Month: November 2019

Rising from the ashes

On 29 November 2019

The car is packed and ready for a camping trip on the coast.
She hesitates, just for a moment.
There is no way the fire will get into the suburbs.

The day is hot, and suddenly the sky is black.
Smoke fills the air, sirens wail.
Canberra is alight – people are evacuated – houses and lives are lost.

Her father, in his late 80s, gets into his car.
Worried about her home, he drives towards the roadblock,
but is turned back. He calls her.
“Come home”.

They pack up the campsite and head back to the unknown.

Her two cousins, both volunteer firefighters, leave their own homes and families and respond to the call.
They fight hard, and long.
Exhausted, they confirm that her house is lost.
There is nothing left.

The house is rubble.
The belongings all gone.
A week later she sifts through the ashes
…and rescues something that once belonged to her mother.
It is almost unrecognisable, but it is now the only tangible reminder of her.

Family and friends rally round, donating supplies, food, shelter.
A community has been devastated
friends have died
people grieve together
…and vow to rebuild.

Marriages fail.
Lives have been changed forever.
People leave the community
…the loss and memories too difficult to bear.

Her husband is building their new house.
She doesn’t know it yet, but as she replants her garden
and attempts to rebuild her life, something inside her is changing.
The stress has been enormous, and her body has responded in an unexpected way.

Months later she discovers it.

Lump.
Scan.
Biopsy.
Cancer.
Surgery.
Triple negative.
Metastatic.
Chemotherapy.
Radiation.

Each word is like a bullet, an insult, another blow, when she has already been devastated by so much loss. She holds her family together.
Vows to survive.

I am in charge of the day chemo unit.
She is my husband’s cousin. We are a small family, closely connected.
I love her like a sister
…and now I am also her nurse.

I schedule her treatment.
I hold her hand a colleague connects the line.
The chemicals drip, drip, drip.
We cry together.

Every three weeks, we repeat.
We spend many hours talking, sharing hopes, fears and tears.

Her beautiful long wavy black hair disappears.
She struggles as the chemicals work inside her.
Then the radiation burns her skin.
She pushes through.
Continues to be a mother, wife, daughter, friend, cousin.
Taking one day at a time, until finally the treatment is finished.

She thinks she has another chance
her house is completed
and life slowly begins again.
This, she thinks, is a new beginning.

I celebrate with her briefly.
And then I watch, and wait.

This, I think, is too good to be true.
I know the odds.
There is more to come.

Photo credit Patrick Hendry@worldsbetweenlines on Unsplash

Black and white

By Unravelled

On 21 November 2019

In Bird's eye view

The waiting room is full.
I’ve been here over an hour and time is moving slowly.
Staff seem to take forever, they come and go on tea breaks.
I listen to some of them speak abruptly, rudely, to customers.
Watched a few, the minority, work quietly and respectfully.

An elderly couple, confused about their superannuation
and how it has affected their pension.

A young mother, new baby in arms
trying to navigate maternity leave, parenting payment, childcare rebate.

Unemployed youth
wondering how they will pay rent and still affort to eat
balancing whether paying bills for phone or internet is more important than food. It’s hard to look for jobs without either.

Conversation hums around me.
Impossible not to overhear in a general waiting area.
The discussion is about ‘the scum of the earth’ who have appeared outside.
Parking inspectors.

How appropriate, I think.
Local government will make money by issuing parking tickets to all the people who are sitting in the waiting room queue, trying to sort our their payments from a Commonwealth funded service.

Whoever thought of putting fifteen minute, one and two hour parking spots directly outside a Centrelink office? How is this a good idea?
Revenue raising at it’s finest.

People become agitated,
wondering whether there will be a ticket on their car,
but not willing to miss hearing their name being called and their turn to be served in the few minutes it would take to move to another parking spot.

Suddenly, I hear the sobbing start.
Somewhere behind me.

I don’t want to stare,
but it is getting louder…building to a crescendo.
My heart stands still
compassion kicks in
motherly instinct follows.
So does my sense of responsiblity as a community member.
I surreptitiously look for the source.

Way behind me.
Over there, in the corner.
Uncontrollable sobbing.
Huge distress.

I wonder if it is appropriate to walk over and see if she is ok.
Clearly she isn’t, but what is the right thing to do?
The staff behind the counters seem obliious.
The other people in the waiting room continue to moan about the parking.

Her phone rings.
The sobbing increases.
Cries of distress ring out.
“I just need some f***ing help”, she says.

Still no-one moves.
Just as I pick up my bag and prepare to walk over to her
she jumps up, screaming.
Leaves her bag on the chair
and runs out the front door.

I can hear her distress.
Everyone can see her running around in circles, wailing.

Finally the staff make a move.
One picks up the telephone.
Another collects the bag to put behind the counter for safety.
Good start, I think. Better late than never.
Is anyone going to see if they can help her?

No-one does.

Lights and sirens approach.
The parking inspector is forgotten –
except by the man who says “the ambulance is parked in a 15 minute zone – wonder if he’ll get booked?”.

I hear my name being called.
My instinct tells me to go and try to help this young woman,
my head tells me to mind my own business
and take my turn for service.

I momentarily forget the young girl while I spend 30 excruciating minutes trying to sort out the issue I came for.

Not resolved.
I try very hard to keep calm, speak reasonably, be polite.
It is so difficult.

Finally I can escape
I walk out the door
into the gathered crowd.

She has backed herself into a corner
surrounded by well meaning ambulance officers.
Two ambulances.
Still sobbing.

I can see the emotional distress etched on her face,
I hear her cries for help.
I decide to leave it to the professionals.
I walk away, wondering whether that was the right thing to do?
I feel helpless.

Anger starts to raise it’s ugly head.

This.

This is what relying on social services and interacting with their staff does to people.

Exacerbates mental health conditions.
Drives people to despair.
Leaves others feeling alone, unworthy, vulnerable.

The system is flawed.
The staff are robots,
only able to work within defined parameters and rules.
Black…white.
There is no grey.

No compassion.
No empathy.
No generosity.
No heart.

Only the literate can navigate the system without losing their mind.
Even then, it takes it’s toll.
My loved one is lucky.
I can advocate, help financially, support emotionally, manage the system.

But so many have no-one to turn to.
Nowhere to go.
No ready source of finanical aid.
The system fails them.
Time and again.

Bittersweet memories

By Unravelled

On 7 November 2019

In Bedside stories

She lies in bed, barely able to open her eyes. Her voice is feint, her skin is grey. In the three weeks since I saw her last, she has lost more than half her body weight.

The right side of her face droops, she has trouble forming words and thoughts.

Lung cancer, last days.

I feel my heart strings tug. This time, for a change, I am not here in my professional role. I come as a friend.

I went to school with her daughter. We were close all through high school. She went to school with my mother. They were close all through primary school.

We are inextricably linked, not by blood – but by time, community, shared friends.

“Come close, I need to tell you something”, she whispered.

I lean in, waiting for her to catch her breath and find the strength to go on. The words come slowly.

“I need to remind of something that happened when you were about 14…

You came to my house after you had a disagreement with your mother…

You asked me if you could stay for a few days…

Do you remember?”

I reach deep into the recesses of my memory, winding back more than 35 years. A vague sensation of unease. Am I about to be reprimanded for something I can barely recall?

“I told you that you would always be welcome in my house…
but you could only stay if you telephoned your mother and let her know where you were and that you were safe.”

I nod slowly. The memory of that day is surfacing. I can see her in her kitchen, preparing dinner. Some dish from Poland, her home country.
Chicken soup, I think.

Another link.
My grandmother was from Poland.
I am distracted momentarily, but her whisper pulls me back to the present.

“I have always wondered whether that was the right thing to do…
but I knew your mother would be worried about you…
Was it?”

My eyes are blurry, tears fall.

She is obviously troubled by this, a moment in time that I had all but forgotten. It has haunted enout to remember and speak about it in her last days.

I reply.

“Yes, you did the right thing. It is exactly the advice I would want someone to give my daughter in that situation.”

Her face relaxes noticeably. She sighs.

“I am so glad I got to say that…
I have always wondered. Now I can rest…
I might not be here tomorrow.”

I suspect she is right.
I kiss her gently, and hold her hand.
I tell her that I always felt safe and welcome in her home.
I thank her for giving me such good advice, and say goodbye.

I call my friend, her daughter, who is waiting to board a flight from the other side of the country.

It is not an easy thing to do.

I gently prepare her for what she will find when she arrives.
We cry together over the phone.

I tell her the story – she had also forgotten that day, but now it comes back clearly. We laugh and are drawn close by teh shared memory, in spite of the years and distance between us.

I am a fifth generation born and bred local. It is inevitable that I will come across people I know and will have to care for them.

Two years in a row, parents of school friends have been referred to my service. For them, it is a relief to see a familiar face that they can trust.
For me, it is bittersweet.

Fond memories, mingled with sadness at the emotional anguish my friends are experiencing.

Some days are harder than others.