Eclipse

I woke with the curtain brushing across my cheek and the morning sun already filtering through my lashes. Tomorrow, the sun will wake me again, before disappearing, hiding behind the moon. Last week I would have been just under the path of the true eclipse, hoping for a fine day - though what other sort of day would I have had in the place that hadn't rained for 3 months? But I would not be anywhere else but here, enjoying the partial eclipse from the verandah as the breeze rushes up the hill.

There's an excitement and romanticism about the eclipse. One that extends to its very name despite what Stephenie Meyer may have attempted to do to besmirch it. I imagine there will be many proposals tomorrow under the dark morning sky - promises to be lights in darkness, suns to moons etc etc. The thought makes me smile, but I am still happier home with my partial eclipse and my partially romantic life.

Because, after 18 hours along the Bruce Highway I am home. Properly home. Not just for a weekend, not for a holiday, but home. I have given up my little flat with the wallaby that came in the mornings and the evenings, foraging in the grass. I have said goodbye to the little room where I danced in the dark and the friends I made in the middle of the night. I am back from being someone respected and feted to bottom of the ladder again and it's the way it should be.

I received an amazing end of term report and even nicer personal reviews. There is nothing quite like the feeling of having your mentors think well of you, and not only think well but share that with you and with others. To have people that will remember you, long after you've stopped working under them but will write nice things when a reference is required. But even nicer is the knowledge that they liked me as a person, respected and genuinely enjoyed my company. It made what could have been an awful time not only bearable but valuable.

In some ways it has been hard coming home and being responsible for hair brushing and dinner for 5 and setting the table and loads of laundry. To a husband that not only has never thought of writing me sonnets about suns and moons but who has become profoundly depressed about his lack of employment since I've been gone and as aware as I am that my hours are now much less and I am earning barely enough to keep us all afloat. To the extent that I am looking for a second job because a life of just getting by is too difficult.

But somehow, even with those stressors, I'm still happier home. Where I'm woken in the morning by the brush of curls under my chin and the sun in my eyes. Even if it will be hidden for a time tomorrow. The shadow will pass. And it's not the same unless I was on a yacht anyway, watching the moon ink the waves.

Exhale

Whoever said that money can't buy happiness is probably right. It didn't for example buy me the view of this beautiful tree every morning. Or the cows that moaned their greeting in the early light. Or the goats. Or the grassy wind that swept over the plains beyond.





Nor did it buy the beautiful drive up the mountain. Winding through trees so green they made my heart soar, and rivulets that ran beside the road singing joyfully before crescendoing like a Welsh choir over the causeways.



It didn't technically pay for the way my ears popped as we wound around the steep path up the private mountain, watching the sheer cliffs of the majestic scenic rim peep out from their forested covers. Or for the wallabies that hopped across our path or the fat, lazy cows that meandered across it.



Instead, it paid for a room with a fireplace made from stones handcut in Scotland when Settled Australia was newly born. Hand hewn rock that delighted my fingertips as I pondered it's history. Cedar shutters on floor to ceiling windows that beheld an uninterrupted view of mountains and trees and humming fields of grass and wildflowers. The sweet spicy scent from the cedar tickling my belly and warming my senses. L'occitane bath salts in a spa I could stretch out in and read a full book from beginning to end. 7 course menus with wines I've never tasted before matched perfectly in crystal that made me ache with their simple perfection



Board games and cards as the rain thundered down, a warm grey blanket that we watched roll in from the valleys below to keep us cosy. Laughing games at the pool table with drinks handed to us with so much as a lifted eyebrow. Canapes and cups of tea.


Walking across the sodden trails while the bees hummed so merrily that the air was alive with it. The sweetness of clover and the sharpness of thistle matched by the wildflowers that dappled the green.



Sitting back, looking out over the vastness of the panorama. Drinking in the air and the view and that wild tang of being somewhere remote and isolated. And that delighted, delightful sensation of being on holiday, even if it can be measured in mere hours. Curled up on the window seat, a cashmere rug in tasteful neutrals thrown over my knees, a giant fluffy white bathrobe tied around my waist.

Flannelette

I've thought about it a couple of nights now, guiltily, because I would normally never do such a thing. And as the nights have gone on I've wanted to more. Because after coming home from the late call outs, it's often the last thing I want to do, when normally it feels so good. One of those passive stress relievers that starts the instant it touches my skin.

And tonight, my last night on call here, my last night of working in this crazy little town with some adorable people, some stoic people, some unhappy people and every other type of people there is, I decided that when my phone rang I didn't care. I got in my car to drive the 100m to the hospital in my pyjamas. And saw a patient while wearing my hoodie, my singlet and my favourite swallow dappled flannelette. And I did not care.

As I curled up in my chair with my knees under my chin and sorted out some ridiculous regime of medications I was comfy. The soft fabric against my skin soothed the prickled hairs on the back of my neck from the callout that I tried to remind myself was just as valid as any other.

Another night of being at work or working for 14+ hours. And it strikes me as odd, that I'm not only feeling relief that tomorrow night I will be sleeping in my $1000 a night getaway for Bingley's birthday, but sadness too, because I have done good here. I know I have. I have helped, I have worked hard, I have got my job done and I have done it well. I have filled in a million bits of paperwork, put in at least 100 sutures. Removed at least 10 suspicious skin lesions. Removed a tick. Treated asthma attacks. Treated anaphylaxis. Treated chest pain that was a heart attack. Treated chest pain that was reflux. Treated chest pain that was a muscle strain. Treated chest pain that was a panic attack. I have treated 2 day old babies and 97 year old ladies. And everyone in between.

I have put fluorescent drops in eyes and watched them glow under blue lights. I have injected antibiotics and put in cannulas and set up IV lines. I have strapped knees and I have glued eyebrows. I have looked in too many ears to count, at least 100, maybe twice that number. I have listened to swooshy heart beats. And mechanical valves. And systolic murmurs and mixed murmurs. I have frozen off warts and keratoses with liquid nitrogen which I got to suck out of the big pot of it in the treatment room. I have swished urine dipsticks and watched a lot of negative pregnancy tests show up. I've done pelvic exams and pap smears. Listened to so many stories of people's lives, been the first person that some have ever told about their childhood abuse and the first to try and get them help.

I've annoyed people when I wouldn't give them antibiotics for a cold, and annoyed even more when I've refused to renew temazepam prescriptions. Upset some when I suggested alternatives to opioid medications and outright refused to prescribe pseudoephedrine. But I've been listened to too, and have mostly felt that people walk out of my room getting the best treatment they could. I have held no judgement for the staggering number of STIs that I have diagnosed, and sympathised with the fears of those that come in asking for it. I have given whooping cough vaccines and prescribed a lot of antibiotics for those who have come in contact with it.

And my overwhelming impression, even having worked at least 60 hours this week already, not including the middle of the night phone calls for advice, is that I love this. And I have never been more sure in my life that this is what I should be doing. I was born for it.

December

Work is... nuts. I am sure there are more eloquent ways to describe it, but... nuts. 14-16 hour days are making me slowly devolve into some barely sentient creature and think longingly of the weekend.

Friday last week I finished my clinic, hopped in the car to go to the hospital and to do a ward round before I went home. Unfortunately there was a pile of tasks ready for me, and I was exhausted before I got in the car and drove home, arriving some hours later and feeling the after effects of eating KFC for the first time in about 4 years. The road was wet and sloshy and the traffic heavy as I kept shaking the tiredness from my shoulders and shivering in the airconditioning needed to stop the windscreen fogging.

Saturday morning was pretty blissful, waking up in my own bed and with my own babies around me was near perfect. Love them to bits and I hadn't realised how much I missed them until I was home. Unfortunately my heartsick paranoia with regards to the Possum proved to be founded when he spent the next few hours refusing to come near me and burying his face in Bingley's shoulder, cutting my heart out and stepping on it with each refusal to acknowledge me. By nap time I had had to remind myself that he would be OK and that this was just his reaction to me being away while fighting the urge to breathe rapidly into a paper bag. Luckily Bingley had allowed me to start talking about Christmas, and a hokey, gorgeous photo of my whole family with Santa had cheered me right up.

By lunchtime he had started to forgive me, and he was lighting up as ever when I played with him, but with a wariness that still pains me and makes prickles in my eyes. Lunch was out with family and friends to celebrate Bingley's 30th birthday with cake and food and noisy children running around and feeling guilty that I hadn't organised any of it. Usually birthdays are such a big thing for me and I felt a little bit small that I hadn't even made Bingley a cake.

Coming home that afternoon the Elfling had a birthday party ad the Monkey and I bought supplies for Christmas cooking. Fudge and rumballs and rocky road being a necessity at this time of year, 16 hour work days notwithstanding. And when we picked up the Elfling, we decided to finally put up the Christmas tree. A tradition that is cemented into my make up and makes me soul glad every single year. Unfortunately the Monkey celebrated by vomiting spectacularly over the lounge room floor and had to be put to bed, as she plaintively cried "I hate being little" apropos of nothing.

The Elfling did a good deal of the decorating of the tree, and we chatted about the ornaments as they went up. The red glass baubles that I bought for my second Christmas with Bingley; the Royal Doulton procelain figurines that play music that Mum had given the girls; the Willowtree figurine that the Monkey had been given when she was born; the 12 days of Christmas; the tiny delicate fairies that Santa had bought the girls in 2008; the stars that Bingley and I had made out of wire our first Christmas together - too poor to buy the baubles I longed for and light enough to survive on our Franklin's Norfolk Pine that I had bought in lieu of a fake Christmas tree.

We did it all to the soundtrack of carols that I have sung every year of my life and I glowed a little to hear the Elfling sing along too. The Possum, having now completely forgiven me as shiny things were on offer helped decorate the tree too. He loved fetching a bauble from the box and pushing it at the tree, perplexed when it wouldn't stay, before handing it to me to hang. He dutifully went back and forth, picking up the little wooden figurines carefully and waiting for them to be hung on the tree, before he discovered the singular joy of pulling glass baubbles off the tree, a game that is still being played out daily (and resulted in Sunday morning finding half of my glass baubles below knee height being found in the bin where he had gleefully deposited them).

We ended the night exhausted, with the cheap musical Santa in front of te tree bouncing around singing Jingle Bells while a thoroughly happy Possum bounced and swayed in time to the music, with a cuteness that sells toilet paper and fabric softener.

Sunday morning I whipped up a double batch of fudge (see last year for recipe, even better this year, am culinary goddess); some rumballs and rocky road ready to go in the "teacher appreciation" present bags for this year and assurances from Bingley that the same would be delivered to said teachers. Lunch time the girls were ratty and tired - a terrible omen considering both were dancing in their ballet end of year concert that afternoon and so they both had a lie down, Bingley and I terrified that the Elfling was coming down with the 24h gastro that he, I, the Possum and the Monkey had all suffered in the preceding days. But come early afternoon all was well as I pulled hair back into sleek shiny buns and applied stage make up for the first time in my life, trying not to flinch from the effect of the subtlest make up I was allowed on my perfect babies' skin. To say that the Elfling was excited was understatement in the extreme, and even the grumpy Monkey was happy to stand in front of the mirror and admire her pinked lips.

Arriving at ballet they both ran off, assuaging my fears of the Monkey refusing to walk out on stage and Bingley and both sets of grandparents and I sat in the darkened theatre waiting for the show. We knew tat the Monkey would be in an early dance, as the very well run school understands that 4 year olds are not the most patient or cooperative group at the best of times, and as the music swelled to announce their dance I spontaneously started crying as my tiny pixie tiptoed onto stage in her snowflake tutu with a silly sparkly crown on her head. She was so cute it hurt, the very sweet, very age appropriate dance making me (and half the audience) giggle as they tried to remember their steps. I was so ridiculously proud of her for running so confidently onto the stage and dancing her heart out that I felt like my heart was out of my chest.

The Elfling's dance was soon after and her long limbs, confident steps and bossy redirection of girls who were not in quite the right position had me both laughing and sooking all over the place again. She has grown so much in a year and I love her to bits. I love how much she loves dancing and how much that shows in her performance. Truthfully I don't know if she's good, she had an extra role in the dance and she seemed very graceful, but she loves it so much I couldn't help but be captivated by her. I was barely aware of anyone else on stage.

Afterwards I swapped my white linen pants (I know, I have no idea when I morphed into a soccer mom either) for black leggings and a wide black belt and a swathe of eyeliner to head to Muse with Bingley. We had general admission tickets for the first time in years and as we headed in to the GA floor we both giggled as we sat up against the audio engineer's box and talked about how tired we were at 8pm. The GA tckets were worth it though as the view, the atmosphere and the spontaneous dancing made for an excellent night. The music was incredible and as a live show the performances wre absolutely amazing as were the sets and lighting. There wasn't much engagement with the crowd though, and while there doesn't need to be a whole lot of chatting, I came away feeling like I'd just watched a video of an awesome performance. There hadn't been much to make it stand out aside from the incredible music of Muse.

Musically I can't complain, because the dense mix of heavy sound presided over by Matt Bellamy's incredible voice was amazing - music that completely fires up my blood and in the case of songs like Supermassive Black Hole electrifies it. But I like engagement, or at least acknowledgement that you are playing for a crowd and not just that you've been told to stand there and perform.

We got home at about midnight on Sunday and that anticipatory dread started curling in my belly when I realised I would have to get up at dawn the next morning to head back here for work. As I tossed in bed I thought longingly of sleeping in next to Bingley and waking whenever we wanted instead of dragging myself out at the insistent peal of my alarm and numbly standing under the cold shower before remembering to turn on the hot.

I arrived in time to do my ward round however, and worked solidly all day with barely a half hour break for lunch before working all afternoon, and as it transpired, well into the night. I was so tired last night that when I had finally stitched up all the problems in the hospital for the evening I ordered pizza and then numbly watched tv for a little while before falling into bed.

Today was not much better, starting at 0700 and finishing after 2100 where I was grateful for the cold half uneaten pizza from the night before and I tried not to cry as I talked to Bingley. The tiredness seeping in under my skin and making me homesick. I was snappish with a nurse tonight and I feel dreadful about it, knowing that I'm tired is not an excuse for it, and i apologised but still feel wretched. I still love my work here, and I think I could do it as a career, but doing it away from family is so hard. At first it was easier, because I could be totally selfish, but I need my little chaotic nest to come home to, that rejuvenates me and fills me up with love every evening, instead of this strange place where I can hear the clocks ticking and the bedrooms are empty.

Anyhow, it's bedtime now for me. I'm sorry this is so disjointed, I can't write flowing prose at present, so it's little more than dot points. But I want to read back on these days sometime, and remind myself of just how hard I worked, and how much I enjoyed it. Even if at times it felt like the tiredness would eat me up in one big gulp.

There are goats too

I like it here. I like my job. I like deciding after a long day to keep driving past my driveway and getting lost on dirt roads between recently mown lucerne fields and knee high corn plants dancing in the wind. I like the way the dust billows out behind the tyres, and how the ruts shudder up into the steering wheel as the galahs and cockatoos rise out in front of me.

I like sitting up in bed and getting a call to come in and doing something helpful and useful. I like filling in my diary at the end of the day and working out my billings. I like sitting back on the couch in absolute silence with the BBC's production of Emma (very pretty, almost as good as P&P).

There is something about big lungfuls of crispy clean air that makes life very worth living. But at night, curled up in my single bed in the deep dark silence, I miss Bingley. I know he's missing me too.

I worked 64 hours in 4 days.

I think I might lie down now.

Wistful

I love the way that the road out the front of the hospital curves away. No grid pattern streets here, instead a meandering country road that diverts for no apparent reason disappearing into the horizon. I stood watching it this afternoon, the wind whipping my face and making me shiver as it streaked across the wide open plains. I gulped it in, all that beautiful fresh country air smelling of honey and dust and grass and something wild and sweet. My hair getting in my eyes as I hungrily ate up the glorious sunset and the Summer bright hues where the sky meets the trees.

Today was busy, but steady busy, not hectic. I drove in this afternoon to watch the sheep grazing together and felt content instead of a spike of adrenaline. Stuffed a chocolate biscuit or 5 into my mouth and headed off for the hospital to do my evening rounds. I wore stilettos today. Sensible (if a stiletto heel can ever be sensible), black, shiny, plain shoes with a stiletto heel that made me feel happy with every clickclacky step.

Lots of variety today, some silly funny moments and some horrific ones. I miss my family so much, but in a very abstract way. It's not as visceral as I would have thought, I know they're well and looking after each other, and it's OK that I'm not there because I can give them a call and know that they're doing just fine. More a wistful sort of way. In that way I was a little homesick when I first went away to college.

Wandin Valley, Day Two

By 0730 I had admitted 2 people to hospital, pronounced someone dead and written up the complicated meds for a palliative patient.

By 0930 I had seen 4 patients in clinic before being called to emergency to look after an unstable 11 year old girl before transferring her to a more appropriate hospital.

By 1030 I was back in clinic with a backlog of patients and my "breaks" being filled with more patients.

By 1230 I had caught up enough to eat lunch.

By 1630 I was all caught up with my clinic patients, had made 3 phone calls and accepted 2 patients to be admitted to hospital.

By 1730 I was feeling cocky and started cooking dinner.

By 1830 I was sitting in a one room emergency department with 3 unstable patients, taking bloods off one, asking for oxygen on another and realising with a jab of fear that I was in charge of this chaos. That the two nurses were looking at me for what to do. Then Bingley called and I chatted to my girls and wanted to giggle at the ridiculousness of chatting about how art class went today and what they made in the sandpit as I sorted out troponins and ECGs.

By 2030 I had sorted everybody out and I came home to eat my half cooked lukewarm dinner.

By 2130 I had fielded 3 phone calls about my full hospital and had changed finally out of my work clothes.

By 2230 I hope to be asleep, as I have to get up at 0130 to take bloods and I also am fully booked out at clinic tomorrow.


Wheeeeee

Day One

I'm so tired. I went to the local supermarket after I finished my clinic, put some healthy food in my trolley with the idea of coming home and making something tasty. Then unlocked my room, pulled on my college jersey and ate a carrot. With yoghurt chaser.

Too tired to eat.

I woke up in the silence, I got ready, had a shower, ironed my hair, did my make up, put on my japanese cherry blossom silk blouse and my pencil skirt and my heels and then sat on the couch and wondered what else I should do.

It's bizarre laying back here at arsenic hour, when usually life is so hectic and noisy and the only sound is the aircon that my flatmate insists on using (even though it's balmy outside) and the birds. I could get used to this, if only I didn't miss them so much.