Stars

"Look at the stars, look how they shine for you..."

The words of that old Coldplay song echoed in her mind as she stared into the indigo depths of night. ‘Yellow’ had been a firm favourite for a few years, although had now drifted off into the realm of a golden oldie on one of many playlists. She could never quite figure out the significance of everything being yellow in that song, but she liked the song all the same. Coldplay had released another song about stars more recently, she remembered, although the title of it, and the lyrics, escaped her as she gazed, unfocused, into the heavens. 

Far above, the Milky Way stretched from horizon to horizon, bespangled with the glorious unknown of far away worlds. The Southern Cross blinked steadfastly above, almost directly above, in fact. She took solace in its familiarity, the heavenly symbol of this wide brown land. A comforting sight for any resident of this part of the southern hemisphere, unequivocally signifying home. “Dreams were won and lost under the Southern Cross,” Lee Kernaghan had sung, back in the 90’s when she had discovered country music. Three Chain Road had been one of her favourite albums, and still got some play time, occasionally. Her brothers had teased her about that constantly, telling her she was daggy and uncool. Country wasn't that different to mainstream pop though, if you broke it down to the mechanics. Her brothers just liked to tease. Still, the words had meaning. The Southern Cross, or Crux, if you wanted to use its proper astronomical name, was a beacon of permanence to anchor a changing, frightening world. And right now, it was very frightening. It felt so different, so lonely, and filled with unknowns. This was not how it was meant to be. Not at all.

Off to the north, the Big Dipper graced the ebony skies, although it was too low on the horizon to be seen from here for most of the year. Living here, they were just far enough north to find it. Its tail peeked above the distant mountains, barely enough to be recognisable unless you really knew where to look. She could never see the full Ursa Major constellation - that was not possible here. However, knowing where the Dipper was gave her a slight smugness, as not everybody could find it reliably in the southern hemisphere. It was seasonal, but always returned. The permanence of the heavens, returning year after year, was comforting. They had moved here for the night skies, away from the light and noise pollution of the city, seeking a slower pace to explore and ponder the universe. “Big Sky Country” it was called in the tourist brochures, and that was certainly true. Sunrise and sunset were incredible, and the views of the night sky were spectacular. Though now, it was irrelevant to her. Now, there was only the black depths of sadness no matter where she looked.

What did our ancestors see in these stars, she wondered. What dreams did they wish upon them? What did the stars even mean to them? They had meant so many different things to her through her life. As a child, they were exciting, magical, wondrous. A pathway for her wild, unadulterated imagination to launch into a myriad of mesmerising tales full of adventures with unicorns and fairies and spaceships and aliens. An obsidian path laced with fairy lanterns; the abandoned onyx speedway where unicorns had raced and left remnants of their dust to sparkle for eternity; the spangled passage where aliens drove their rockets at unbelievable speeds to explore the universe.  Exciting worlds grew from those stars, full of wild adventure and vivid imagery to capture her attention.

As a teen, the stars became scientific, a symbol of knowledge. Telescopes and star charts dominated her world; her tenacious mind soaking in every tiny byte of information available from every database she could access. This newfound knowledge expanded her intellect like a dry sponge in a bucket of water. Childhood adventurous tales evolved into epic science fiction novels, piles of favourite authors littering what space was left from her studies. Dashing, fun spaceships became more technical, more science, but still fiction. Warp drive, FTL drives, crystal drives, dimension jumps; all the things she had read in fiction, but her ever-active mind knew, just knew, that one day these things would be within the realms of possibility. Nothing was impossible, it just needed the right science to discover it. If you could imagine it, you could build it – one day.

But now, the fascination is faded, the knowledge irrelevant. Now, the stars are merely companions. Constant, unwavering friends mitigating the deep, dark loneliness that permeated her soul. Silent partners alongside her shattered reality. The Coldplay song.... Yellow… that song meant something new now.  The stars now shone for her as a tiny thread holding the heavy weight of life, bringing some semblance of order to the chaos within. A small smile flickered, though it blinked out as quickly as it appeared. Even the comfort of these familiar stars couldn't temper the bitter emotions that tormented every waking moment. No, she decided, these stars weren't shining for her. Not like they used to, anyway. These stars just were; no emotion, no meaning. Just balls of luminous plasma and gases existing in space. Nothing to bring joy and wonderment anymore. She fell back to the bare scientific truth to avoid any emotional attachment - to avoid the hurt.

She sighed, exhaling through tight lips. The Milky Way seemed so bright tonight. Brighter than usual, as if it was somehow trying to intrude into her visual consciousness. Could she possibly reach up and touch it? Maybe put a star in her pocket to keep her lonely heart company? The moon too, seemed very large, very close tonight. A few slivers short of a full moon. Was it waxing or waning? Her younger self would have known exactly which phase it was in. She could easily look it up on her weather app, of course, but that information was irrelevant. The thought had only appeared in her mind as her consciousness sought distraction from her pain. One hand slowly reached out, desperate for the touch of…. Something. Anything. Surely her fingers, silhouetted in the golden light, just needed to stretch a little more to reach the moon’s unwavering glow. If only there was some way to bring it down from its eternal orbit. Her world sure needed some light right now. This inner darkness was all-consuming.

She dropped her hand back to earth, with an underwhelming, barely audible thud against the grass. It felt soft against her fingertips. Soft grass that they had planted together, one of the many tasks they had carefully planned and executed after buying the rundown house in a nice street. That was the way to do it, she had said, buy the worst house in the best street and make it your own. Do it up real nice and you can't lose. Tears formed at the memory, but she steadfastly held them back, turning her attention back to the sky above. The blanket of stars held more lights now, as the western sky darkened to match the east. An army of twinkling lights marching through the universe, constantly adding more soldiers to follow the darkness.

"Stars, in their multitude,

Scarce to be counted,

Filling the darkness,

With order and light...."

A different song trickled into her thoughts, a different style of music, equally as calming, definitely more haunting. The melody gentle but the words strong. An interesting juxtaposition if one took the time to interpret. Perhaps belting out the strong themes of Les Mis might distract enough to begin mending the fractured dreams. Or Phantom. Or Frozen. Or any other of the many musicals they had seen together. Or perhaps it would be just a temporary relief from the pain and fear. She sighed again. The latter seemed more likely. This hole was deep, it would take more than a song to drag her out of it. But the psychological analgesia at least lightened the load, albeit briefly. The stars did help bring order to her fragile mind, their unyielding permanence like a shield against the fragility of life around her. Order and light indeed. 

Her fingers touched the hard edge of her phone, as always, tucked into her left pocket. Music was hidden within. Hundreds of melodies to focus her mind and distract it from the deep dark depths of doom. Ironically though, she couldn't focus enough to choose a playlist, and the energy to even open the music app evaporated into the wind. Her unwilling mind reduced her once-willing body to an exhausted, indifferent shell. 

Headlights approached through the darkness. The thrum of a well-tuned diesel engine met her ears. A slight vibration passed from the earth to her feet, gradually increasing as the sound drew closer. Panic rose momentarily as her mind flashed back to that awful, awful night. Headlights approaching was all she could clearly remember. That and the sounds. The insistent squeal of tyres trying to gain purchase on a slippery road. Metal screeching, glass smashing, plastic cracking in the sudden inertia of the collision. The odd squish-thud of flesh colliding with something solid. And the scream, although to this day she did not know from whose lips it issued forth. The voice was unrecognisable in its fear and agony. Deep breathing brought her back to the present moment and quelled the panic, while grounding distracted her mind from the images. Even so, they would always be there in the background. Always reminding her, daring her to forget, teasing the edges of her consciousness like a predator slowly, patiently stalking its prey. 

What was that exercise her annoying counsellor always made her do? Five steps. Five things…she needed to see five things to keep the anxiety away. Stars, moon, darkness. Always darkness, both physical and metaphorical. A lonely streetlight, eerie yellowish glow spoiling the pure night. What else? The bush beside her, shiny elongated leaves swaying gently in the slight breeze. Yes, that was five. Keep breathing, breathing, breathing. Slow it down. Stay in the present. What's next? 

Four things to hear…the rustle of those same leaves, variable as the breeze that jostled them. A dog barking in the distance. Plenty of dogs around here. She wondered why her own dogs hadn't joined in the canine chorus. They usually did. Focus, she scolded herself. What else could she hear? The rumble of the diesel engine as it continued its journey into the night. That sound was best forgotten. Some sort of squawking, perhaps a bird? There were always birds here. Dozens of species. Parrots, pigeons, ducks, annoying mynah birds and the ubiquitous bin chickens. Always lots of those.

Three things to touch now but breathe first. Take another breath to focus again.  Slowly, deliberately, hold it in for a moment then let it out gently. Let the attention drift to her extremities, feel the world around her. Soft grass remained under her hand, comforting yet triggering at the same time. A bindii poked past the edge of her sandal, spiking into her pinky toe. Yet she didn't move her foot to relieve it. Physical pain provided much-needed sensory feedback to remind her that she was alive. The gentle breeze brushed her face, cool in the night air. A slight shiver engulfed her body as the night chill descended. The tingle of goosebumps followed like a wave, head to toe. The cold, however, was barely noticed amongst the clamour of her inner turmoil.

A slight scent of eucalyptus followed the breeze…what else? What else? Two smells were required. Two smells and one taste to complete this grounding exercise. Was that rain in the air? It was a cloudless night, but the unmistakable scent of petrichor was drifting into her senses. Perhaps someone had a sprinkler on nearby. That might explain it. She didn't get to the taste before her attention was drawn back to the stars. If she had, it probably would have been the taste of blood from that dreadful night.

A shooting star burned across the sky, then disappeared just as quickly. Or was it a spaceship? The starship Enterprise of Star Trek fame, or perhaps one of Anne McCaffrey's brain ships. The Ship Who Sang would enjoy music with her, no doubt. And she would love being out among the stars on an advanced spaceship powered by an actual human brain. Imagine the freedom of that. Two minds in perfect synch, sharing the glorious cosmos together, escaping the aching restraint of a normal existence. Helva knew her pain. Helva would understand her grief. They would make a good pair. Another slight smile appeared as her favourite stories joined the music in her mind. It felt good to smile. She hadn't smiled in a long time. Another song filtered through, an appropriate song, she thought, for the current dark place in which she dwelled.

“Fill the darkest night with a brilliant light

 'Cause it's time for you to shine 

Brighter than a shooting star 

So shine no matter where you are tonight.”

Could she truly shine with this heaviness in her heart pervading every waking moment? Every beat of her heart weighed down with the pain of her loss. Her grief sat like a monstrous being squeezing the life from her chest, crushing her spirit into a mere sliver of what it was back when the two halves were one. Two hearts, two bodies, two minds, but only one soul. One shared, glorious soul. If only she could turn back time…but time machines were still the stuff of fiction. Maybe one day they would exist, but not today. She had read about those through her teen years, imagined what life would be like if you could go back and view history for yourself. What an amazing adventure that would be. So many questions could be answered.

"Why don't we rewrite the stars,

Changing the world to be ours?"

Huh. Where did that spring from? That song seemed to mock her now. A song about forbidden love and invisible boundaries. So many people told her it couldn't be love. It wasn't allowed to be love. Marriage was between a man and a woman. Even in these apparently enlightened times, these attitudes still existed. But it was love. There was no other explanation. They rewrote the stars for them. Until it all came crashing down. One reckless person, driven by the need to keep going beyond their own physical limits. Pushed by capitalism and greed to just keep driving to collect that paycheque. One person took it all away. Maybe it wasn't allowed after all. Maybe the world was right. This pain wasn't allowed because they were “unnatural” being together.

“I don't care, go on and tear me apart
I don't care if you do, ooh-ooh, ooh
'Cause in a sky, 'cause in a sky full of stars
I think I saw you.”

Now she remembered that other Coldplay song. ‘A Sky Full of Stars.’ The resonance of those lyrics hit her like a water balloon; a sudden impact followed by a trickling release. She didn't care if she was torn apart. She didn't care about anything anymore. If only she could sleep. But sleeping causes tragedy. There had been no sleeping since it happened. Someone falling asleep had caused this mess, this pain. She couldn’t risk sleep now, despite her sheer exhaustion. She pondered briefly how odd the human mind was when it was deeply traumatised. Is this loneliness what Frankenstein’s monster had felt? Craving that which the rest of the world seemed to have so easily, yet others, outsiders, did not? His anguish had destroyed him, made him into the monster. Would she turn into a monster too? Torn apart by grief and despair until she was no longer recognisable? Would she end up alone, with her only friends the stars watching silently from above?

“You are the sentinels,

Silent and sure,

Keeping watch in the night....”

Always. Stars would always be there, watching, waiting, knowing. Ready to be whatever they were needed to be. They certainly took on many identities considering that they were inanimate objects. She paused her thoughts for a moment, closed her eyes, and let the melody take over. 

Her face was wet. She looked up again in surprise. Not a cloud in the sky. She touched a tentative fingertip to her cheek and felt the moisture.

And then, there was a voice. Initially, she didn’t recognise where it came from, unaware of the movement of her own lips, the air forced out past her vocal cords as her flawless voice lifted to the stars. Gentle echoes carried on the breeze, calling the magic of the stars down from their heavenly existence to ease her misery. The song, the words, didn’t matter in that moment. It was the voice…the voice which carried all the sorrow of all those desperately lonely months out of her soul and into the night. The voice, which learned in that moment that it could sing again…alone.

“My darlin’…I miss you…my darlin’…who knew…”

And then she knew which voice had screamed.

 

 

 

New post on Substack!

 Head on over to my substack for my latest commentary on nursing and midwifery education. Click on the pic to view it.

If you haven't subscribed to my stack already, please do so. The button is at the end of the article. A free subscription is fine.

I'll be starting work on my RN in Red podcast in the next few weeks. This is a lighthearted look inside nursing and midwifery, sharing some of the funnier moments - deidentified of course!

My next poetry project is in its planning stages as well. Stay tuned!

Waiting

 

Pieces of my mind tumble down around me, shattered shards spiralling like the aftermath of an explosion. Total decompensation, like the bursting of a balloon. Too much pressure to bear. Too much force against an already fragile mind. Now I'm trapped inside this shell, as if my soul just burst and the pieces flew away. A shadow of myself, my potential dissolved with the last fragments of my tormented being. Too weak to even lift my head.

 

I tried. I tried so hard. But nobody understands. The lure of that release, the need to escape, it overwhelms you, wraps itself tightly around all that is you, and doesn't let go. It rips away all that you love, sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but never, ever ceasing. An avalanche, or a glacier, wending its way down a mountainside. Ma was watching that Netflix film the other day, what was it called? Hillbilly Elegy, that was it. She pointed at the screen, looked at me and said “That will be you. Mark my words. You're almost there already. Hillbilly Elegy, starring my one and only daughter as she spirals out of control. The bottle will be the death of you.”

 

I wonder if she knows how much her words hurt. The negativity, the judgement. Always feeling as if I was never good enough. Never up to her standards. I would never achieve the leaping heights of academia like my brother. We are wired differently. He, the studious and disciplined intellectual type, while I, the imaginative, but somewhat disorganised creative type. Equally intelligent, yet wildly different in our expression of that intelligence. Why couldn't she accept that? Perhaps her own perceptions of failing in school fuelled her desire to see us achieve what she did not. I don't know. But I do know that her insatiable need for success was a leap I could not make. Her definition of success was not, is not, and never will be mine. 

 

Now I am safe. Safe inside the featureless box where they take away your control for your own protection. What is safety anyway? My world is reduced to a single, windowless room until they deem me safe to be unleashed upon the world again. I am not safe in the world, or the world is not safe for me? Or perhaps both?

 

A fly butts against the door, over and over, it too trapped inside this prison-that's-not-a-prison. The tap-tap-tap of its frenzied escape plot the only sound in this abyss of dull grey nothingness. All I can do is stare at the ceiling and wait as the tendrils of that desperate need work their way around me, through me, out of me. All I can do is wait and hope that the tormented fragments of my mind will reacquaint themselves into some sort of functional order.

 

All I can do is wait. 

It has arrived!

After much procrastination, a rush of editing, then some more procrastination, it's finally here! I never thought in my wildest imagination that a poetry collection would be my first solo work, but you never know where life will take you in the end. 

I am very excited to introduce "Eclectica" to you. It might only be small, but I hope you find it mighty. It contains 22 poems, with a variety of topics and styles. Subtitled "A Journey," it is a journey into yourself. Featuring the lead post from this blog, "A Mother Lost," Eclectica will pull at your emotions with deep and meaningful words.

"Experience, imagination, exploration. Diverse as the world around us. Eclectica will take you on a journey. Some fun parts, some heavy parts, some soulful parts. You'll see some of me, you'll see some of you. I have laid down the stories. The meaning you find among them will be your own. My first foray into poetry, Come, take this journey with me."

Currently formatted for paperback and e-book, you will find it on the link below:

 https://www.amazon.com.au/dp/B0C6W3HKWM?ref_=cm_sw_r_cp_ud_dp_X23ENKTMC8YAZQB2EJFX

Please enjoy, and share with your friends.

The Most Uncertain Gift

 Clouds hung low. Rain fell in sheets as she stared out the window. Today was supposed to be the day that she received the ultimate gift, but would it really happen this time? She had been here before, only to have it snatched away at the very last second. She desperately wanted to hope since she had received that early morning phone call, but dare not expect too much. She was tired. Tired of being sick. Tired of waiting. Tired of hoping. 

The weather matched her mood as she watched the palm trees in the courtyard sway in the wind, cold rivulets of rain running down their fronds and dripping onto the ground. Oddly enough, the drips were falling in time with the irritating beep of the monitoring machines above her bed. She wondered if it was an omen. Would her chance at life be washed away yet again?

She turned away from the window and sighed, examining the all-too-familiar starkness of the room.  A room that had seen many like her, waiting, hoping, praying for a miracle. A flurry of movement had seen her prepped and ready, and now they just had to wait for the final okay. Waiting. Like she had been doing for over a year. Yet this wait always seemed longer and more difficult than the months spent at home, kept alive by medical intervention, waiting for the one day that could change her life. Her own happily ever after, of sorts.

It was an odd feeling. A miracle for one was a tragedy for another. Someone had to die for her to receive the gift she so desperately needed. Someone who, out of all the millions of people, by some fateful chance was a donor match for her. Someone she would never meet, but whose life would be inextricably linked to her forever. One family, out of millions, had to give her this gift on the worst day of their lives.

The smiling surgeon appeared beside her, oozing positivity. She looked at the single, lonely rose placed by her bed, the only hint of colour in the stark, sterile room. A glimmer of hope appeared in her soul. She concentrated so hard on the flower that she barely heard the surgeon’s words.

“We’re going in. Are you ready?” 

What would she be when she woke up? The same tired, sick person, losing hope just a little bit more, or a scarred but hopeful warrior with a chance at a new life. Nobody knew. Just roll the dice and play.

"I'm ready. Let's get this show on the road."

Flags of the Forgotten

Crumbling walls still reached for the sky. Forgotten ramparts still rose in an imposing silhouette against the dawn. Drifts of dust and crumbled stone lay all around, in every nook and cranny and crevice. Where once stood a magnificent and immutable citadel, only these sad stones remained, marking the passage of time in undisturbed retrospection of their once glorious past. A millennium of secrets lay hidden within the stones, whispering their stories on the light wind that blew gently through the forgotten passages. They needed only someone to listen.

Slaves had built these walls, stacking the massive blocks higher and higher and higher, until they almost obscured the blazing sun. Slaves labouring under the flag of their Lord, through the unrelenting heat of the day and the ever-present threat of the burly guards’ lash if they strayed from the task. Forgotten people, left to build the glory of their masters in return for their mere existence. To this day, nobody knows how they built this wonder, so perfect in its engineering, with their bare hands, decades of time, and the simplest of tools. Tools they soon used to turn against their cruel masters.

Revolt and revolution were inevitable. Tyrannical masters may seem invincible, but they always fall. All through time, the cruellest of dictators have lost the obedience of the downtrodden. The neglected slaves found their voices and fought back against injustice. These towering walls became a symbol of struggle, of freedom, of justice, of liberation. Voices rang in joyous echoes as the power shifted and the despot was deposed.

The people raised their new flags high, snapping smartly atop every tower, every battlement, bright standards symbolising their hard-won freedom. People lived happily for another hundred years, building more symbols of power and human greed, until another, stronger invader took a liking to it all. An invader from over the seas who grew lustful of the wealth he had seen in this land. More bloodshed, more tears, for a different reason, or was it the same? A new victor had arrived to lead the people. Another new flag flew high that day.

Then came the glory days, when the walls were a symbol of power and indulgence, holding the stories of the rich inside them. Outside, the poor once again carried the nation on their backs to uphold the fairytale within. Life was no better for them now, than during the long-forgotten days of slavery. Stories of kings and queens and lords were recorded for posterity in tapestries and manuscripts, while the lives of the poor were ground into the very mud that they lived in, lost to the shadows of antiquity.

The flags had begun to fade, for this glory held a human price. A lonely, but exalted princess stood atop the tallest tower, staring into the heavens appealing to whatever God she believed in to find a way out of her arranged marriage. Her story is well known, one of the few that lasted to modernity. Her wailing cries are the stuff of legend – tales told for centuries about the chilling howls heard around the lonely tower on windy days. Her personal tragedy lowered the flags forever. Her royal dynasty, one that had persisted for five hundred years or more, was destroyed. Destroyed by her choice alone - to not submit to the patriarchal control that plagued noblewomen of the time. She plunged her kingdom into decades of chaos with one fateful decision. The glory days were lost with one woman’s escape from the harsh realities of her life. A life that was coveted by those who stood beneath her feet, who saw only the lavish excesses while they starved. They craved the abundance of her life but did not understand the cost of her exaltation.

And so it came to pass, that the glorious, tragic citadel was abandoned to its fate, driven by superstition and fear. One lonely, desperate princess had cursed it forever. Wars, heroes, villains, glory and defeat; all resting now with the fallen stones, their legends all but forgotten. A thousand years of secrets were hidden here, that once were living and breathing truth. A thousand summers, of festivals, of celebration, juxtaposed with ten centuries of pain, of fear, of glory steeped in blood. Ten centuries of life, ever changing like the seasons. Ten centuries standing beneath a hot sun, standing fast against the weather and the human onslaught. Ten centuries of glory and bold sacrifice reduced to rubble in the grass. If one looks closely, the faded remains of a flag can still be found, somehow preserved through time, its colours barely visible, lying forlornly in a corner. But even in ruin, the steadfastness remains, the abandoned walls still reaching for the open sky, waiting to release their vast imagination to the souls who dare to dream within their boundaries

Say Their Name

 She lay in silence, feeling the rise and fall of her emotions as they mingled and then separated. Loneliness, anger, disbelief, sadness, more feelings than she could even put a name to, yet at the same time an intense emptiness. She had the scar on her abdomen, but she didn't get the prize. Yesterday, she was full of love, full of excitement and anticipation, but today - today there was nothing. Yesterday she felt kicks and wriggles and hiccups. Today she felt nothing.

The stages of grief. Yes, she'd heard all about those. All her feelings were normal, that social worker had said. Right now she felt anger. Anger at the cruelty of having to listen to other women's babies cry, hearing their happy conversations when friends and family came to visit. Other women, sharing their stories and comparing how big their babies were and how many hours it took to give birth. The midwives were kind, finding her a single room away from most of the activity of the ward, but she could still hear it. All the joy and excitement that one would expect in a place where precious new life was brought into the world.

She wanted to join in. The little card was the same, it had all the details of her little girl's birth. The time, the weight, her date of birth. Her name. She had one. They had picked it out weeks earlier, after many cheerful arguments over a baby name app. But she couldn't bear to even look at the card. Her pain was too great.

The memories. They were always there. She didn't ask for them to come, but she couldn't escape them. She relived the events over and over in her mind, feeling the lingering agony that prevented her forgetting, even for a moment, the gut-wrenching, nauseating reality. The gnawing worry as they arrived and explained that the baby wasn't moving. Anxiety as they were rushed into a room. A flash of hope as they heard a heartbeat, that reassuring galloping sound on the monitor. The frowns of the doctor as she looked at the printout. The desperate fear as they were whisked to the operating theatre, where there were so many people, rushing around, all in the name of getting the baby out fast. The claustrophobia of the mask descending over her face - there was no time for that spinal she had been told about. Then the horror as she woke to her husband's tear-streaked face, when he had to give her the terrible news, and their world came crashing down.

She waited desperately for sleep to descend, as her mind flashed through it all again and again and again. She couldn't even cry. The first time you hold your baby is not meant to be the last. The ache, oh the constant ache, the heaviness nagged her every moment as she willed sleep to come. It was raw, it was primal. And it was hers.