Sunday, September 26, 2010
for Pa
Sunday, July 25, 2010
magic
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.)
Tuesday, April 20, 2010
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.
Friday, February 26, 2010
game, set and match (continued)
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!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
game, set and match
"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)
Saturday, February 13, 2010
waterfront walk
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.
Sunday, January 31, 2010
give me land, lots of land (and a calf to feed and pat)
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.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
new beginnings
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.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
Three Things
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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Sunday, November 15, 2009
Something Cheery (for Isabelle!)
There is a girl in my son's class called 'Daisy'. Daisy has an intellectual impairment, and struggles to write her name, to maintain attention, and to follow instructions. Daisy's mother, 'Jenny', often arrives a little late for school, with her baby strapped to her chest, her 3-year-old trailing by her side, and Daisy chatting loudly as she meanders into the classroom. Jenny always appears calm despite the chaos, has a smile for everyone, and I have never heard her lose her temper with Daisy. Jenny seems to have it all together, and speaks confidently to the teacher when she needs to discuss Daisy's progress. I can be a bit shy initially, and I am also often racing off to work in the mornings, so I have only spoken to Jenny a handful of times this year. I have enjoyed chatting to her, though, about school news, Daisy, or life in general.
Imagine my surprise to hear, from another doctor where I work (who sees Jenny and Daisy as her patients), that our conversations had meant a great deal to Jenny. Jenny told this doctor that many of the other mothers didn't speak to her, and that whenever Daisy 'acted up', Jenny felt embarrassed, and worried what those other mothers were thinking. The 6 or 7 conversations we'd shared, to Jenny, were worthy of mention because of how much better they made her feel. Astounding!
I was glad to have made a difference in Jenny's life, but at the same time I wished I'd started chatting to Jenny earlier in the school year, wished I'd spoken to her more often, wished I'd thought more about what it must be like for her dealing with the school community. I felt guilty that I'd done the bare minimum; I felt undeserving of her appreciation. The fact that a few conversations were so important to Jenny tells me she is not receiving the support she deserves.
However, this post is not about guilt, because whilst I regret not doing more for Jenny, I am kind enough to myself to know that I cannot be everything to everyone, can't save the world, can't be some sort of superwoman. If I had realised, I would have been more attentive to Jenny, but I didn't know.
What I do know is that I will go on from here trying to remember that everyone, for whatever their own reasons, and however outwardly poised they may appear, may be 'Jenny' - in need of conversation, a smile, a shared laugh. I'll keep in mind that a little kindness goes such a very long way.
Sunday, October 04, 2009
my sister's dog
My sister called him Waltah. Not Walter, but Waltah, to reflect how she always said his name - in a mushy, silly, adoring way. We all teased her when she named her dog Waltah. But in the end, we forgot he had a silly name, and we came to love him for his adoring, affectionate ways, for his earnest obedience and for his doggy joie de vivre. Staffy dogs are the bomb. And he was a wonderful Staffy.
Yesterday, my sister's friend took Waltah for a short walk (my sister is overseas). Within minutes, Waltah began to pant heavily, and his breathing became laboured. The vet diagnosed heat exhaustion, and Waltah was cooled, given fluids and oxygen, was catheterised, plied with medications, and sedated. He rallied at first, but then his kidneys failed. After several hours, the vet told us Waltah could not survive this. A decision had to be made. Waltah looked exhausted. He turned his brown eyes my way and my sister's friend and I told the vet to go ahead.
First we held a mobile phone to his sweet doggy head and my sister crooned her love for her 'hairy child' (as she calls him) into his ear. We laughed at the ridiculousness of holding the phone up to Waltah while we cried at the sadness of my sister not being able to say goodbye in person to her beloved pup. His eyes stayed open as she talked to him, and I believe he heard my sister's voice. I hope it gave him comfort.
And then, as Waltah looked at us wearily, and as the vet pushed the plunger on the syringe, my sister's friend and I stroked Waltah's head and ears gently, and I told him, "Good boy Waltah, you're such a good boy." Because he was.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
writing a wrong
I don't care who's reading this. I doubt anyone will still be reading here - why should they? I've been away such a long time in this fast-paced world. So it's not really with any audience in mind I write. I just need to write. I miss expressing myself, rendering experiences forever immortal on a page. I miss feeling that I have something worthwhile to say (whether this be true or not). I miss the fact that when I write here, I realise what I've been thinking and feeling more clearly than at any other time in my busy life.
Re-reading the above paragraphs, I'm aware I sound like a self-obsessed loser. And maybe that's true when it comes to writing. But in my defence, I do think of others throughout my day. I care for my family, I stay in touch with friends, I try to be a good listener at work. But writing is my little bubble, my refuge. I want to do more of it.
Monday, July 06, 2009
outback odyssey
This is a photo The Birdman took of the wild budgies.
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.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
restraint
Restraint is not one of my better qualities. Those of you who read here regularly will have been subject to my lack of restraint at times, when I have commented on your posts with opinions or advice or 'helpful suggestions' which were, let's face it, unsolicited and possibly quite patronising. Not that I mean to be this way. It's just that lack of restraint kicking in. Where others might think to themselves, "Gee, I hope he/she does x, y or z. I'm sure they'll sort it out for the best", Jelly Overinvolved & Overopinionated will wade right in there and start rabbitting on about how what might help is to do x, y, and z, preferably simultaneously. I know, I know, it's not very attractive.
Because I am a godless heathen, and don't attend church or any other organised religion, I try to read books that remind me to keep working at my flaws. One such book I read about a year ago was Stephanie Dowrick's "Forgiveness and Other Acts of Love". It's a beautiful book, full of wisdom and compassion. There are chapters on courage, fidelity, forgiveness, generosity, tolerance..... and restraint. It's a shy, retiring type of virtue, and one I hadn't thought about much before. I mean, we all know about courage, about being faithful, about being generous .... but restraint? Isn't that kind of insipid? And is it really so important?
Lately I've become aware of my tendency to leap in and open my big mouth. I recently made a comment to a friend, querying a rule she had for her children which didn't make sense to me. And of course I had no right to. She is the parent of that child. I need to learn to shut up and butt out. I need to show restraint.
I've realised that when you care about someone, one of the most loving things you can do is to say nothing. You don't question their decisions unless they affect your own life in a significant way. You can listen, you can acknowledge a problem, you can offer empathy, but you don't need to offer advice. If you truly are a kind person, you show restraint. You hold your tongue. Where possible, you let others' mistakes go without comment, just as they let yours slip past. You don't say anything to cause unnecessary pain. It could be that restraint is, in its own understated way, the brightest jewel in the crown of virtues.
Which is something for me to consider while I'm restraining from eating a second scone.
Wednesday, June 03, 2009
reality check
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.
Friday, April 10, 2009
rumours of my death have been greatly exaggerated
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.
Friday, February 27, 2009
something beautiful
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.
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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 :-)
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
the error of my ways
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.
Sunday, February 01, 2009
five senses on a Saturday
"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.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
couch potato goes too far
'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.