19:38:00.000+10:00

I'm not sure if I should say I've been missing in action, or missing in inaction. I've been a very slack blogger lately, neither commenting nor writing (though reading everything - always reading). I've been feeling worn down at work and at home, and migraines have been descending upon me like mean sprites, poking my tender brain with their knobbly fingers. I'm craving a holiday like some sort of vacation-junkie.

Today I sheepishly phoned a woman I'd consulted with last Saturday morning. It had occurred to me during the week that when I'd seen this polite and sweet lady (ironically, to assess her progress in managing her anxiety), I had been somewhat distracted (some would even say anxious). At the time I saw Tara, my appointment schedule was in disarray, with extended time spent dealing with a previous patient who admitted having attempted suicide that morning, and another before that who was having a crisis of a different nature. So here was Tara, seeking some reassurance and a listening ear. Yet there I was, thinking of the restless waiting room, and wishing Tara had come to me for just the anxiety management, rather than also with her children's test results to be looked at and a request for two more referrals. I wasn't focused, I wasn't listening well, my empathy had flown the coop and I didn't give Tara the kindness she deserved from her family doctor. So I phoned her today and admitted it. Told her I was sorry that I'd been distracted; admitted I'd been stressed but apologised that I should have put that stress to one side the minute she entered the room. Tara thanked me, but told me there was no need to be sorry. She told me I was only human. Which is true, but still. That seems like a handy excuse for just about anything.

A holiday would be good. My patients need a holiday from me, and I'd love to be in charge of nothing more than buying fish and chips.

But hey! What's this I see in my crystal ball, what is this blurry portent of my future? I see ..... my family, I see ..... a plane, and look! - there's a stretch of wild windy coastline not far from a major wine-growing region. It's a HOLIDAY !!!!

In two days, we leave for two weeks of R&R. I'll be unlikely to post while I'm away, but will try to find an internet cafe and check blogs now & then.

Take care of yourselves, everyone. Meggie and Heather, feel better soon. John, I'm sending you a big hug. Freefalling, I hope you are enjoying your blog-holiday, but hope you get back to blogging when you feel ready. T, you get a big, tight hug too. And a kiss on the cheek.

In a while crocodile :)

giving

2007-09-11T06:57:00.000+10:00

Somehow I was coerced into collecting for a major charity last week. When I say 'coerced', what really happened was that some quietly-spoken young woman phoned, and politely asked if I would door-knock in my street. In reality, I was held to ransom by my own conscience. This particular charity is a very deserving charity, and one which funds projects that benefit the health of millions of Australians. We're not talking a fund for visually-impaired seeing eye dogs or anything.

I set off, wearing the supplied badge that proclaimed me as a bonafide collector. I spoke to many friendly people who all disappeared back into their homes for some small change. Our neighbour in the big house next to us donated $10. Towards the end, I rang the bell at one of the fanciest houses in our street.

I should clarify that our street is an old street in this city. Although we aren't far from the city centre, this street was once part of a farm. Eventually, around the turn of the century, the farm was subdivided and the area was developed. There are many old houses - some renovated and lovely, and some in states of disrepair. There are also some more modern, but plain, houses. There are no architect-designed mansions. The most glamorous houses are some modern houses built to replicate the look of the older houses (I call them replicants), except they are twice the size with none of the character of the older homes.

I buzzed the doorbell at one of these flashy 'replicants'. A woman came to the door, and I explained the reason for my visit. She frowned and shook her head at me. "No, we're only donating to cancer at the moment", she replied.
"Sure, no worries", I reassured her.
"I mean, you can't give to everything, can you?", she persisted, a little tetchily.
"Yeah, that's fine, " I answered, "Thanks anyway".
I thought very little of what she'd said. I figured perhaps her family had recently given a large amount to cancer research. And what she said made some sense - I supposed she was right that you can't donate to every worthwhile cause.

But then I crossed the road to a small, derelict-looking home. The roof sagged. The yard was overgrown. As I passed a towel-covered deck chair on the front patio, there was an unmistakeable reek of urine. I surmised that an elderly person lived here - probably alone. It was evident that funds were tight. I considered not knocking at all, thinking it best not to bother this pensioner with requests for money they obviously didn't have to spare.

I decided that it would be patronising to make this decision myself. I decided to rap on the door and let the occupant decide about any donation.

A quavery voice called from the depths of the house - "Who is it?"

"It's Jellyhead, your neighbour from number 17, " I bellowed through the door. "I'm collecting for the National Heart Foundation".

"Hang on!" came the quavery voice, this time a little nearer. The door rattled as bolts were drawn back and the knob turned. The smell of cigarette smoke hit me almost before I glimpsed the wizened old lady. Her face was weary and folded with age, and her hair hung around her cheeks in clumps, like dreadlocks. Shadowing her face and hair was a black hood, giving her an extraordinary and very witch-like appearance.

The old lady smiled at me. "I'm sure I can find tuppence to give you", she remarked cheerily, shuffling off into the sooty darkness of her home. I stood at the door, amazed. I had expected to be turned away. Yet this ancient crone, who evidently had so little herself, was willing to donate to charity.

Returning with a twenty-cent piece, the old lady croaked, "It's not much, but here you go."

"Thank you!", I replied, meaning it with all my heart. "Just imagine if everyone gave twenty cents - how much money would be raised". (for our population - approximately 3.5 million dollars)

"Well, that's true!" the old lady cackled gaily.

We said goodbye, and I walked away across the acrid-smelling porch. My mind was racing, and my emotions were whirling and eddying. I felt that something profound had just happened with this cigarette-puffing, odd old lady.

Generosity is a small old woman on my street.

tales of a gym bunny

2007-09-07T21:18:00.000+10:00

You didn't know I was a gym bunny? Well, perhaps it's the term 'bunny' that you're struggling with. I mean, it's true I attend my local gym twice a week, almost without fail. But given the state of my thighs and the fact that my upper arms are beginning to wave in the breeze..... well, considering all this I might better be called a gym hag. But 'bunny' sounds much more cheery. So try to swallow your misgivings, and let me be the bunny. he he.

Today, this ageing bunny took herself to her usual boxing class at the gym. This gym class is renowned for being brutal. Our pumped-up instructor can do a handstand directly from a crouched position (go on - try it!), he makes us 'ski sit' against the wall for minutes on end, he makes us shuttle run, do sit-ups, run, do push ups, and run, and run and run. He is a tyrant. But he makes us all very fit.

Into this class of mostly thirty-to forty-something mothers wandered a petite, immaculate Eurasian-looking young woman in tight black lycra. I fiddled with my long loose sweatpants and straightened my T-shirt as I enviously eyed her neat hips and miniature thighs. This chick was not just slim, she was tiny. Tiny in a way I will never be unless I acquire some hideous wasting disease. On her delicate frame, though, her smallness was cute and appealing.

Ms Tiny took up a position off to my left, and began to punch the air, as we warmed up. I was gratified to see in my peripheral vision that she looked a bit awkward, a bit unco, as we Aussies say (unco=uncoordinated). Almost immediately, though, my cheer turned sour as I turned and caught a glimpse of her face up close. Dark eyes, button nose - overall disgustingly pretty. I am opposed to this kind of excess physical beauty on principle. I believe it encourages moral laxity in the afflicted individuals. Also, these people make me look bad.

I kept punching the air, wondering to myself if perhaps Ms Tiny might be really dumb or even better completely humorless. I comforted myself with the fact that she was unlikely to make carrot cake like I can.

The class continued as we punched in pairs. I was paired with Heidi, a warm and funny woman who smiles all the time, even when she's punching. When she really relaxes, she also makes sound effects as she punches, saying softly, 'Shhhww, shhhww', as she belts the mitts.

I was getting pretty tired by the time The Taskmaster instructed us to lie on our sides on the small platform at the front of the room, hips at the edge of the 'step', fingertips behind ears. 'Touch your elbow to the floor, come up, then down again.... keep going until you've done twenty side-crunches', he ordered.

Ms Tiny was positioned next to me again. 'Good', I thought to myself. 'She's bound to be bad at this. She's so scrawny, she'll have no power whatsoever'. But I was forgetting basic physics. Ms Tiny's muscles were a tad smaller than mine. But her torso also weighed about half as much as mine. Off she went, bobbing up and down interminably, while I sweated and grunted and thought about ways to kill Miniature Gym Bunnies.

Finally, I was finished - but of course Mini Gym Bunny had finished before me, and was sitting pertly nearby. I sat up, shaky..... lurched.... and knocked over Mini Gym Bunny.

What? What are you suggesting? It was an accident.

I can't help it if she's so puny that one bump from a slightly chubby knee sends her sprawling on the floor. Besides, she should know better than to show up her elders and ugliers.

Even though none of it was my fault, and frankly she deserved worse for daring to be so cute, Mini Gym Bunny was dismissive of my apologies. She frowned and refused to even meet my gaze. Anyone would think there was something awful about being bowled over by a jealous, sweaty, baggy-clothed (possibly smelly?) gym hag.

I can't see the problem myself.

behind the bedroom doors

2007-09-04T07:25:00.000+10:00

It's not all blood and guts and sweat and tears, being a doctor. In fact, as a family GP, there's very little blood, and never any guts whatsoever. (Sweat and tears there are plenty of - and that's just from me after a long day). One thing that my job does entail is an almost unparalled access to peoples' inner lives. I hear about drug experimentation, I know about past criminal convictions. I am told of abortions and illicit affairs. I hear all kinds of secrets, because people know their secrets are safe with me. Unless someone plans to harm themselves, or others, I cannot break confidentiality. My lips are sealed.

So when I find out all sorts of details about peoples' sex lives, I cannot help but be intrigued. I mean, there are not many jobs with such a direct line to these nitty gritty facts. People tell me things I wouldn't hear from my closest friends. I get to find out what's happening behind all those bedroom doors. Honestly, it's been an eye-opener.

About ten years ago, I was sitting talking to a suburban, married, 30-something woman about something unrelated, when she suddenly asked me how to use a device made for 'safe' female-to-female oral sex. I'm sure the whites of my eyes were showing as I tried to coolly describe the correct usage of this piece of protective plastic. Firstly, I really had no idea beyond the vaguest concept of how this gear should be used (but surely there are instructions on the packet?!). Secondly, my mind was racing as I thought in confusion, Hang on! Your husband comes to this practice, too. Does he know about this? Are you two going to be okay? As it happened, they weren't okay - they eventually divorced. And thinking back, I wonder if this lady made her query as a way of letting me know she was bisexual (or gay), to make me to realise that all was not as it seemed. (Either that, or she thought it would be hilarious to watch a nerdy young doctor stammer her way through an sex-related explanation!) I'm not sure what happened to this lady, as I moved from that practice a few years ago. However, her husband has continued to consult me at my new practice, and he has since happily remarried.

The most captivating sex tales I've heard involve societal preconceptions about youth, age and intimacy being turned on their heads. The general community seems to expect anyone over the age of sixty to retire from all sexual thoughts, desires and activity (heaven forbid that we not all look like smooth-faced, flat-bellied movie stars whilst having sex!!), while we assume the youth of the world are going at it like rabbits. So it was a lesson for me to be allowed a window into the lives of 'May' and 'Kylie'.

May was a feisty 78-year-old widow with beautiful shoes and sparkling eyes. She was smart and vivacious, and maintained an active social life. Inevitably, she would tell me about various men who asked her out. May didn't seem too interested in any particular man, until 'Ralph' came along. Then suddenly she talked of Ralph doing this, Ralph saying that. May and Ralph went out for meals. May and Ralph went walking. They went to dances. Things got even more serious, and then everything began to unravel. May was miffed. Ralph only seemed interested in being 'intimate' with her once every few weeks, whereas May was ready to get busy every few days. Being the outspoken woman that she was, May complained to me bitterly in her heavy Eastern European accent, "A vo-man has needs, you know!". And in her hurt, she huffed, "And he needs to take pills to purrrrrr-form! My husband never needed any-sink!". It was difficult to keep a straight face around May, but somehow I'm sure May wouldn't have minded if I'd smiled. She was grinning herself half the time.

Kylie was just a teen when I first met her. She wanted to begin taking a contraceptive pill, and I was asking her routine questions, including whether she could possibly already be pregnant. Kylie shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She admitted shyly, "Well, it's been awhile since we last....you know." Familiar with the usual stories from teens with raging hormones, I assumed we were talking about a whole three days here.
"Did you use any protection?", I queried.
"Um," Kylie stalled. "Well, I'm not sure. I can't really remember. But I know I'm not pregnant. There's no way I could be."
"How can you be sure?", I asked, beginning to feel frustrated with this verbal tennis match.
Kylie paused. "Well ...... we're not really that into sex. Neither of us."
"Okay..." I prompted.
"And so.... (I'm thinking that this is like pulling teeth. Large, impacted wisdom teeth)... "so it's been awhile."
"Awhile?" I echo.
"Yes," Kylie replies, "About three or four months." I quickly retrieved my jaw from the floor so I could continue to speak.

Turns out Kylie and her boyfriend liked to do a spot of horizontal dancing at Christmas, New Year, and on each of their birthdays. That's it. And for those of you who are thinking that a relationship like that would never last - that the boyfriend must have been secretly seething with sexual frustration (you cynics! you sex-obsessed people!) - I have an update. It's been more than ten years, but Kylie showed up at my current place of work the other day. She has since married the boyfriend. They are very content together. And now, they have sex at Christmas, New Year, on their birthdays.......

and on their wedding anniversary.

manners and mortality

2007-08-28T07:29:00.000+10:00

Moving on now from the delicate topic of religion and faith........ (funny how this is a topic that is almost considered taboo. I see plenty of posts about peoples' sex lives, but rarely writings about spirituality. It's as if discussing religion is way more impolite than discussing favourite sexual positions. Odd.)

I spent last night tossing and turning and dreaming of giant livers, glistening and distorted. I dreamt of masked surgeons. I dreamt of the lady I saw yesterday - the lady who sobbed in my room, as I informed her that her CT scan showed a cancer growing on her liver.

To be brutally honest, I'm not sure why I am so disturbed. I have met Diane* only twice now (usually she sees another doctor at the surgery where I work). She is not someone others warm to ..... the receptionists moan about her being an 'awful woman'. As I called her in to my room yesterday, I asked her if her husband was coming in with her, and she spat out "No! I don't want him anywhere near me. He's useless." Howard sat a mere six feet away. He quickly grabbed a newspaper, and studied it fiercely.

I ushered Diane to a chair in my room, closed the door, and sat down. I told her gently and simply, "The scan shows you have a cancer growing in your liver." I passed tissues as she cried. With her permission, I called her husband in. As he tried to comfort her, she swatted his hand away and told him to 'Shut up, Howard!'.

When I have to break very bad news in my job (which, thankfully, is rare), I often feel quite emotional. I have to steel myself and blink more than usual. I am inclined to get very attached to my patients, so to tell one of my regular patients that they have a life-threatening condition always twists me up inside. But with Diane, I felt concerned yet calm. I let her cry awhile, while I stayed dry-eyed. When her sobbing abated, I quietly explained that I had made an appointment for her to see a surgeon. I passed more tissues, and answered her questions as best I could. An hour later, I drove home thinking of this unhappy, grumpy woman, who was now devastated, bewildered, terrified.

When I was younger and more self-absorbed (yes, more!), I had no affection for 'difficult' people, and outright disliked patients who were rude or irritable or demanding. I took their impolite behaviour as a personal affront. I bewailed their lack of manners; their failure to show me the appreciation and respect I felt I deserved. Why was this person so angry and annoying, when I was being so helpful and nice?! Yes, folks, I thought it was all about me.

These days, patients can still rub me up the wrong way, but I hardly ever get in a stew. It has dawned upon me that sometimes a person is 'awful' because awful things have happened to them; because they have been treated awfully by others; because they did not have the intrinsic resilience to survive what life has thrown at them. I may still find their behaviour offensive, but I don't take offence. More than that, I develop a strange sort of fondness for some of these perpetual pouters. One of my patients stridently refuses medication for her depression, continues to smoke like a chimney despite her diabetes, tells me she wishes her husband would die, and complains that I haven't helped her sleeping problem one iota. Yet she keeps coming back, and I care about her; I want the best for her. I believe I understand her.

Today, though, my thoughts keep returning to Diane. She faces a huge battle with this nasty ball of malevolence growing inside her. From what I can tell, her emotional reserves are low. Her medical history means that any surgery carries higher risks. If she survives the surgery, her fight may not be over, because the scan showed there has been spread beyond the liver. This woman who defeated another cancer, over a decade ago, now must face up to a malignancy once more. I doubt that Diane will have much support, because I suspect she has alienated many friends and family. Misery loves company, but no-one wants to come visit.

I do not know what exists beyond our lives on Earth, but just in case this is IT, I'm living my life as well as I can. I love my life. But what of Diane? What does she think of the life she has lived? Does she feel satisfied with any part of her life?

Was she frightened last night, as she lay stiffly beside the husband she shuns? I'm certain she was scared.

Scared, and utterly alone.

*As usual, names and other medical details changed to protect patient privacy

righting the wrongs

2007-08-26T07:37:00.000+10:00

Fatty and I have been taking turns reading 'The Folk of the Faraway Tree' to Laura and Benjamin each night. It's a lovely, fanciful story.

The other night, I read to the kids about a tiny goblin who wanted to know the secret of forgetting. He 'had once done a wicked thing, and couldn't forget it'. So the goblin went to the cave of the Wizard Tall-Hat to ask for help.

When the goblin left the cave, the children in the story asked him what the secret to forgetting was. The goblin answered them thus:

"I'll tell it to you, because then if you do a wrong thing, maybe you can get right with yourself afterwards. It's so dreadful if you can't."

"Well, the Wizard Tall-Hat told me that if I can do one hundred really kind deeds to make up for the one very bad one I did, maybe I'll be able to forget a little, and think better of myself. So I'm off to do my first kind deed".

The day I read this, I was feeling uneasy about something I'd done wrong. I don't know that it was a 'very bad one', as the goblin put it, but I knew I'd made a hasty and silly decision. I'd been feeling guilty all day. So it was uplifting to read this funny little book, and to remind myself that the best way to atone for a wrong deed (beyond apology, or fixing the wrong - which may not always be possible anyway) is to concentrate fiercely on doing many more good deeds in the future.

We all like to tell ourselves that we are 'good' people, and I believe that most people are 'good' at heart. However, it is frighteningly easy to slip off the path of honourable behaviour. It's all too easy to be jealous, to say something unkind in anger, to pass on nasty gossip, to tell small lies, to be uncharitable. I know, because I have transgressed in every one of these ways.

On the rare occasions I go to church (weddings, christenings, when staying with my husband's family), I almost always enjoy the sermon. Perhaps because it's a novel event for me, I find myself really listening to the words of the minister. I soak up the message, because I know myself to be flawed. I know that I need reminding of how to be good.

I'm not a religious person, though, so going to church seems hypocritical. When prayers pledging belief are read aloud, I sit silently. When the congregation goes up for wafers and wine, I remain seated. And once, in my twenties, I sat through a christening sermon in which the minister explained how we are all born 'wicked', and that we remain thus until we are christened. Those who are not christened, the minister explained, stay wicked in their hearts. I sat, distraught, through the service, and left in tears (I've never been christened).

So without a regular Sunday sermon, I try to stay on the straight and narrow by being accountable to myself - by examining my own behaviour, and trying to make changes when I go astray. But I get busy, and I get lazy, and I forget.

Inspiration for me in the constant struggle to live a 'good' life has come from an unexpected source. Almost every day, John Cowart writes on his blog, Rabid Fun. John is wryly funny, he is anything but pious, and he is always striving to be a better person. He quotes the bible, and he takes lessons from everyday life. I read and enjoy every post. If you want humble wisdom, go no further than this blog!

Socrates said, 'The unexamined life is not worth living'. I reckon he, too, must have been a pretty switched-on guy.

talking point

2007-08-23T18:45:00.001+10:00

I said to my friend Heather the other day:

"Do you ever feel that you never finish a conversation? That you never hash out a topic fully, to the point where there is really nothing more to say?"

"Yes, I know what you mean", she confirmed.

I'm wondering now if it is all women with young children who feel this way. Is it simply the fact that we have children to care for, as well as the household duties and/or paid jobs? Will this feeling go away when our children get older? Or is this some modern affliction of all women, where we want to do this, read that, see that, listen to this, study that, make this and more? Are we, in trying to live rich and fulfilling lives, forgetting to take the time to just be?

Maybe I just need a holiday, but I feel like every day is too busy, even the days I spend at home. There is washing to do, or fold, or put away. There are meals to be made. My kids want attention - chatter listened to, books read, games played. There are balls of dust and dog hair to be swept up. There is always some darn thing to be done. I still spend time with my friends, but they also have their own families, their own sets of duties and obligations, and our time together feels like all-too-brief snatched moments.

I sometimes wish I could just spend a whole day with a friend, once a week. Spend the day to talk, eat, talk, walk, talk, drink wine, and talk some more. Because the occasional couple of hours with a friend is too infrequent, and never feels like enough time. I crave those kinds of conversations I had as a younger woman, where a friend and I would talk, or let the other talk, or both talk in turn, until everything felt alright again; until we both felt that we had expressed ourselves and were understood by the other.

Earlier this year, I spent an entire weekend with my dear friend Chooky. This was something I hadn't done since having children (almost seven years ago!). Words cannot describe how blissful it was to do whatever we pleased, whenever we pleased, all the while catching up on each others' lives. By the end of the weekend, we both were on a high. Our conversations all reached their natural conclusions. We had been heard. Our worries had been lifted. All was well, and our friendship was reaffirmed.

I know things will (hopefully) get better as my kids get older. I know I will feel better in a day or two (probably after I spend tomorrow afternoon having coffee and confessions with Chooky!). For now, though, I'm using you, my readers, as an outlet. I'm venting. So please forgive the self-indulgent complaining, and please no-one tell me to pull my socks up and stop whining.

(Chances are, by the time you read this I've not only pulled up my own socks, but folded ten other pairs as well)

if the shoe fits

2007-08-16T20:00:00.000+10:00

Seeing those abandoned brown shoes the other day got me pondering how shoes can reflect their owners. Not literally, of course, unless they're patent leather shoes (which my mother recalls being warned about, because devious boys were thought to peer at these dangerous shoes in order to catch reflections of unsuspecting girls' panties! Can you believe it?! I mean if they were ever that conniving, I almost feel the poor buggers deserved their glimpse of underwear. Of course, I say that as someone who's never worn patent leather). I mean that shoes can give important clues about the wearer.

When I was a struggling student, I owned a pair of cheap brown flats, a pair of black flats exactly the same, and some battered running shoes. It was better than being barefoot, that's for sure, but it's still nice to be able to afford some decent shoes these days. Because many times shoes simply tell us that the owner is on a tight budget. But once a person has enough money to even buy one pair of shoes they truly fancy, then I think this choice says a lot about the shoe-wearer's personality.

I dragged out my decent shoes, and examined them closely for 'evidence'. (And may I just add here that when my husband arrived home from playing squash, he looked at the array of shoes on the kitchen floor, looked expressionlessly back at me, and then went wordlessly off to shower. He's very accepting like that. Frustratingly un-curious perhaps, but also endearingly accepting!) I realised that many of my shoes don't quite embody the true me, but were chosen because I liked what they seemed to represent.

These red shoes I bought not so long ago because I've always loved other people's red shoes. They looked cute, they looked funky, and they were on sale! I do feel good in these shoes, like maybe I'm not so matronly and mumsy after all. But with my fair skin, the colour is not as good on me, and they're not true Jelly footwear.

These boots are undeniably sassy (shhh! nobody ruin my fun by denying it!), and I liked the idea of that. However, although I like to think I am at least occasionally flirty and appealing, mostly I am sensibly hanging washing and reading and cooking pizza. So these boots are not really me.

These dazzling gold wedges I found at an 'op-shop' (for non-Aussies, this is short for 'opportunity shop' - second hand stores which sell pre-loved clothing and other items at very low prices) to wear to a 'disco'-themed party. In my sequined purple dress, gold lame pants underneath and gold wedges, I tell you I was stunning. Stunning to the retina at least.

As much as I'd like to think I am stylish, or sexy, or cheeky, the truth is I am a straight-forward person with just a pinch of something interesting.... not fascinating, but (I like to think anyway!)not completely dull either. Rather like these shoes. I wear them all the time, I like them a lot, and they're so comfortable that I feel sure they like me too.

So now I'm issuing a challenge ....who dares post a picture of their favourite, most-like-their-owner shoes? I'd love to see yours if you care to share! Failing that, at least leave me a comment describing your most-loved pair!

the truth is....

2007-08-15T08:03:00.000+10:00

While some people seem to get inspiration from their angst and turmoil, I find that any negativity in my life leaves me with nothing to say. At least, nothing to say on my blog (Fatty and my friends will attest to that - I am rarely one to suffer silently). However, today, in desperation for subject matter, I'm going to write about what's on my mind anyway.

Right now, I am struggling with some mixed feelings towards one of my close relatives. This person I love dearly, but this person is quite different to me, and I am intolerant of this. I want my relative to be like me, because of course I am the gold standard for perfection (cough).

I have never been very good at agreeing to differ over something and moving on. Or rather, I have never been very good at this when it comes to someone I love. I so desperately want to feel that my loved one and I are in synch. I want us to be in harmony, our thinking aligned, laughing at the same things and railing at the same injustices. Of course, life doesn't work this way. Everyone is different, even if only in small ways.

One of my worst qualities is an overdeveloped sense of justice. I want everything to be fair in life. I become upset if I feel I am doing more than my share, in any situation, without thanks or acknowledgment. I demand appreciation from my husband. I secretly get irritated if a friend neglects to thank me for doing her a favour. Although I cultivate an image of sweetness and light, underneath I am a cranky grudge-bearing, score-keeping old cow. Now you know. The truth is out.

'Jellyhead' may have a dopey smile and a wobbly brain, but she's also got a steel backbone and a stick up her a**. Not to mention quite frequently her foot in her mouth.

(Now there's a mental picture you don't want to dwell on)

Open Mic at Jelly's Place

2007-08-08T15:27:00.001+10:00

Every now and then I get requests from people who have something to say and nowhere to say it. It's important to have a voice, thus I offered my blog as a forum for discussion.

Without further ado, I present this anonymous post for your ponderance:

Way back when I started blogging, years ago, I sat perusing the vast blogosphere in search of inspiration and entertainment. I wrote in my blog only occasionally and only for the benefit of family and friends. My posts were chatty and filled with pictures of my family and I never considered what it might be like to join a community of anonymous bloggers and write in a style that might entertain or engage them without compromising too much of my anonymity.

But then I came across a blog, written by an anonymous stranger, that reached out and sucked me into her world. It was so well-written that I often sat reading it with tears streaming down my face --whether they be tears of laughter or sadness. I cared about this person. I worried about her. When she stopped posting, I feared that I might never know how her life turned out.

To be honest, I idolized her in a way. Her wit. Her writing talent. Her unique way of putting things into perspective.

Then one day I read a story from her childhood. It was written in that same beautiful, flowing style that I loved so much. I was carried along by her gentle and confiding tone but was left shattered at the end of the last paragraph.

This woman-- this warm, witty, beautiful, talented, engaging woman -- experienced horrors that I have never, and will never, have to face. Many of them she experienced very early in her life. Extremes of brutality and indifference shaped her personality.

Much of her wit was formed out of a desperate desire to alleviate anger with a well-placed quip. If she could make the grown-ups who surrounded her laugh, she could often avoid fanning the smoldering flames of their tempers. Her gentle, nurturing nature developed when she tried to shield her siblings from treatment similar to hers. Her habit of shying from praise was a result of her learning to be invisible to avoid notice and thus avoid being belittled or beaten.

To me, it seemed an unacceptable trade-off. That her stunning, magnetic personality was a result of having the stuffing beat out of her by Life--it wasn't fair. I ranted and railed against God, against Life, against societal pressure for people to marry and bear children whether they're narcissistic hedonists or not.

And the gentle writer grieved that she had brought pain into my life. Because her heart is so beautiful, she worried about me. She lived through these horrors. I only had to read about them. And she worried about me.

She said, "God lets things happen for a reason. These things happened so that I could learn and grow and be kind and help others." I refused to believe that the God I love, a gentle and caring God, would let anyone suffer such atrocities for the sake of personal growth. So I said, "That's bullshit!" (I am nothing, if not eloquent.)

And she stood back and waited for me to finish the process of sifting through the information she'd given me and the resultant anger and sadness and heavy grief that set up shop in my chest.

And now, I still hate it that she's ever suffered. But I am able to appreciate that I have a beautiful person in my life. I am able, once again, to appreciate her writing and the depths she can take me to with it. I am able to appreciate her. Period.

Sometimes, though, I am still caught by surprise by the strength of my reactions to the reality of what her life has been. Last night, I sat up late, unable to sleep, and read through the archives of a blogger who's new to me. I was turned on to this new person's blog by a mutual friend and have immersed myself in her archives for the same reason I was drawn years ago to the aforementioned writer. This new writer is witty, engaging, enormously talented and pulls me along with her through depths of despair and back again only to make me laugh until I think I might pee.

I made my way through her archives, hoping all the while that I wouldn't find what I suspected would be buried there. But I found it anyway. Tales of neglect and abuse and emotional agony inflicted on her by the very people who should have been her fiercest protectors. The fact that I had suspected as much all along certainly did not make me feel victorious. Rather, I felt beat up. I was surprised to find that my breathing was ragged, my jaw clenched, angry tears welling in my eyes.

So, this is how it is. Those among us who have this phenomenal power to pull us into their lives and to find their way into our hearts, effortlessly --it's almost always because we sense the wells of pain inside of them. We sense it, even when they are causing side-splitting laughter with their self-deprecating humor or bringing us to our knees with sadness with their uncanny powers of observation and communication.

We sense it and we try to pull them to us. We try to protect them and make it so that the bad things never happened. And because they are wise, and patient, and gentle, they step back and allow us to explore these extremes of emotion that we might never have felt had we not encountered the stories they have shared. They don't remind us that it was harder for them to live it than it was for us to read about it.

As for me, I'm so thankful to have chanced across these remarkable women in the blogosphere. No matter how limited their involvement in my "real" life, they have made an impact. I am kinder, more empathic, more gentle, and more generous because of the impressions they've made upon my heart.

But from time to time, like last night, I am still going to cry at the injustice of it all. I am still going to have moments when I question God and accuse Him of neglect and abuse for allowing such atrocities to befall the most innocent and vulnerable among us.

I stand up for them now, when I can. It doesn't help much. But the point is that I want to help and that I care and that my eyes are opened to the knowledge that not everyone gets to have the sort of life that was given to me.

If knowing the stories of these women can affect change in one person and if I can help even one child, maybe God really did know what He was doing.

Whether I like it or not.

stepping out

2007-08-05T11:40:00.000+10:00

As I walked back to my car, I saw them sitting on the curb - a pair of brown leather men's shoes. The leather was still glossy and intact; the shoes were a stylish cut. They sat neatly, side by side, as if waiting for their owner to return. No-one else was around. I couldn't stop staring. Even once in my car, I eyed the shoes curiously in my rear vision mirror. The whole situation puzzled me greatly.

The house which the curb fronted was small and unlovely, with peeling white paint. It sat amidst the car fumes from the main road. I found it hard to imagine these expensive-looking shoes belonging to anyone in this house. And if the shoes had been a special purchase, a saved-for splurge, then why had they been abandoned so callously?

I wondered if perhaps the shoes were pinching the Italian-shoes-man, as he walked home from the bus stop after Friday night drinks. Did he swear softly, as he stopped and gently eased the shoes from blistered or aching feet? Did he sway as he placed his footwear with drunken precision by the curb? And did he then smile with relief as he lurched away in his brown socks, feeling the grass soft and springy underfoot?

If only the tongues of those shoes could talk.

pizza parlour

2007-08-01T07:57:00.000+10:00

One of my very favourite foods is PIZZA. So when my blogger friend Mimi wrote a post about making an easy pizza dough with her kids, my mouth began to water. I cheekily asked for the recipe, and Mimi kindly obliged.

With Fatty away over the weekend, I decided it would be fun for the kids and I to cook together. This recipe truly was easy, and the kids had lots of fun measuring and adding ingredients, and then kneading the dough. I encouraged them to punch, pinch and pummel the soft floury ball, to ensure they got rid of all their fidgets and flibbertyjibbets. Laura was very methodical, copying my pressing and scooping and re-pressing. Ben enthusiastically did a few 'karate chops' on the dough, just for good measure.

The smell of the warm dough rising filled the house and made me feel all capable. Accomplished. Chef-like. I mean, who would dare mess with a woman who makes her own pizza dough, right? I rang my mother to tell her proudly that finally I was making my own pizza dough, just like she used to do when I was a child. Mum sounded bemused, as she often does.

Of course, eating the pizza was the absolute highlight. The pizza base was not too flat, not too puffy - just perfect. I admit I may be biased. I was the head chef in this pizza parlour. But don't argue with me on this one, because I am now, after all, a woman who makes her own pizza dough.

Thank you Mimi - the pizza dough was just as delicious as you promised, and we had a ton of fun making it!

Millie the dog

2007-07-28T08:06:00.000+10:00

Our dog is not adorable. She looks sweet enough, but she is simply not one of those wonderful, trustworthy, loyal family hounds. Not in the least. She is snarky, she is greedy, and she snores like a truck. Yet somehow this annoying beagle has insinuated herself into our hearts. I can't explain why I love her, but I indisputably do.

It's not as if Millie tries to be endearing. Far from it. I can think of countless ways she unhinges me.

When no-one is paying attention, Millie sidles into the house and fossicks through the bedroom and bathroom bins. She sneaks away with tissues, and drags them out to the lawn for chewing. When our children were small, Millie would steal nappies and do unspeakable things to them. She once ate a whole packet of my birth control pills, the morning I was leaving on an overseas trip. One Easter, Millie found Laura's Easter eggs and ate the lot. This dog is a stomach on legs.

When we have guests over, and we escort them to the door as they leave, Millie quietly gets up on the table to eat the leftovers. She doesn't give a hoot if she gets caught. We can yell, smack her, lock her out, ignore her for hours or all of the above, but Millie doesn't mind. She is undeterred. She does the very same thing at her next opportunity.

Then Millie has some other quirky (read idiotic) habits. If we have visitors over and decide to lock Millie outside, she gets very upset. She whines and whimpers. She stations herself on the back deck, right outside the dining room, and periodically leaps up in the air so she can glimpse everyone inside. Our guests are treated to the sight of a beagle head, ears flying, appearing at the window at intervals.

I haven't ever owned another dog (or cat, or bird), but from talking to experienced pet-owners, it seems animals each have quite distinct personalities. Millie is no exception. She is gluttonous, obstinate, sneaky and grumpy. And yet, she also waits for me on the front deck when I go out - even when Fatty and the kids are home, and she could be lying inside in the warmth. She leans against me as I pat her soft caramel head. She waits, without sound, at the back door each morning, until we finally notice her sitting there. Sometimes it is an hour before we register her presence, yet Millie sits motionless, silent, as if she is The World's Best Dog.

The sweetest habit of Millie's is one I cannot explain. I have no idea what leads her to do this, but she does it every night.

Last thing at night I open the back door, and tell Millie to go outside. She obeys, albeit with a mournful sideways glance. Then she heads for her kennel on the back deck, and settles in as if she were sleeping there all night. But as soon as I walk down the hall to bed, Millie makes her way under the front of our house and sleeps on some old shelving directly under me. The lying down in the kennel is all a charade! Millie has never slept a single night there (I know this, in case you're wondering, because I have to endure Millie's nocturnal snoring, echoing up through the floorboards!). And yet each evening, as if trying to appease us, she pretends she is snuggling up in her doghouse for the night. And then instead of sleeping in her kennel, or on her dog bed under the house, Millie lies much less comfortably, for the sake of being nearer.

No matter how irritating, a dog always loves. And that, I suspect, is why we forgive them almost anything; why they worm their doggy way into our deepest affections.

Millie the weird, naughty beagle ...... we love you, nose to tail.

dinosaurs and diaries

2007-07-20T17:16:00.000+10:00

This is the horrific scene that greeted me when I entered our side room the other day. I thought for sure this was the work of my bloodthirsty son, but no, 'twas my bloodthirsty daughter who created this attractive tableau.

*************************************************************************************

Last night I was tired and irritable and anxious about various things. I sighed as I plonked down on Laura's bed to read books to my little rugrats.

"C'mon guys - choose your books", I intoned drearily, as I sat mulling over this and that.

Ben came striding in confidently, carrying one of his favourite books - a journal-style story, written from a wombat's perspective.

"I've got one!", Ben announced. "I've got 'Diarrhoea of a Wombat' ", he crowed. (The actual book title is "Diary of a Wombat")

I began to laugh as I explained to Ben about diaries, and my worries receded into the distance.

Kids are good like that.