Cattleya

I woke, unable to remember if conservation of energy was the first or second law of thermodynamics. It raced around in my belly, sending spirals of nausea in a complicated intricate loop before Bingley sleepily reminded me that it probably didn't matter either way. I lay in bed for a bit longer, thinking over the study of the day before, sticking it down again as if it were peeling off the walls of memory in long curly strips. I watched the dawn shadows on the ceiling and walls and the sun rose in the lightly grey morning, the curtains soft white and whispering as the house breathed in and out.

I feel overwhelmed but somehow at peace. There is no more that I can learn, no more space on the walls and so my job now is to keep all those recalcitrant, hand drawn diagrams stuck using more and more glue every hour that goes by until I'm sticky and gritty and tired.

I climbed out of bed later than I intended and poured a glass of water, sipping it slowly in the kitchen, the cool morning breeze tickling my bare belly above my pyjamas that were falling off my hips. At Bingley's insistence I cut a wedge of red papaya and scooped out the glistening seeds and carried it onto the new boards of the verandah and sat on the ground. The papaya was only just ripe, orange red and firm but releasing juice between teeth and over wrist. I scooped the flesh and watched the sky. Breathed the fresh, slightly damp air as it snaked up the hill and across my clavicle, teasing the unkempt hair and tickling it across the angle of my jaw.

The tension slowly uncoiled, the wound spring losing the obvious strain; the ache in my shoulders from holding my muscles so tight receded. I relaxed back into the wall and watched the birds fly in and out of the trees, listened to the hum of traffic unseen below and the helicopter across the sky. I saw with a tiny leap in my heart the beautiful purple orchids that have burst into bloom in my tree and took it as an omen.

The orchids belonged to my grandparents and I've had them for 12 years. How I have not killed them I am unsure, but they live still and they flower when they want, unaffected by season or care or attention. And somehow always when I need them most, when I need my grandmother's voice in my ear. Sometimes she encourages me. Often she admonishes me. Sometimes she talks about something completely unrelated. But I love that she's still there, keeping me sane.

I had a moment last night, in the lamplight with glowing skin and tumbled hair, breathing slightly unsteadily as I moved, of wondering at the sanity of repeating the branches of the external carotid artery in rhythm. Of finding the humour at an inopportune moment and spasming with laughter as I traced the path of the opthalmic branch of the internal carotid artery across Bingley's eyebrow. Leaning forward to kiss his nose as I giggled before arching my back and repeating Superior Thyroid, Ascending Pharyngeal, Lingual, Facial, Occipital, Preauricular, Maxillary, Superficial Temporal as my hair tickled my back.

I am a complete dork, but one who still has her sense of humour. And thanks to a burst of purple cattleyas, a teensy sense of hope as well.

White bread.

I've been avoiding acknowledging its possibility for approximately the last 2 years. It's always been in the back of my mind, well at least for the last 15 or so years, but as I had no symptoms I realy didn't think it was likely. But these holidays, even though the Possum is still waking once a night I've been getting quite a lot of sleep. And sunshine. And exercise (lots of exercise). And yet I still feel tired. Slightly "off".

Part of that, I reasoned, was because I've been enjoying slothing around in between gym sessions. Baking and eating and consuming far too much cheese. And if I felt a little bit crampy, a little bit bloated, then maybe the occasional drinks I've been having will be contributing.

But the tiredness can't really be fobbed off that way. I know I have a massive sleep debt. I know that the Possum means that I don't get to entirely regulate my own sleep cycles, but it's more than that.

Part of it is assuredly my anxiety at the moment, which, as my fingernails can attest, has been rampant. But that's settling down. I am feeling more human. I am laughing a lot more and more easily. I am finding all the good things in my existence instead of pining after the things I can't have, which I have found do not (obviously) contribute to a sense of well-being.

But again, it's more than that.

My grandmother, who I don't mention enough considering her importance in my life, was an enigmatic, energetic, mentally sparkling woman. She was a ferocious competitor in board games and at cards and was not the sort of benevolent granny who "let you win". If you won against her it was a triumph to remember through the ages. Thanks to her no-one I know will play cards against me, having inherited that sharp and canny way of bamboozling opponents. But no win was as sweet as laying down Canasta against Nana. In fact, I can remember her voice clearly, in one phrase that se used to use while playing my Dad (perhaps the only person on the planet I know who is more competitive than me) at Scrabble.

She was a painter and artist. She especially liked painting porcelain and scattered through the family are her gifts of hand painted plates, porcelain dolls and Victorian jewellery boxes and powder boxes. She crocheted and knitted like a demon also, fingers always busy, never one to sit still. She had a ferocious determination to grow begonias and fuschias and battled against the soil that she insisted on growing them in until they flowered.

I still have a tin of her pencils and paint brushes in the top of my wardrobe. It smells slightly of cedar, slightly of cinnamon and completely of a scent that belonged only to her. A scent that recalls sitting in her rocking chair, listening to her berate the Australian cricket team and brand them all cheats and poor sports as her fingers moved with lightning speed, hooking wool through loops that she didn't even look at to create.

To say that I loved her is woefully inadequate. To say that she was my mentor, guardian and the person who understood me more fully than any other on the planet doesn' come close. There is a spark of recognition amongst the race that knows Joseph, that is unable to be fabricated. It's either there or it isn't. And we were definitely of the same race.

Family was the most important thing in her life. Children and babies and adults coming together to celebrate noisily was a faithful part of my childhood. And at everyone of these gatherings she'd be in the centre, with al of us orbiting around her, drawn in by her remarkable gravity and presence. Sitting around the outdoor tables at Christmas, plates groaning with food, Aunty Gail's slice sitting in tupperware waiting and Aunty Sue's cheesecake beckoning. Rum balls in the centre, all the flavours of Christmas that as soon as they spread on my tongue even now recall that pure joy.

Nana always made her own special food for these occasions too, funny salads and boiled potatoes and other good things. Things that, I realise only now, didn't contain wheat. Because Nana had coeliac disease. A disease that seemed more a nuisance than anything else. It meant that she would only occasionally sneak a rumball. Or a piece of cake. Never bread, because 15 years ago there really wasn't the variety of gluten free anything tat there is now. She was pretty good with managing it. I'm not sure when or how she was diagnosed, I never thougt to ask. Even wen she was diagnosed with the lymphoma that is associated with autoimmune diseases it didn't occur to me, being as I was only 18 and didn't really have a clue what any of it meant anyway.

Until she died. Horribly. 3 months later. I couldn't get enough of information about cancer, lymphoma, chemotherapy and treatments. I researched biology and chemistry in my spare time, wanting to know what it meant. Trying to understand. A path that eventually lead to me sitting the GAMSAT exam and entering medical school. A path that caused me to give Bingley a chance and to start a family of my own. A path that lead me to sitting here, in my little house with 3 children, a husband and a whole bunch of letters after my name.

But it was trying to understand her and how we could have somehow staved off her death that was the real motivator. One of those useless magical thinking traps that we all perhaps enter into when faced with things that we just don't want to deal with.

A few years after she died my sister was diagnosed with coeliac disease. And my two Aunts, who stopped making cheesecake and chocolate caramel slice, were diagnosed too. But with only 1 first degree relative, a couple of second degree relatives and no symptoms I never really considered it.

Then my Dad, who has given blood voluntarily over 250 times was rejected because his blood count was a bit off. So he went off to get investigated and words like bowel cancer were thrown into the "have to exclude" mix, so that we were relieved when we found out it was "only" coeliac disease.

And so now I have 2 first degree relatives, 3 second degree relatives and I am symptomatic. I am not ready to be tested though. I love wheat. I love dense Italian bread. I love lighter, crusty French bread. I love baking. I love kneading dough. I adore pasta and noodles. And did you know gluten is in barley and rye? And possibly oats? Or that half of the thickeners, sugars and syrups in any sort of processed food are derived from wheat?

I knew that, but today, in an effort to just see how I go with a low gluten diet I actually considered all the things I can't have. As someone who primarily eats meat, fruit and vegetables (and the cheese foodgroup), it's not such a shock to the system, but almost ALL the convenience foods are out. No quick sandwich for lunch. No cereal for breakfast (unless it's the prohibitively expensive, cardboard flavoured gluten free variety). No muesli bars. No porridge for breakfast. No up and go when I'm too rushed to make a proper breakfast. No biscuits (not that this is a great loss) or cake.

And of course, after 3 days of eating low/no gluten all I want is bread. I want a baguette to eat on its own with butter. I want cake and biscuits even though I don't normally eat it. I want some dense, grainy bread that crunches between my teeth. I even looked at a bag of jubes (even though the last time I bought a bag of lollies was for the Elfling's birthday party) in the Supermarket today.

Denial's a powerful thing, and if this experiment leads me to further testing I guess I will have to unOstrich a little. But right now I can't bear to think of never again being able to have a guilt free bowl of penne with home made pesto. Or being able to roll out my own ravioli.

But every time this week I've thought of it, and considered abandoning it al for denial, I've thought of the grief of losing someone who meant more to me than all the chocolate cake in the world and eat my banana chips instead. Because what I want most out of life is to be like her. To have meant so much, to so many people not through what she did, but because of who she was.

Unscheduled Intermission

If Iceland can spew volcanic ash over most of Europe and black it out, I guess it can come as no surprise a few weeks later that domestic difficulties in the Gleam household can lead to writing cessation, no matter how good the intent.

In short, there have been things that have needed my attention more lately. Things that, without hopefully being too melodramatic have significant potential to impact the course of my life.

I sat in a rainbow yesterday, not a natural one, but a prismatic one formed at a bus shelter, and turned my hand in it. Let the turmoil that seethes under my skin to be forgotten properly for the first time in a week as the colours danced across my palm. It seemed too perfect, and too unlikely. This splash of unmanufactured coloured light.

It is very difficult being 28 and realising that you have chosen the lifestyle of one much older than yourself when you still feel and react like someone your own age. It is very difficult to realise that you made choices and decisions when you were little more than a child. And most difficult of all, is realising that adult decisions aren't always fun, they don't always feel good to make, but that sometimes it's not about you, and that you have to think more clearly than of the moment, and of the feeling.

My work is hard and confronting. I deal with death, I deal with families, I deal with illness and fatigue and pain. Every single day. Every single patient. I feel it with each, feel the pall of it. I find things to be joyful about, small victories to hold. And yet some days it seeps under your skin. The decay and deterioration.

It's made harder by my own experiences of death. My harsh yanking from childhood into adulthood via the death of my grandmother. The grief that I held around my heart for years, tempered only by time, still painful and bleeding if I so much as peeked at it.

The intertwined story of the relationship with my Bingley. Support and love and unquestioning kindness. Gratitude for care and touch and love. The drift into years and the way that I coped with loss physically. Touch to soothe my nerves. Joy of discovery pushing pain out of my every day consciousness. The feeling that Nana had given me Bingley. Of using that unwavering faith that she had given me him when I was unsure.

This is a big jumble of thoughts and needs unravelling. And it had come to the forefront because I let it. Not consciously, but through the pursuit of the Gleam. Of being blinded by it. And now left in confusion.

So I hope you'll forgive me the days of non-posting. I do mean to make them up, if I at all can.

Morbidity

I have always liked my hands. Liked the smooth, hairless skin that stretches taut over tendons and bones. That allows me to see how my fingers work. I love how if I extend my fingers, the skin is softer, malleable. The veins soft and spongy, filled with blood under fingertips.

I remember looking at my mother’s hand when I was little and noticing that it was not quite the same as mine. The skin had a different turgor, but was still malleable. Still smooth. In contrast to my grandmother’s skin. Which was leathery and wrinkled. Old. Never desiccated, always a bit plump, but not youthful.

When she died I remember holding my grandmother’s warm, lifeless hand. And feeling the tendons and bones and her tiny fingers, even smaller than my own. I kept waiting for the squeeze back into my hand, the universal symbol for life. But it never came and it never will. Because even though she was still warm, even though cells were still going about their enzymatic business, that which gave her life had gone. And soon those cells would stop, and then there was nothing.

I work closely with the dying now. I meet people who are going to die. Not just as a far off certainty, like taxes and crazy Christmas shopping, but as a finite days to weeks to perhaps months timeline. And it is endlessly confronting. Rewarding, important and sensitive work, but confronting as well.

It’s easy to stick a cannula into a plump juicy vein and prepare someone for surgery. It was easy to listen to a chest and order an x-ray when my whole raison d’etre was to patch people up and send them on home. But the challenges involved when they are not going home, or if they are, it’s not to get back on with regular life, are endless.

My mother’s hands remind me of my grandmother’s lately. My breath caught as the concept plainly presented itself to me, that any day my mother could present me with the diagnosis that I am witness to daily here in the hospital of terminal demise. That while there are still decades left of my relationship with her in my mind, so too did others believe that of their loved ones.

My own hands are not quite the same. They are still smooth and soft and capable. Unwrinkled and barely marked, but they too will show signs soon. That age is inescapable. I guess this is why plastic surgery is so popular, no one wants to be reminded that they are ageing, edging closer to nothing.

Anniversaries

It's my niece's birthday today. It's also her anniversary and that of my much loved Nana. Thinking of them both, wishing they were her to enjoy the warm drowsy day. Will write later, but wanted a post just for them.

83

According to the Australian Institute of Health and Welfare that is the life expectancy for females in Australia. Which means that reasonably I could have expected that today I would have come home early from work, picked up the girls and taken them to Redcliffe and spent the afternoon with Nana and celebrated her birthday. Because according to the AIHW she should have had on average at least another 7 birthdays left before she became a statistical average.

Except she died nearly 8 years ago. Which is her. Nothing about her was average.

I want to write so much but even putting my fingers on the keyboard is making my face crumple. Outside now grown into our fence is one of Nana's orchids which has burst into vivid purple bloom, a splash of colour against the winter frostiness of our yard. 5 massive flowers, the biggest display I've ever had from it, all flowering on her 76th birthday.

It makes me so angry that she's not here. It's so unfair. She would have loved my babies so much, would have loved me and supported me so much. Seeing the Elfling and the Monkey would have been such a perfect birthday present for her. She was always the relative I identified with best, who seemed to understand me the best. More than my parents, more than my other grandparents who I know loved and adored me as well, but Nana was someone who was like an older version of me. Who I wanted to be. She did so much for me, and still does. I want her to be here. Want her to know that I have children and a husband and I want her to know my babies names. I want to hear her say my babies names. I want to hear her voice again. Want her to wipe the floor with me in Scrabble. Want to see her paintings, see her sitting on her rocker with her feet curled up like I do with a mass of crochet in her lap as her nimble fingers worked too fast to see.

But you know the crazy thing? If she hadn't died I would not be married or have either of my girls.

I still wish she was here.

I started back at work today, leaving the house at dawn and getting back home well after dark. It was an interesting and mentally exhausting day that left me spent. The last case of the day I correctly diagnosed over a registrar who got it wrong, but I really wish she was right - because her diagnosis was happy and mine was not. When I got to my connecting busstop to watch my bus pulling out knowing that I was already going to be home too late to do much besides kiss my girls before bed I sat down and burst into tears. And while I was sitting there a santa claus blew up off of the congested city street and into my lap.

And I held it and could not think of a wish to make. Because although I am sad, my life is still wonderful, and my babies are safe and warm and healthy, and because of my Nana they are here. Even if the AIHW says that she should be.

Donna's Topic

Why Jenn wants to be a doctor...

Hmm, good question. Now to come up with an interesting way to answer... basically, in a nutshell I fell into it. Which is not an interesting answer, and I wish I could say it was my lifelong dream. But it isn't. My lifelong dream involves living in Southern Spain perhaps, painting in a sundrenched stone walled studio with a hammock off the side for much lazing and not much working. Maybe wandering down to the vineyards occasionally to check the sugar content of my grapes and planning my next sojourn through Provence and getting round and ruddy off wine and cheese. Or that's the dream du jour.

Through primary school and highschool I had very flighty dreams. Mathematician, physicist, astronomer, archaeologist, research scientist, interpreter, author. They all had favour with me for a decent period of time, and I still secretly want to be all of the above. So come the end of highschool when we had to put in preferences for uni, we all had to trudge up to the Careers Counsellor and tell him what we were hoping to do, and whether our OPs would match up. And if we were still having difficulty deciding - fill in this questionnaire and it will supposedly spit out your dream career.

And in my interview with the careers counsellor, he looked at my OP prediction (1-3) and said "well getting in is not going to be a problem... what do you want to do?". And my response? "I have no [freaking] idea". I had one course that I was going to apply for, and that was Arts/Science dual degree at uni, precisely because I had no other direction. Arts/Science would allow me to do a bit of everything. The test thing that would supposedly answer all my floundering questions was useless - about the only thing it didn't recommend as a career was hospitality. Though I still scored OK there. The career dude was very unhappy with me applying for only one course - you're allowed to put up to 6 preferences, but being as the required OP for my course was an 8 and that I could have failed all of my end of year exams and scored at least a 5, I wasn't understanding his anxiety on that front.

So I turned up at uni, with no idea what I was going to do, clasping a course guide book and a highlighter and sat down in the great court highlighting stuff that looked interesting. My first semester included French, Spanish, Chemistry and Biology subjects. I absolutely adored the French, enjoyed the Spanish and sort of winged the Science stuff. In later semesters I also studied History, Archaeology, Human Biology and Physiology, Physics, Pure and Linear Maths and enrolled briefly in both German and Russian (dropped because the timetables didn't allow me to sleep until noon). I have maintained for a very long time that my Arts degree kept me sane. It was what a uni degree should be - challenging and philosophical and it taught me to think laterally and openly. Unfortunately though, the great cliche of Arts students is somewhat relevant in that finding a job with my Arts degree would have been quite difficult.

So I went on a career search. This was no doubt influenced by the fact that during my second year, my grandmother (who I was very close to) became very ill and subsequently died from a relatively rare form of cancer, which I spent a lot of nights researching into the wee hours. I had the grades, intellect and personality to study medicine, and I liked the multifaceted nature of the profession. I also, and I can't lie, liked the guaranteed job and income at the end. So I applied, sat the exam and interview and did well and started my degree. And it's only while I've been here and been doing this course that I have really discovered my passion for it.

This is an amazing vocation, and I cannot wait to be out there actually practising. I love the interaction with others, I love the opportunity to heal not only patients, but relatives, friends and families as well. I love that I can get such intense personal satisfaction from doing good things. I also love that I never ever stop learning. It is impossible to know all that there is to know in medicine, aside from anything else it is an ever expanding field. It comes with great frustrations and tragedy, as will any job involving actual human beings - but the enjoyment I get out of it is second to none. Being in birth suite in the last few months has been incredible - to be a part of something so life changing in others lives. I am very lucky to have chosen a job that allows me that.

So hope that answers your question Donna! Hopefully I didn't bang on too much *blush*

Ghosts of Christmas Past

Christmas was the constant in my young life. Joyful, exciting, anticipated for months in advance, and always following the same much loved routine. Breakfast at our little gabled house, lunch with Nana and Grandad and Mum's family in Toowoomba then driving down the range in the late afternoon towards Redcliffe for the loud and vibrant celebration with Dad's family.

The Toowoomba celebration was always out the front of the little white house under the Jacaranda tree that I fell out of when I was 10 busting my hip. Tinsel in the gawky evergreen tree that never seemed to grow or bush out but just *was*. Cold ham and turkey and devilled eggs (I made those), and mum's desserts, a pav and then a cold mango that was Grandad's special treat for us. We'd be sitting there in our beautiful Christmas dresses that Mum had finished the day before (cursing and swearing never to do again), with a tea towel tucked up under our chins as we slurped that cold mango-y goodness.

Nana would be sitting back with her beer or glass of sars, jovial and beaming at the sight of excited pink cheeked grandchildren fussing over their new presents. Mum and Dad sweaty and tired looking in the heat, Grandad pottering in the background, chucking us under the chin occasionally and loving us and all that we did on Christmas Day.

Stuffed full of good things to eat and the excitement and the heat we'd pile back into the commodore station wagon (I can still remember the license plate 15 years on) with our Santa sacks fairly bursting with loot under our feet. Before we strapped in I'd fish out whichever much coveted book that Santa had delivered in preparation for the 2 hour drive ahead, while my little brother and sister passed out, usually with their heads bobbing on my shoulders, while I immersed myself in the wonder of the new tale.

As we pulled onto the Deagon deviation the heat would be starting to go from the day and a little snake of excitement would start squirming in my belly. My book would get put down (usually past half finished) and I would gaze out the window watching the eucalypts flash by and wait for that first glimpse of the sea - nudging little sister so that we could compete to see who could see it first. Sometimes we'd cheat and pretend to see it, but nothing felt like the flash at seeing the low sun on the glinting water with the lazy pelicans overhead as we sped across the Hornibrook bridge towards the house in Hill Pde that was bursting at the seams. People who looked just like me but older or younger or louder spilling out of the tiny 2 bedroom house. Loud games of hotly contested backyard cricket, Aunts in the kitchen booming out greetings as they organised salads and chocolate caramel slice and trays for the barbeque. Dad and the Uncles doing the man dance around the BBQ and stoking it so that sparks flew out of the chimney while we ran around chased by the fumes of the RID we slathered on to keep the bloodthirsty mozzies at bay.

In the middle of this joyous chaos would be Nana, her round belly squished into yours as she gave you a gigantic bear hug and praised Mum for her Christmas dress creations, chiding Dad for something, her accent which I never noticed until she died even more strident. Poppop would be there too, chastising us naughty children while giving us a pipe smoke scented bone crushing hug that we never realised would be something we'd miss along with his Welsh-lilt. He would usually be sitting in his chair in the corner, with a cheeky bedimpled, 2 year old "Poppy's Pest" on his knee as Nana and the Maiden Aunt would herd us all into the lounge room for the orgy of gift giving. We'd charge on in, desperate for the place closest to the evaporation fan in the sweltering humidity, glowing with heat and sweat and exuberance.

Then the gifts would be handed out, piles and piles of shiny wrapped gifts stacked in front of the Christmas tree distributed to the symphony of tearing paper and oohs and ahhhs. Someone would sneakily turn on the cricket and it would be in the background, with Dad and Poppop and the uncles all throwing in their 10c and Nana insisting she didn't care who won as long as it wasn't the Australians and especially that horrible Shane Warne. I remember sitting there amongst the chaos and just beaming with joy that I got to be a part of this wonderful ritual. The cacophany of noise, of children laughing, of adults exclaiming and arguing and benevolently trying to ply us with fourth helpings of food.

Then as some of the families trickled home, the backgammon board and the beat up Scrabble box coming out so that Dad and Nana could compete for the most competitive family member. Reading terrible terrible bon bon jokes and laughing uproariously while wearing silly paper hats. Picking up my new book and finishing it. Feeling spent but still excited. So high on life that if I could bottle that sensation and sell it I would be the richest woman in the world. The wonder and the magnificence and the magic of it all.

So much of that was shattered when Nana died. We never realised before she was gone how much that magic Christmas had been her. Two of her son's marriages have broken down since. Many of her 13 grandchildren don't come to the family celebrations any more, after she left we just didn't know what to do. That chaos and joy had been centred around her and it could never be the same again. We've tried to emulate it but it just isn't. When Poppop died 18 months later we stopped pretending. For Mum and the Aunties we try and all meet up once a year again, and it's fun, but every time I go there's a wistful bit of me that remembers the ghost of Christmas past and mourns for what we once had.

For 6 years though we have had Christmas with Mum's family largely untouched. The same ritual of going there for lunch under the jacaranda tree while children run around outside, except in recent years it has been our children adding to the mob cruising around and stuffing themselves with cold meats and salads and glorying in their swags of gifts. It's felt strange going from child to adult, but the transition was gradual and only finalised when I brought my own child. Nana would still fuss over me and the girls though, and even though her health has been woeful as she gasped for every last breath she was still *there* and Christmas was still Christmas there under the jacaranda eating mum's trifle and those devilled eggs.

This year there is no Christmas at Hill Pde and there is not going to be Christmas under the jacaranda. We're forging our own traditions at home and I love that my girls are going to have their own rituals that they remember every year. But I am still wistful for that drive over the bridge with the glimpse of the water and the pelicans overhead. I still miss the pungent smell of RID and the cacophony of noise and bustle and cheer. I miss my Nanas and their effusive love for all things Christmas, the tinge of Poppop's pipe smoke and eating the last square of chocolate caramel slice. I miss the fact that from this year forward, I will never be the child at Christmas again - I pass that joy and privilege to my own children.

Death

You never forget the day that you meet Death. The day that you go from childish innocence in believing that nothing bad will ever happen to someone you love. I was 19 years and 3 days old the day I first met Death.

It hovered over the bed, sucking the life from Nana with each gasping, torturous breath as Poppop's heart shattered and we the helpless gathered in vigil around the shell that was once the most vibrant bond between all of us in the room. Occasionally a little consciousness would fight its way to the surface and break through so that Nana could look at Poppop with tortured eyes while his soul split with a silent ripping so loud my heart even yet rings with it. But with every fight Death came closer, until there was no breath, until there was no life, until there was no Shining Light that had been Nana.

When I was 24 years and 3 days old, 5 years exactly from my first (but not last) meeting with death, I heard news again that Death had come and ripped another soul in shreds and that silent scream stabbed my heart again. This time it was the niece that was so much wanted and loved that her mother chose to be in pain herself rather than cause any to her. A little star was born to impact indelibly on those who knew her.

I am 26 years and 3 days old today, 2 years from the birth and death of the Little Star and 7 years from the death of the Shining Light and I can still feel the stab of pain as accutely as I felt it on both days. I still go to turn into Nana's street and I can't quite believe that she hasn't met the Elfling and the Monkey who she would have adored. I can't quite believe that the Elfling is not playing with her little cousin, that there are not 3 little grotty fairies to line up on the couch for family photos along with 2 impish boy cousins.

I've met Death many times now through life and through hospitals, and I still hate her. She is cruel.