Papery skin that bruises if you so much as look at it is surprisingly tough when it wants to be. The mess of haemosiderin in varying stages of decay splotched over cubital fossas and the cool flaccid turgorless dorsal surfaces belying the sheer grit of vessels that stare down the tip of my guide needle and dare it to pierce the flesh. And yet, even as I push and pull and prod, probe in one hand, fingers nimbly dancing with needle, each subtle stroke as with an épée, those who have most to complain about so rarely do.
"I'm Jennifer" I say brightly, clacking into the rooms with my very high heels and my pretty dresses and the hair that refuses to behave and ruins the whole effect, "I'm one of the doctors". And so many of them, on hearing this, relax straight away. As if those letters after my name actually mean something tangible and meaningful and that the fact that I'm about to poke them with sharp things is not something to worry about.
Sometimes I sit on the end of the bed, and have a chat about what we're about to do. Sometimes I chat while I'm washing my hands. Sometimes I hold onto the papery mottled hand and smooth out the bruises and cluck while vowing to not put another purple mark on skin that is so fragile and yet so tough.
Sometimes as I explain, the fear creeps up over skin, especially in those that are younger and the thought of pain has them recoiling from me while sheer force of will keeps them stoic. Some want to see my tiny needles and are reassured. Some screw their eyes up tight and look the other way.
When I am chasing a lesion - a mass of cells that doesn't look quite right - I turn the screen towards so that they can see too. They're there and they're part of this, it's not right for me to hide it from them. "See that white line in the middle of the screen?" I gesture as I hold the probe in one hand and point awkwardly with the other. And there's a definite pride that almost everyone gets when they realise what they're looking at, as I describe the bits that are important. And while almost no one wants to watch the needle or the biopsy gun pierce their skin, often they will be riveted to the screen as the sharp white line of my needle comes into view and reaches the mass of cells that they can identify too. Solemn quiet until the sharp click of the trigger as I withdraw.
"That wasn't so bad" is one of the commonest responses I get. But the one I get most is often "Thank you". I find it awkward when I'm thanked for hurting someone, because there are always bits that are a little bit painful, but I always hope that it hasn't caused fear and that the things I've explained, and described, so that the unknown ghosts can be chased away a little have helped.
Sometimes the response I'm given is that "That looks easy" and in some ways it is. It only takes a steady hand and some coordination. A bit of training and an understanding of the anatomy so that my needle pokes into the mass of cells and not into an artery or some such other important structure. And as I switch between hands, sometimes left dominant, sometimes right dominant (I'm sure the nurses think I'm doing it just to confuse them) it feels easy now. My needles go where I want them to go and I'm quick. I'm quite proud of that, because the frustration that gathered between my eyebrows the first few times as everything felt clumsy is largely abating. Sometimes things are harder, and I bite my lip and frown at the screen and fiddle with the dials until things look better, but I no longer feel like I'll never be able to do this, because I know I can.
And when I see my neat little purple line, exiting through the tiny hole in the skin; and the antibiotics can be hooked up or the chemotherapy started and my neat clear dressing is snapped into place and I don't see any bruises, I feel ridiculously satisfied. When I've applied my clean white dressing over the single tiny hole that leads to the subacromial bursa my pride gets a satisfied pat. Or when I'm standing next to my machine after the biopsy is all done and I can point with unsterilised hands to the point where my needle went in and the picture of how close we were to the artery or the nerve or lung or aorta but how I could see where I was all the time so that I wouldn't cause any harm and that look of amazement crosses both our faces, as we realise what we've both just achieved, I know that this is all very worthwhile.
I help. I heal. I still hold hands. I still explain even if it takes too much time. But most of all I love what I do.
Showing posts with label Great Things. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Great Things. Show all posts
Wednesday, 9 January 2013
Tuesday, 13 November 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, 5 September 2012
I dreamed of you again. Your hands and your skin. I dreamed of the roughened bits on your palm and your strong fingers. I dreamed of the smell of you that comes from work and sun and the perfume of you. I dreamed of the muscles of your back and the coolness when the fan beats over us and the air is heavy.
For a long time I stopped dreaming. And still you touched my flesh and waited for it to respond. Your patience annoyed me and I used it as some kind of barrier between us. I hated every little thing about you and wanted to slap you away.
But now all my dreams are of you and the nights when the airconditioner rattled and smelled sweet and green. When the dampness of my body stuck to the dampness of your body and all the dreams we had were in that room.
Your pillow is empty and when I reach out over the sheets it's only coolness there in the middle of the night. And you would think that that would make me sad this big emptiness where you should be.
But I can't be sad because you are there in my dreams again and the fan is beating down over us. And my skin is like my skin used to be, when it only seemed to belong to you; and even though the darkness is laughing at me I am laughing too.
Because I have spent my whole life terrified of the dark and being alone. Of all the big emptiness. But tonight I am not afraid, because I dreamed of you again.
For a long time I stopped dreaming. And still you touched my flesh and waited for it to respond. Your patience annoyed me and I used it as some kind of barrier between us. I hated every little thing about you and wanted to slap you away.
But now all my dreams are of you and the nights when the airconditioner rattled and smelled sweet and green. When the dampness of my body stuck to the dampness of your body and all the dreams we had were in that room.
Your pillow is empty and when I reach out over the sheets it's only coolness there in the middle of the night. And you would think that that would make me sad this big emptiness where you should be.
But I can't be sad because you are there in my dreams again and the fan is beating down over us. And my skin is like my skin used to be, when it only seemed to belong to you; and even though the darkness is laughing at me I am laughing too.
Because I have spent my whole life terrified of the dark and being alone. Of all the big emptiness. But tonight I am not afraid, because I dreamed of you again.
Monday, 3 September 2012
Mind reader
When I was a teenager, a friend used to say I could read her mind - as if I somehow had the ability to poke around in her head, and sometimes see things that even she couldn't. A close friend from a few years ago remarked something similar - that I had free access to thoughts that had never been verbalised. It was always a privilege to see inside someone, an intimacy of which few can boast.
The full moon was bright over the road as I drove into work that night and climbed into my chair, bare feet tucked up under me as I scrolled through the inside of other people's heads yet again. Silently assessing, appraising, categorising. Most of the heads I looked at were old, and the memories of a lifetime were gradually fading away. I wondered at some, as I scrolled past a dark spot, the herald of loss of a bundle of neurons, of what memory had gone with them. What moonlit walk, what tragic loss, what phone number or frisson of potential had held its place in memory.
I continued to work hard that night, steadily, playing my part in my little warm room as the patients came and went. Until he came in and I looked at his brain. His brain was young. Far younger than the brains I am used to seeing, a brain full of all the things that a young, fit, healthy, clever young person should have. Or it was once, before the accident that brought him into my care in the first place.
I wasn't in my little dark room as I looked at his head. I was in the bright room. The frigidly cold room to keep the machinery operating well. The machines that go beep were in there too as I stood at the terminal and began to scroll. And all those memories and that fun and that life and that spark were closed to me and all the people standing behind me, listening to every word I said. Until I stopped speaking and the room began to empty and the shoulders of all around me slumped. The adrenaline high that pulls you in in the middle of the night to do your best and do good futile at that point.
Where they all went I'm not sure. Some went back to work, and saw the next elderly brain that would shortly wend its way to me to delve through, others I think went home. Others went to see the family that had been woken in the middle of the night and wanted to know and to hope but couldn't. Not after my words that night.
And I sat in my little dark room and became acquainted with every part of his body. Following every line and contour. And at some point in the night I realised my cheeks were wet, as I thought of all the things that were lost. And it was important to me to do things properly, as I looked deep inside him to the parts that no one had ever seen before. To take that privilege and that honour and not take any shortcuts. Even if as I was scrolling his breaths were slowing and those around him were hearing my words from kindly mouths that have had to say them too many times before.
I drove home when the moon was still in the sky but the birds were singing and the sun was glorious through the clouds. So tired that I felt that my limbs were leaden. Few thoughts racing around a usually noisy brain as I indicated for my turnoff and parked my car. The wind chilly as I stepped out, ruffling around my ears and tickling my cheek. And it struck me again, how lucky I am to have thoughts. To record them here. To keep on having thoughts. And the tears started again, silent ones that kept coming and coming and coming. And I cried as I saluted the sun, stretched out on my yoga mat until my biceps shook with the pain.
And I cried as I drove to the water, and ran into the choppy sea while my hair laced with seaweed and salt. But as later I lay on the sand and it pressed into my cheek the tears finally stopped. And the sun tickled along my bare skin and began to warm me from the inside out.
I can't change what happened to him. It was all over before we'd even met. And I could become cool and hardened like some of those I work with. Who look at organs and wounds and that's all they see, because there are too many sad stories. And it's not because they're lesser people or doctors or somehow innately cold. It's because they will see that tomorrow and the day after and you have to find some way or else it will break you.
But I need to know their stories. Who they are and where they've come from. I need to feel like I've earned the right to the secrets locked up inside that no one else knows. And when I find the secrets, the memories that are lost forever, I see them just for a moment, before I report them gone. And maybe it's silly and maybe it's delusional and maybe I should just buy the bottle of wine like so many others. But as I drove home under the moon tonight, the heavy golden moon, I felt the sadness shift - I did right by him. I did right by others. I will continue to keep on doing my best.
And that's my secret.
The full moon was bright over the road as I drove into work that night and climbed into my chair, bare feet tucked up under me as I scrolled through the inside of other people's heads yet again. Silently assessing, appraising, categorising. Most of the heads I looked at were old, and the memories of a lifetime were gradually fading away. I wondered at some, as I scrolled past a dark spot, the herald of loss of a bundle of neurons, of what memory had gone with them. What moonlit walk, what tragic loss, what phone number or frisson of potential had held its place in memory.
I continued to work hard that night, steadily, playing my part in my little warm room as the patients came and went. Until he came in and I looked at his brain. His brain was young. Far younger than the brains I am used to seeing, a brain full of all the things that a young, fit, healthy, clever young person should have. Or it was once, before the accident that brought him into my care in the first place.
I wasn't in my little dark room as I looked at his head. I was in the bright room. The frigidly cold room to keep the machinery operating well. The machines that go beep were in there too as I stood at the terminal and began to scroll. And all those memories and that fun and that life and that spark were closed to me and all the people standing behind me, listening to every word I said. Until I stopped speaking and the room began to empty and the shoulders of all around me slumped. The adrenaline high that pulls you in in the middle of the night to do your best and do good futile at that point.
Where they all went I'm not sure. Some went back to work, and saw the next elderly brain that would shortly wend its way to me to delve through, others I think went home. Others went to see the family that had been woken in the middle of the night and wanted to know and to hope but couldn't. Not after my words that night.
And I sat in my little dark room and became acquainted with every part of his body. Following every line and contour. And at some point in the night I realised my cheeks were wet, as I thought of all the things that were lost. And it was important to me to do things properly, as I looked deep inside him to the parts that no one had ever seen before. To take that privilege and that honour and not take any shortcuts. Even if as I was scrolling his breaths were slowing and those around him were hearing my words from kindly mouths that have had to say them too many times before.
I drove home when the moon was still in the sky but the birds were singing and the sun was glorious through the clouds. So tired that I felt that my limbs were leaden. Few thoughts racing around a usually noisy brain as I indicated for my turnoff and parked my car. The wind chilly as I stepped out, ruffling around my ears and tickling my cheek. And it struck me again, how lucky I am to have thoughts. To record them here. To keep on having thoughts. And the tears started again, silent ones that kept coming and coming and coming. And I cried as I saluted the sun, stretched out on my yoga mat until my biceps shook with the pain.
And I cried as I drove to the water, and ran into the choppy sea while my hair laced with seaweed and salt. But as later I lay on the sand and it pressed into my cheek the tears finally stopped. And the sun tickled along my bare skin and began to warm me from the inside out.
I can't change what happened to him. It was all over before we'd even met. And I could become cool and hardened like some of those I work with. Who look at organs and wounds and that's all they see, because there are too many sad stories. And it's not because they're lesser people or doctors or somehow innately cold. It's because they will see that tomorrow and the day after and you have to find some way or else it will break you.
But I need to know their stories. Who they are and where they've come from. I need to feel like I've earned the right to the secrets locked up inside that no one else knows. And when I find the secrets, the memories that are lost forever, I see them just for a moment, before I report them gone. And maybe it's silly and maybe it's delusional and maybe I should just buy the bottle of wine like so many others. But as I drove home under the moon tonight, the heavy golden moon, I felt the sadness shift - I did right by him. I did right by others. I will continue to keep on doing my best.
And that's my secret.
Wednesday, 21 March 2012
Into the tree
I was walking home, well to my car at least, at dusk, when I noticed the clouds and the sunset and the glint off the water under the rain. The fresh, spicy Autumn air was everywhere burning just the tips of my ears. I have to park a fair way from the bus stop most mornings and the birds were screeching in the trees - rainbow feathers falling around in a glorious blizzard of colour. I was so busy looking up and smiling at the beauty of it all that I walked straight into a tree, only avoiding hitting my face because I was carrying my books in front of me. It was very unglamorous and I doubt I looked very professional. Gazing up at the stars is not the sort of behaviour one expects from a wise and serious registrar, stressed by exams and study and long hours. But I find I can't help it.
Today I did my first lot of interventional procedures. Using both hands to steady and guide. To use my knowledge and my skills and my kick arse coordination (thanks, years of gaming!) to safely and as untraumatically as possible assist in the medical care of patients. It was such a tiny tiny thing, but snapping on that latex, and prepping and draping skin and doing something that could impact so strongly pushed that tiny little switch that lit up a whole room inside of me. I feel happy and light and excited by all that I'm learning - and I'm learning so much. There are so many amazing teachers that are happy to teach and I have to remind myself to slow down a little sometimes, so enthusiastic do I feel about wanting to understand everything.
I was in a physics tutorial yesterday and there was a concept being explained that required thinking out of regular dimensions and space and using a different space. Non cartesian planes (Poor Descartes!). And we don't technically need to know it for the exam so when asked about it our tutor smiled and said that he could explain it but that if we'd prefer, just to think of it as magic. And while I am too curious to ever just leave it at that, the explanation was no less magic for me when I understood it. I am in an area of such phenomenal discovery and advances that it is hard not to be blown away by the human achievement of it all.
Sometimes I am sad and I miss my everyday clinical life. I miss the simplicity and complexity (and the beauty of that paradox) of physically interacting always with patients. And sometimes I question why I'm here and why I'm doing this. But then days like today I am buoyant and gleaming and walking into trees. And I figure that if the sky is still so beautiful and the colours so vivid then my choices can't be all bad and I bounce a little higher with each step and keep on keeping on.
Today I did my first lot of interventional procedures. Using both hands to steady and guide. To use my knowledge and my skills and my kick arse coordination (thanks, years of gaming!) to safely and as untraumatically as possible assist in the medical care of patients. It was such a tiny tiny thing, but snapping on that latex, and prepping and draping skin and doing something that could impact so strongly pushed that tiny little switch that lit up a whole room inside of me. I feel happy and light and excited by all that I'm learning - and I'm learning so much. There are so many amazing teachers that are happy to teach and I have to remind myself to slow down a little sometimes, so enthusiastic do I feel about wanting to understand everything.
I was in a physics tutorial yesterday and there was a concept being explained that required thinking out of regular dimensions and space and using a different space. Non cartesian planes (Poor Descartes!). And we don't technically need to know it for the exam so when asked about it our tutor smiled and said that he could explain it but that if we'd prefer, just to think of it as magic. And while I am too curious to ever just leave it at that, the explanation was no less magic for me when I understood it. I am in an area of such phenomenal discovery and advances that it is hard not to be blown away by the human achievement of it all.
Sometimes I am sad and I miss my everyday clinical life. I miss the simplicity and complexity (and the beauty of that paradox) of physically interacting always with patients. And sometimes I question why I'm here and why I'm doing this. But then days like today I am buoyant and gleaming and walking into trees. And I figure that if the sky is still so beautiful and the colours so vivid then my choices can't be all bad and I bounce a little higher with each step and keep on keeping on.
Sunday, 25 December 2011
Merry and Bright
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| 3 Christmas helpers on Christmas Eve |
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| Decorating the table for Christmas Eve |
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| Met with approval |
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| Dessert |
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| By candlelight |
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| The stockings were hung by the french door with care |
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| In hopes that St Nicholas soon would be there |
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| Finished Christmas dresses that I was too tired to "press" |
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| Stealing away as Santa distributed his booty |
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| Mayhem and paper |
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| The Possum carefully reading each book, savouring each gift before slowly opening another |
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| The hit gift - a marble run for cars! |
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| Watching TV at Nana's place |
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| Nice photos at Nana's place |
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| Attempts anyway |
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| Golden light |
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| Whenever did she get so big? |
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| Toasting with cherries |
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| Glow sticks and fairy lights |
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| Sparklers |
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| Tired and full, coming home. |
Friday, 23 December 2011
I am a mother, no really
'Twas the night before Christmas Eve when all through the house, not a creature was stirring (except the husband playing Star Wars Online and the neurotic cat). The children were nestled all snug in their beds, while visions of Pillow Pets danced in their heads.
4 hours driving today to bring my babies home and I have MISSED them. I miss them of course any time they're away, I missed them when Bingley and I had our Parisian extravaganza, but truly, this last week I have missed them most. I missed their excitement about Christmas and stealing overheard whispers about Santa. I have missed getting ready for tomorrow while they giggle and laugh and get under my feet and ask me a million questions. I have missed curling up in bed at night with a brightly coloured Christmas book and weaving more magic. I have even missed being woken to the excited babble of the latest window in the Lego Advent calendar.
I have missed being able to do Christmas cooking and making pompoms for the table with them, and though I sat down last night with plenty of time to cut out the Christmas dresses I couldn't do it. I needed them home with me, and now that they're here I feel like singing again.
For our little family it is Christmas Eve that I look forward to beyond all days on the calendar. It is the day where magic reigns and no matter the year I/we have had or how miserable or cynical or overwhelmed I may have felt in that year, I have never ever failed to feel the veil between adulthood and childhood lifted on that magic night. I always believe in magic, but sometimes a wave of cynicism swamps me and tries to muddy it up. And even the most brilliant moon or a stunning eclipse or the twinkliest stars can't make a dent in it.
But Christmas, Christmas is sacred. The night when bells ring on the stillest breeze and somehow every wish is possible, just might be granted. And in amongst it all the feasting, the togetherness and the family all trump. Until stuffed and exhausted I curl up in my bed, brilliantly lit from the fairy lights in the next room and I smile until my face aches.
It was pouring with rain when we came home tonight and slipped across the wet grass in the dark as we climbed the stairs. The chatter of excited children all around me as I invited them to turn on the gaudy festive lights that I had spent an afternoon unravelling and tacking to the banisters. And as they exclaimed and clapped, while the rain misted over us and sparkled with the lights I could not help but feel that the greatest gift I have ever been given is them - they make everything worthwhile.
And now as the quiet drum of the rain rhythmically caresses the roof, and the gentle gurgle of the gutters and the wet splash on the grass echo through the night, I have my right to steal into the softly lit rooms where little people are curled. And to smooth locks of damp ruffled hair from high smooth foreheads and gift them good dreams as I tuck in dimpled limbs and kiss their baby skin, sniffling in the darkness at how wonderful it is to have them home.
4 hours driving today to bring my babies home and I have MISSED them. I miss them of course any time they're away, I missed them when Bingley and I had our Parisian extravaganza, but truly, this last week I have missed them most. I missed their excitement about Christmas and stealing overheard whispers about Santa. I have missed getting ready for tomorrow while they giggle and laugh and get under my feet and ask me a million questions. I have missed curling up in bed at night with a brightly coloured Christmas book and weaving more magic. I have even missed being woken to the excited babble of the latest window in the Lego Advent calendar.
I have missed being able to do Christmas cooking and making pompoms for the table with them, and though I sat down last night with plenty of time to cut out the Christmas dresses I couldn't do it. I needed them home with me, and now that they're here I feel like singing again.
For our little family it is Christmas Eve that I look forward to beyond all days on the calendar. It is the day where magic reigns and no matter the year I/we have had or how miserable or cynical or overwhelmed I may have felt in that year, I have never ever failed to feel the veil between adulthood and childhood lifted on that magic night. I always believe in magic, but sometimes a wave of cynicism swamps me and tries to muddy it up. And even the most brilliant moon or a stunning eclipse or the twinkliest stars can't make a dent in it.
But Christmas, Christmas is sacred. The night when bells ring on the stillest breeze and somehow every wish is possible, just might be granted. And in amongst it all the feasting, the togetherness and the family all trump. Until stuffed and exhausted I curl up in my bed, brilliantly lit from the fairy lights in the next room and I smile until my face aches.
It was pouring with rain when we came home tonight and slipped across the wet grass in the dark as we climbed the stairs. The chatter of excited children all around me as I invited them to turn on the gaudy festive lights that I had spent an afternoon unravelling and tacking to the banisters. And as they exclaimed and clapped, while the rain misted over us and sparkled with the lights I could not help but feel that the greatest gift I have ever been given is them - they make everything worthwhile.
And now as the quiet drum of the rain rhythmically caresses the roof, and the gentle gurgle of the gutters and the wet splash on the grass echo through the night, I have my right to steal into the softly lit rooms where little people are curled. And to smooth locks of damp ruffled hair from high smooth foreheads and gift them good dreams as I tuck in dimpled limbs and kiss their baby skin, sniffling in the darkness at how wonderful it is to have them home.
Sunday, 11 December 2011
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