So this is what happened.
I was falling apart last year. Maybe you have some ideas why, maybe you don't. But throughout the year, I was gradually losing it, accumulating a whole lot of badthoughts in my head. It's a bit hard to explain.
And then.
I went on placement. Mental Health placement. In the youth ward.
My first placement with patients about my age, and they were crazy.
I don't mean crazy in the sense of prison like setting, residents rattling the bars to their cages, gabbling away, paranoid, eyes darting, mad laughing, that sort of thing. Okay, there was a bit of that, but mostly it was a combination of drugs and trauma, and it was awful. Awful because I collected stories, as I usually do, and these were tragedies. These were dark stories, depressing, scarring, heartbreaking.
I ended up loving the placement, because I was exposed to something I was so uncertain about, something that unnerved me just by me thinking about it. I'm not saying that by the end everything was hunky dory, and I could just live with these terrible things. I just came to the understanding that people who have horrible baggage attached to them do not get better when you run away. They're the ones that need you most.
But, as I said, I was not in a 'good place' myself. I could actually write my own mental health nurse notes. Isolative. Irritable. Flat affect, congruent with depressed mood. Minimal speech. Poor diet. Low self-esteem. Blah blah blah.
It was pretty bad. It was bad enough for my mum to notice. Even though I try to keep this stuff to myself, I suppose some of it cannot go unnoticed. Or maybe it's because she's my mum. But there were nights where I just bit my fist and cried, and I can't explain why. Or I'd just lie still for a long time and not do anything. I convinced myself that I was alone, that no one liked me. Sometimes I felt like I couldn't breathe, that the world was too small, and it was closing in. I was pathetic and hopeless.
(The other thing you need to know is that throughout the whole of last year, I dreamed about going to Sri Lanka at the end of the year. If it wasn't with family, my sister promised we'd go together. She made some elaborate plans. I was super excited.)
But come the end of placement, and despite all my talking, and all my family agreeing, no one had booked tickets to go. My sister bailed on me. And my parents kept saying "We'll go, hang on, just wait." Wait for what?! I was hysterically thought-screaming.
So I kept wallowing, kept falling apart, and finally, my mum said, okay, kid, you can go. You need it.
We found a family friend going, and I booked myself on the same flight as them. (That's about as much connection I had with them for whole trip. I saw them just before I got on, during the transit, and when I landed.)
(My stomach aches a bit when I think about Lanka. Ow. I miss it.)
And I went.
I found my little happy place again.
Like, really. I went on January 14th, arrived back in Melbourne on the 1st of March. And I've been genuinely happy, warm right to the core. I don't know, it's kinda scary. I can't imagine it lasting. But it is. Even though I'mback to the same routine. Even though there are more assignments than ever. Even though I'm still kinda unemployed. I'm good.
So I should probably tell y'all how it all went, but. But I've already done it.
See, one thing Star roped me into before I left was to start a blog with her. And I blogged while I was there. And I feel like I did it my best there. So I'll link ya (here and here), if you really care to know. But I'm not Laila there, so don't use that name if you want to comment. (Come to think of it, neither of us have put our names. Maybe just don't comment at all. I donno. BUT DON'T CALL ME LAILA.)
Anyway, something has really struck me since I've come back.
I've grown up.
Duhhh, you say. You're twenty. You better have grown up.
No, listen.
There are little things. You know, I'm more than halfway through uni, I'm graduating next year. Then I'm in the workplace. My friends are getting married, one by one. Cousins close to my age as well. They all have boyfriends in a more... steady, mature way. I do things a bit more independantly. (I've had driving lessons too. I'm getting there). There's more, though.
When I got back, a few days later, I accompanied my dad to an appointment with a cardiologist. I accompanied him. And after that, I explained to him what was going on. And he told me about some tests he had done while I was away, and he told me how scared he had been, and I comforted him. Since when does this happen? I've never had that explicit role of explaining this sort of stuff to my parents, nor have I ever had the job of reassuring them, having them so dependant on me. And yet, there it was.
And since then, I've noticed all these other little things. How my parents always seem to ask my opinion on how to handle stuff in their lives. How we sit and talk about our day like we're on the same level. I mean, sure, I still feel the need to answer to them, to always tell them where I am, ask permission, etc. But it feels like roles are slowly reversing. They always used to say there would be a day when we'd be wiping their butts, and it really feels like that day is coming.
My parents are getting older.
It's scary.
I deal with patients like this all the time, but now I'm thinking: my parents fit into this group. That's the reality. No, they're not ancient. And they're pretty healthy. But they're still ageing. It's happening. It's real. And I can sense that now, even though I still need them, now they need me too.
And what strikes me more than anything is that for the first time, I feel like I can do it. I can deal with this. I can take care of them. I'm not so scared anymore. It's a bit disconcerting, sure. But it's not incomprehensible, unmanageable. I can do this. I don't know. Is this what it means to grow up?
Peace in,
Laila
Showing posts with label happenings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label happenings. Show all posts
Wednesday, March 16, 2016
Thursday, November 5, 2015
the worst came and went
I mentioned, in my last post, that I'm part of a girls' soccer team that consistently loses. Allow me to elaborate.
Once upon a time, a year or so ago, my sister decided to organise indoor soccer - or, well, futsal - for girls. The focus was mainly for hijabis. It can be annoying playing sport in a headscarf. Besides it flapping around (depending on your style), it can get pretty darn sweaty and disgusting. I mean, even without the hijab you can get sweaty and disgusting. But it's worse with the headgear.
So she put her feelers out made some calls, and the lovely people at Monash were nice enough to accommodate our needs. My sister set up a facebook group, and basically, the idea is that every time enough girls were available at the same time, my sister would call and book. The people at Monash would block out the camera feed so no one could see us uncover, they gave a sign to put on the door so no one would come in, and they allowed us to cover up the glass doors with black garbage bags.
These are just details. At first we had difficulty getting games together. The thing about facebook is that people find it really easy to like and agree to things, because it's just the click of a button or two. But then they don't show up. And we don't have the numbers, but we'd have to pay up, where the cost is supposed to be divided. Then many people realised it wasn't nice to do that, and we just didn't have enough numbers.
Hence, our games, at the start, were a bit sporadic. But over time, particularly at the start of this year, we had an established set of 'regulars'. We played consistently, on a weekly basis, sometimes more. Our games went from "Look! There's the ball! Go get it! Try kick it!" to a little more coordination, a little more structure, a little more control and teamwork.
So one of of the girls at the start had this bright idea that we should make a team and join a league. She, herself, had played mixed with her hubby, so we kinda assumed that if she thought we were good enough, we must have been.
I remember our first game. In fact, the first couple of games went the same for me. On the drive there, we'd play pumping up music. I'd fight down the kind of jitters I get before exams, this sick feeling at the pit of my stomach. Controlled breathing on the verge of hyperventilation. Pep talks to myself, under my breath. Kinda of smiling like crazy, terrified.
Then we'd see the team we were up against. They'd look ... Well, effortless. Graceful. Synchronised.
And boy did that pit in my stomach sink a little bit more.
Nevertheless, we'd go in, gritting our teeth, giving each other supportive looks, nervous motivational speeches. And. We'd be slaughtered.
As I mentioned in that last post, the fact of the matter is, these are professional teams. These girls play outdoor usually, and these futsal tournaments are like kick-back scrimmages for them. Not to mention that their games are naturally tougher than ours. When we bump into each other, in our casual games, it's all giggle giggle, sorry hun, are you okay? There are no apologies here. No one holds back. It's crazy.
And yet, I have a point to make, and I'm making this point now because one of the girls almost had a breakdown/meltdown yesterday when we lost once again last night.
She was frustrated because there are so many ways for us to improve so that even if we don't win, at least we won't lose so terribly. Like one of the girls would be better at defense because she's too soft for striking, but she won't take the hint. Or someone else isn't there when a goal is being set up oh so perfectly. Or the fact that we've tried to arrange regular training sessions, but it just doesn't work. We can never get the whole team, because everyone is at different universities, doing different courses, different jobs, different family commitments - heck, we even live far apart. But sometimes the girls miss out for dumb reasons, like "Oh, I slept in, soz guys".
Yeah, it's annoying. And it's breaking her heart because she genuinely loves the game, and we could be better, but we're not. I know this, because it was so disheartening for me, at the start.
But.
It seems to have worked out backwards for me. See, I no longer have pre-game jitters before a game. I no longer feel depressed after a loss. Every week, I'm pumped. Every week, I'm like haha, what a surprise. We lost again. Star sends me a message after every game. And every time, my response is: Kid, you will know if we won. Believe me. I will write it in the sky.
And this is what I've learnt. In the context of a soccer game, this is the worst that can happen. That we lose. That we lose game after game. And so what. Big deal. Is that all there is? I can take it.
What I'm trying to say is, if this is the worst that can happen, then it can only get better.
We are getting better.
Let me illustrate. After the first one, two, three losses, I made this little goal in my head. I thought to myself: please, even if we don't win a single game, let us at least score once before the season is over. Then I'll be happy.
Well, guess what. We did. Guess who scored the first goal? Me. I've scored four, all up. More than I ever anticipated, more than I could ever hope for. And it happened. And I'm not the only one who's scored, mind you.
And I love these girls. Many of them I wouldn't have made friends but for this soccer thing, and I am so glad. We're all so different, but we fit so well, and we have spunk. Once again, even though we're losing, it's all right 'cause we're going down together.
And I'm going to gush a bit more. More than those goals, I feel like I've improved a lot more in ball control. I don't freak out and just kick it as soon as a girl from the other team looks at me. I can take it up a bit more. I can set up goals. I make little rules for myself. The first rule was don't just kick it away when you get it. And now I don't. My next is don't be afraid to shoot. Don't hesitate. Just do it. Shoot as many times as you can.
What have you got to lose? I think.
At this point: nothing.
Peace in,
Laila
Once upon a time, a year or so ago, my sister decided to organise indoor soccer - or, well, futsal - for girls. The focus was mainly for hijabis. It can be annoying playing sport in a headscarf. Besides it flapping around (depending on your style), it can get pretty darn sweaty and disgusting. I mean, even without the hijab you can get sweaty and disgusting. But it's worse with the headgear.
So she put her feelers out made some calls, and the lovely people at Monash were nice enough to accommodate our needs. My sister set up a facebook group, and basically, the idea is that every time enough girls were available at the same time, my sister would call and book. The people at Monash would block out the camera feed so no one could see us uncover, they gave a sign to put on the door so no one would come in, and they allowed us to cover up the glass doors with black garbage bags.
These are just details. At first we had difficulty getting games together. The thing about facebook is that people find it really easy to like and agree to things, because it's just the click of a button or two. But then they don't show up. And we don't have the numbers, but we'd have to pay up, where the cost is supposed to be divided. Then many people realised it wasn't nice to do that, and we just didn't have enough numbers.
Hence, our games, at the start, were a bit sporadic. But over time, particularly at the start of this year, we had an established set of 'regulars'. We played consistently, on a weekly basis, sometimes more. Our games went from "Look! There's the ball! Go get it! Try kick it!" to a little more coordination, a little more structure, a little more control and teamwork.
So one of of the girls at the start had this bright idea that we should make a team and join a league. She, herself, had played mixed with her hubby, so we kinda assumed that if she thought we were good enough, we must have been.
I remember our first game. In fact, the first couple of games went the same for me. On the drive there, we'd play pumping up music. I'd fight down the kind of jitters I get before exams, this sick feeling at the pit of my stomach. Controlled breathing on the verge of hyperventilation. Pep talks to myself, under my breath. Kinda of smiling like crazy, terrified.
Then we'd see the team we were up against. They'd look ... Well, effortless. Graceful. Synchronised.
And boy did that pit in my stomach sink a little bit more.
Nevertheless, we'd go in, gritting our teeth, giving each other supportive looks, nervous motivational speeches. And. We'd be slaughtered.
As I mentioned in that last post, the fact of the matter is, these are professional teams. These girls play outdoor usually, and these futsal tournaments are like kick-back scrimmages for them. Not to mention that their games are naturally tougher than ours. When we bump into each other, in our casual games, it's all giggle giggle, sorry hun, are you okay? There are no apologies here. No one holds back. It's crazy.
And yet, I have a point to make, and I'm making this point now because one of the girls almost had a breakdown/meltdown yesterday when we lost once again last night.
She was frustrated because there are so many ways for us to improve so that even if we don't win, at least we won't lose so terribly. Like one of the girls would be better at defense because she's too soft for striking, but she won't take the hint. Or someone else isn't there when a goal is being set up oh so perfectly. Or the fact that we've tried to arrange regular training sessions, but it just doesn't work. We can never get the whole team, because everyone is at different universities, doing different courses, different jobs, different family commitments - heck, we even live far apart. But sometimes the girls miss out for dumb reasons, like "Oh, I slept in, soz guys".
Yeah, it's annoying. And it's breaking her heart because she genuinely loves the game, and we could be better, but we're not. I know this, because it was so disheartening for me, at the start.
But.
It seems to have worked out backwards for me. See, I no longer have pre-game jitters before a game. I no longer feel depressed after a loss. Every week, I'm pumped. Every week, I'm like haha, what a surprise. We lost again. Star sends me a message after every game. And every time, my response is: Kid, you will know if we won. Believe me. I will write it in the sky.
And this is what I've learnt. In the context of a soccer game, this is the worst that can happen. That we lose. That we lose game after game. And so what. Big deal. Is that all there is? I can take it.
What I'm trying to say is, if this is the worst that can happen, then it can only get better.
We are getting better.
Let me illustrate. After the first one, two, three losses, I made this little goal in my head. I thought to myself: please, even if we don't win a single game, let us at least score once before the season is over. Then I'll be happy.
Well, guess what. We did. Guess who scored the first goal? Me. I've scored four, all up. More than I ever anticipated, more than I could ever hope for. And it happened. And I'm not the only one who's scored, mind you.
And I love these girls. Many of them I wouldn't have made friends but for this soccer thing, and I am so glad. We're all so different, but we fit so well, and we have spunk. Once again, even though we're losing, it's all right 'cause we're going down together.
And I'm going to gush a bit more. More than those goals, I feel like I've improved a lot more in ball control. I don't freak out and just kick it as soon as a girl from the other team looks at me. I can take it up a bit more. I can set up goals. I make little rules for myself. The first rule was don't just kick it away when you get it. And now I don't. My next is don't be afraid to shoot. Don't hesitate. Just do it. Shoot as many times as you can.
What have you got to lose? I think.
At this point: nothing.
Peace in,
Laila
Monday, October 26, 2015
"Presume that everyone is a douchebag unless they prove otherwise,"
said a barrister to me, yesterday. I like her. She scares me a lot, because I feel like she has this fine-tuned BS-ometer and she can just see through everyone, and what she will see in me, I don't know, but all fears aside, I like her.
I should be studying for my exams, but I can't. As echoed by jizbillions of uni/VCE students around Oz at the moment, I suppose. I'm just tired. I finished up another block of placement on Saturday, I have my own students who've been requesting sessions and sending me things to read a lot more in the recent days, I've had to work on some exam study, and I have soccer. I now just have a craving to bake, but I know I'll feel bad doing it when I should be studying, so I'm not. Instead, I'm feeling bad writing this.
But it's okay. I can deal.
I have a cute story.
The patient was an elderly male, who lives independently with his wife, but kind of as her carer, because she has some dementia. Right before they went to bed that night, he fell over, as old people do.
"Are you okay?" wifey called out.
"I'm fine, love, you go to bed, I'll be right," he replied.
When she got up in the morning, he was still on the floor.
It's a lot harder for the elderly to deal with falls - it's one of the most common reasons for being hospitalised. But he just didn't want to wake her up. So he was admitted with hypothermia.
D'awww ♥
I have another one.
One of my students came today for, perhaps, his last session. I love this kid. I've only been tutoring him for a couple of weeks, and extracting an essay from him is a painful process. But, funnily enough, he really, genuinely enjoys studying his book. He won't admit it outright, but he said that in procrastinating for other exams, or even for just writing essays in general, he'll pick up his book (Cat's Eye, by Margaret Atwood), and just pore over it, analysing, looking for ideas, trying to make sense of it. It's a pure kind of appreciation, and I adore him for it.
Anyway, today, in discussing this habit of his for the umpteenth time, he said: "You know, I even had this fear for a while that what if I died, right now, and you know, the angels came to ask me what my book was - you know how they do that - and instead of Qu'ran, I said Cat's Eye. Freaked me out."
LOL. I mean that literally. I teared up laughing.
I'm so sad to be losing my students. Not in the sense of an income (although that's going to make the future a bit unstable, I'll have to be stingier than normal), but in the sense that I really love these kids.
I'd like to go over the conversation with the barrister though. She's a family friend, and kinda like an older cousin to us. I mean, we call her our cousin. On the Sunday, my sister confessed the state of her current romance to her, schmaltzy fuzz and all, and oh, how she ripped her apart. Not as in crushed her dreams, but gave her a reality check that we both actually enjoyed, despite the cynicism. But I suppose that's one of those you-have-to-be-there-(andknowthefullstorywhichIcan'tbebotheredexplaining)-to-appreciate-it things.
Meanwhile, we continue to consistently lose in soccer. Did I tell you guys that? From our casual futsal games, some of the regulars decided to form a team and join a league. We exemplify the literal meaning of 'out of your league'. The girls we're up against are from actual teams, who train with coaches and play in official tournaments. They're vicious, they're masterfully skilled, they have tactics, and, on a side note, they all tend to be a lot bigger than us.
We even played against professional 14-year-olds and lost. To be fair, they looked a little soft, so we were reluctant to play our toughest. Although I'm a little sceptical that our 'toughest' would have made a difference.
But it's fun. I like these girls. I don't mind losing with them. We have this sense of sisterhood, camaraderie, that makes even the losses feel like a gift... just by being something we share? Something like that.
I should get my driver's licence.
I could go to Nepal to volunteer as a student nurse for 8 weeks, for under $4,000. I can afford that. Okay, it doesn't include the ticket and visas and vaccines. But everything else. It's pretty good.
I could go to Sri Lanka and do it instead. Free accommodation and food with the relatives. Hmm.
I'd love to write a story. Some things never change, do they?
Peanut butter cookies. The craving. It's killing me.
Okay, I feel bad. I should stop now.
Peace in,
Laila
I should be studying for my exams, but I can't. As echoed by jizbillions of uni/VCE students around Oz at the moment, I suppose. I'm just tired. I finished up another block of placement on Saturday, I have my own students who've been requesting sessions and sending me things to read a lot more in the recent days, I've had to work on some exam study, and I have soccer. I now just have a craving to bake, but I know I'll feel bad doing it when I should be studying, so I'm not. Instead, I'm feeling bad writing this.
But it's okay. I can deal.
I have a cute story.
The patient was an elderly male, who lives independently with his wife, but kind of as her carer, because she has some dementia. Right before they went to bed that night, he fell over, as old people do.
"Are you okay?" wifey called out.
"I'm fine, love, you go to bed, I'll be right," he replied.
When she got up in the morning, he was still on the floor.
It's a lot harder for the elderly to deal with falls - it's one of the most common reasons for being hospitalised. But he just didn't want to wake her up. So he was admitted with hypothermia.
D'awww ♥
I have another one.
One of my students came today for, perhaps, his last session. I love this kid. I've only been tutoring him for a couple of weeks, and extracting an essay from him is a painful process. But, funnily enough, he really, genuinely enjoys studying his book. He won't admit it outright, but he said that in procrastinating for other exams, or even for just writing essays in general, he'll pick up his book (Cat's Eye, by Margaret Atwood), and just pore over it, analysing, looking for ideas, trying to make sense of it. It's a pure kind of appreciation, and I adore him for it.
Anyway, today, in discussing this habit of his for the umpteenth time, he said: "You know, I even had this fear for a while that what if I died, right now, and you know, the angels came to ask me what my book was - you know how they do that - and instead of Qu'ran, I said Cat's Eye. Freaked me out."
LOL. I mean that literally. I teared up laughing.
I'm so sad to be losing my students. Not in the sense of an income (although that's going to make the future a bit unstable, I'll have to be stingier than normal), but in the sense that I really love these kids.
I'd like to go over the conversation with the barrister though. She's a family friend, and kinda like an older cousin to us. I mean, we call her our cousin. On the Sunday, my sister confessed the state of her current romance to her, schmaltzy fuzz and all, and oh, how she ripped her apart. Not as in crushed her dreams, but gave her a reality check that we both actually enjoyed, despite the cynicism. But I suppose that's one of those you-have-to-be-there-(andknowthefullstorywhichIcan'tbebotheredexplaining)-to-appreciate-it things.
Meanwhile, we continue to consistently lose in soccer. Did I tell you guys that? From our casual futsal games, some of the regulars decided to form a team and join a league. We exemplify the literal meaning of 'out of your league'. The girls we're up against are from actual teams, who train with coaches and play in official tournaments. They're vicious, they're masterfully skilled, they have tactics, and, on a side note, they all tend to be a lot bigger than us.
We even played against professional 14-year-olds and lost. To be fair, they looked a little soft, so we were reluctant to play our toughest. Although I'm a little sceptical that our 'toughest' would have made a difference.
But it's fun. I like these girls. I don't mind losing with them. We have this sense of sisterhood, camaraderie, that makes even the losses feel like a gift... just by being something we share? Something like that.
I should get my driver's licence.
I could go to Nepal to volunteer as a student nurse for 8 weeks, for under $4,000. I can afford that. Okay, it doesn't include the ticket and visas and vaccines. But everything else. It's pretty good.
I could go to Sri Lanka and do it instead. Free accommodation and food with the relatives. Hmm.
I'd love to write a story. Some things never change, do they?
Peanut butter cookies. The craving. It's killing me.
Okay, I feel bad. I should stop now.
Peace in,
Laila
Thursday, September 17, 2015
the one that got away
I left the house at 0650 this morning, or a minute or two earlier.
I do have this down to a science. Usually, I catch the bus at 0644 that goes towards the campus closest to my house, then catch the shuttle at 0715 towards my campus. But just today, I decided to loosen the reigns on my otherwise rigid, self-imposed schedule, and go the other way, a bus and a train towards the station near Panda's house, so she could pick me up and we'd head to uni together, for Thursday Pancakes.
Heading towards the warmer seasons as we are, the days getting longer, the sun rising earlier, so there was sufficient light for me to see when I stepped outside. It was of the ambiguous variety, with no clear sun to pinpoint as the source, just a grey sort of brightness. I said my salaams to my mother, shut the door, took a few steps before registering the splatter on the pane beside the door.
I'm not really a zombie in the morning; I'm sort of a morning person, but I'm also a bit slow. It looked like someone had thrown some small, juicy red fruit, so that it had splattered, and dripped down, gradually drying as it did. My initial thought, as I slowly processed this, was why would anyone bother? Our house is sort of on a hill. It would take some effort to walk up the steep driveway, or the stairs, to get close enough to take exact aim and hit the glass right. To what purpose. And why. Why, between last night, and this morning, would someone do that.
As these thoughts slowly came together in my head, I gradually became aware of the bigger picture. This dried up red, smudged across the door, on the glass panes in the middle, on the side. Thick, congealed drops on the floor. You wouldn't see this from way out front, but when you go up the final steps to my door, there is another set of steps on the right, that go into a space behind the garage, but in front a tall fence that separates it from the backyard. Even there, there were these smidgens of red, at the top too, like someone had reached over and grasped the top.
My stomach turned over. Blood. It was blood.
In this sort of sickened haze, I knocked quietly and rapidly on the door; my mother had just woken up as I was leaving, everyone else was still asleep. She opened the door, frowning.
"Mum, mum, look," I said, swallowing the lump in my throat and gesturing vaguely.
She went in and called my dad, who was awake, it turns out, just listening to Qu'ran in bed.
I know we discussed this briefly, what was to be done, but even though it was this morning, I can't remember what was said. I know my dad was a bit reluctant to call the police. I said I had to catch my bus. I left.
On the bus, I just. I felt sick. And strangely on the verge of tears.
Last night: it was one of those nights where it was cold, but also warm. I had a bit of a cold sweat going on. My little sister kept waking me up, sporadically, throughout the night, because she was feeling unwell. I only checked the time once - it was about 0250. The whole night went by in this stage between sleep and wake.
But there was a moment, in the night, somewhere, I'm sure, between 0300 and 0500, maybe 0430, where there was a loud banging. I'm a light sleeper; the slightest sounds can disturb me. I have a tendency to come up with dark theories if I can't automatically detect the cause, and the absurdity of these theories eventually lulls me to sleep. I know that's weird, but honestly. I live in the dullest part of my suburb, quiet, middle to upper class suburbia, with a touch of a retirement living across the street. Nothing. Happens. Here. You've heard me say it before.
So when I heard this banging sound, I thought to myself: sounds like someone getting hacked to death. Which is, of course, ridiculous in my world.
Also, the sound seemed to becoming towards my sisters' end of the house, which is the back, like my room, but on the other side. Far from the front. When I think about it now, I've heard that human hearing is terrible at pinpointing sources. So maybe that's another reason why it didn't register.
My parents also heard it, apparently. My dad thought it was someone knocking, but my mother assured him it was probably cats. I mean, Kiki knows how to knock on our door. And we've had quite a few cats visiting and kicking up a fuss recently. So my father didn't get out of bed to check either.
All I could think of, on that bus ride, was that somebody, in the night hours of the morning, was hurt. That they came to our door, banging on it loudly, in search of help. And they didn't get any from us.
On that bus ride, I felt like throwing up. I kept an eye out for bodies, for some kind of disturbance, but I saw nothing.
When I met up with Panda, I called my mother straight away. She told me they had decided to call the police after my dad had come home from work - he drives a school bus, so he just had to drop the kids off. After that, I allowed Panda to reassure me, and I got back into the routine of Pancake Thursdays.
I can't believe I was able to do that. I don't know if others would do the same. But somehow, I managed to put it at the back of my mind. It's not that I didn't think about it at all - I checked my phone frequently, expecting an update if something came up. But I was calm. And I eventually stopped worrying.
I got home earlier than usual, but it was still dark. That was the fastest I have ever walked from the bus stop without a purpose. I was paranoid, my eyes flitted everywhere. The sick feeling came back when I arrived and the dried, drippy blood was still there.
The police hadn't come. My parents had called about 0900, and it was about 1840.
Some thoughts that had come up since:
Yes, I had heard the banging on the door, as had my parents. But we hadn't heard any yelling. No one had tried calling out to us. Why not?
My mother had contacted our neighbours. Our neighbours on the left checked their front gate/door (there house has a difficult layout to explain), and yes, they too found flecks of dried blood. They also heard sounds during the night, but thought it was possums. But our neighbours on our right found nothing. And no one else in our neighbourhood seemed to be kicking up a fuss. Why was it just our two houses - two houses, mind you, that do not have the easiest access to front doors?
The night before, my sister and I got home late from soccer. We brought a friend home, because her parents had gone out, and they said they would pick her up from our house. My sister let her out when her parents came, but half in this world and half in the virtual world of her phone as she is, she did not lock the door. That night, this morning, the door was not locked. Whoever was banging on our door tried to climb over our back fence - you can see the stains on the top. All they had to do was try the door and they could have gotten in. It's not that I wanted them to, or not; it's just that for some reason, the possibility sends chills down my spine.
Anyway, my sister called again, about 1915. They said they would come. It's 2316 now and they haven't shown. What does one have to do to get the police to show up? I'm not usually overly cynical about law enforcement as a general rule, but today, I have lost all my faith in them.
And I'm scared. I'm not sure what I'm scared of exactly, but I am. Maybe there's a reasonable explanation for this, one that isn't dark. Maybe some silly person went bike riding at this odd hour for kicks, had a bit of an accident, and came staggering up our driveway in the hopes of getting us to call an ambulance or something. Maybe it was some sick person's idea of a prank. I don't know. I just don't know. And I guess it's this not knowing that is scary. I don't want to think about the other possibilities, but they're there, they're in my head. I can't get rid of them. At times like this, I crave oblivion. Or just some kind of comfort, someone to hold on to. But I know if I get my little sister to sleep in my bed, I'll just end up scaring her.
Remember when I said I wished I'd have a story to tell? Spoke too soon, I guess. I want normal again. The kind of normal where all the variables are known, the dramas are petty, the kind of boredom that is safe.
Peace in,
Laila
I do have this down to a science. Usually, I catch the bus at 0644 that goes towards the campus closest to my house, then catch the shuttle at 0715 towards my campus. But just today, I decided to loosen the reigns on my otherwise rigid, self-imposed schedule, and go the other way, a bus and a train towards the station near Panda's house, so she could pick me up and we'd head to uni together, for Thursday Pancakes.
Heading towards the warmer seasons as we are, the days getting longer, the sun rising earlier, so there was sufficient light for me to see when I stepped outside. It was of the ambiguous variety, with no clear sun to pinpoint as the source, just a grey sort of brightness. I said my salaams to my mother, shut the door, took a few steps before registering the splatter on the pane beside the door.
I'm not really a zombie in the morning; I'm sort of a morning person, but I'm also a bit slow. It looked like someone had thrown some small, juicy red fruit, so that it had splattered, and dripped down, gradually drying as it did. My initial thought, as I slowly processed this, was why would anyone bother? Our house is sort of on a hill. It would take some effort to walk up the steep driveway, or the stairs, to get close enough to take exact aim and hit the glass right. To what purpose. And why. Why, between last night, and this morning, would someone do that.
As these thoughts slowly came together in my head, I gradually became aware of the bigger picture. This dried up red, smudged across the door, on the glass panes in the middle, on the side. Thick, congealed drops on the floor. You wouldn't see this from way out front, but when you go up the final steps to my door, there is another set of steps on the right, that go into a space behind the garage, but in front a tall fence that separates it from the backyard. Even there, there were these smidgens of red, at the top too, like someone had reached over and grasped the top.
My stomach turned over. Blood. It was blood.
In this sort of sickened haze, I knocked quietly and rapidly on the door; my mother had just woken up as I was leaving, everyone else was still asleep. She opened the door, frowning.
"Mum, mum, look," I said, swallowing the lump in my throat and gesturing vaguely.
She went in and called my dad, who was awake, it turns out, just listening to Qu'ran in bed.
I know we discussed this briefly, what was to be done, but even though it was this morning, I can't remember what was said. I know my dad was a bit reluctant to call the police. I said I had to catch my bus. I left.
On the bus, I just. I felt sick. And strangely on the verge of tears.
Last night: it was one of those nights where it was cold, but also warm. I had a bit of a cold sweat going on. My little sister kept waking me up, sporadically, throughout the night, because she was feeling unwell. I only checked the time once - it was about 0250. The whole night went by in this stage between sleep and wake.
But there was a moment, in the night, somewhere, I'm sure, between 0300 and 0500, maybe 0430, where there was a loud banging. I'm a light sleeper; the slightest sounds can disturb me. I have a tendency to come up with dark theories if I can't automatically detect the cause, and the absurdity of these theories eventually lulls me to sleep. I know that's weird, but honestly. I live in the dullest part of my suburb, quiet, middle to upper class suburbia, with a touch of a retirement living across the street. Nothing. Happens. Here. You've heard me say it before.
So when I heard this banging sound, I thought to myself: sounds like someone getting hacked to death. Which is, of course, ridiculous in my world.
Also, the sound seemed to becoming towards my sisters' end of the house, which is the back, like my room, but on the other side. Far from the front. When I think about it now, I've heard that human hearing is terrible at pinpointing sources. So maybe that's another reason why it didn't register.
My parents also heard it, apparently. My dad thought it was someone knocking, but my mother assured him it was probably cats. I mean, Kiki knows how to knock on our door. And we've had quite a few cats visiting and kicking up a fuss recently. So my father didn't get out of bed to check either.
All I could think of, on that bus ride, was that somebody, in the night hours of the morning, was hurt. That they came to our door, banging on it loudly, in search of help. And they didn't get any from us.
On that bus ride, I felt like throwing up. I kept an eye out for bodies, for some kind of disturbance, but I saw nothing.
When I met up with Panda, I called my mother straight away. She told me they had decided to call the police after my dad had come home from work - he drives a school bus, so he just had to drop the kids off. After that, I allowed Panda to reassure me, and I got back into the routine of Pancake Thursdays.
I can't believe I was able to do that. I don't know if others would do the same. But somehow, I managed to put it at the back of my mind. It's not that I didn't think about it at all - I checked my phone frequently, expecting an update if something came up. But I was calm. And I eventually stopped worrying.
I got home earlier than usual, but it was still dark. That was the fastest I have ever walked from the bus stop without a purpose. I was paranoid, my eyes flitted everywhere. The sick feeling came back when I arrived and the dried, drippy blood was still there.
The police hadn't come. My parents had called about 0900, and it was about 1840.
Some thoughts that had come up since:
Yes, I had heard the banging on the door, as had my parents. But we hadn't heard any yelling. No one had tried calling out to us. Why not?
My mother had contacted our neighbours. Our neighbours on the left checked their front gate/door (there house has a difficult layout to explain), and yes, they too found flecks of dried blood. They also heard sounds during the night, but thought it was possums. But our neighbours on our right found nothing. And no one else in our neighbourhood seemed to be kicking up a fuss. Why was it just our two houses - two houses, mind you, that do not have the easiest access to front doors?
The night before, my sister and I got home late from soccer. We brought a friend home, because her parents had gone out, and they said they would pick her up from our house. My sister let her out when her parents came, but half in this world and half in the virtual world of her phone as she is, she did not lock the door. That night, this morning, the door was not locked. Whoever was banging on our door tried to climb over our back fence - you can see the stains on the top. All they had to do was try the door and they could have gotten in. It's not that I wanted them to, or not; it's just that for some reason, the possibility sends chills down my spine.
Anyway, my sister called again, about 1915. They said they would come. It's 2316 now and they haven't shown. What does one have to do to get the police to show up? I'm not usually overly cynical about law enforcement as a general rule, but today, I have lost all my faith in them.
And I'm scared. I'm not sure what I'm scared of exactly, but I am. Maybe there's a reasonable explanation for this, one that isn't dark. Maybe some silly person went bike riding at this odd hour for kicks, had a bit of an accident, and came staggering up our driveway in the hopes of getting us to call an ambulance or something. Maybe it was some sick person's idea of a prank. I don't know. I just don't know. And I guess it's this not knowing that is scary. I don't want to think about the other possibilities, but they're there, they're in my head. I can't get rid of them. At times like this, I crave oblivion. Or just some kind of comfort, someone to hold on to. But I know if I get my little sister to sleep in my bed, I'll just end up scaring her.
Remember when I said I wished I'd have a story to tell? Spoke too soon, I guess. I want normal again. The kind of normal where all the variables are known, the dramas are petty, the kind of boredom that is safe.
Peace in,
Laila
Friday, September 4, 2015
People and their sides of wonder
I finished reading Stasiland, and I realised - or re-realised - just how much I love stories.
I mean, you know this. You know this because you absolutely must know by now how much I love reading. I am always reading. I always have a book on my bedside table, or in my bag - I'm always in the middle of some book or another. The more stressful or busy life gets, the more I need a book. I may read in smaller increments, but I solemnly swear - I am always reading. The gap between me finishing one book and starting another is v-e-r-y narrow.
So this realisation, you may think it's a bit... well, glaringly obvious, le duh.
But this is different. Nothing's changed, I've just evolved a little - a little in understanding about myself. Sort of.
I usually gravitate towards the fictional. I love make believe. I love it in something as outrageous as fantasy, the occasional drip in sci-fi, but I also love it in the slightly more believable, still romanticised, high school or family dramas. Even closer to reality, give me a bit of historical fiction. Or just shock me with something terrifying, something disturbing, something mysterious. I'll take it all.
There are only two things that bother me with fiction. One is, well, it's fiction. It's not real. The other, while closely related, is still a little distinct: it's not real, and it'll never be mine. No pirates or witches, no struggle through war or some other colossal disaster, no tragic romance or numbered days with impending doom - I know it's sort of terrible to wish these things, but I can't help it. When I've read it in a book, it's always romantic. It's an experience, woven together in such pretty words that I can't help wish they were describing me.
And that's just fiction.
So you can imagine how I feel when I read someone's epic story, and it's real. Like Stasiland. Oh how my heart broke for Miriam, who went and asked them every day how Charlie could have hung himself in those sparse cells she'd experienced herself, and they gave her different answers every time. And Frau Paul, who sacrificed seeing her baby boy to save a guy she barely knew in the West. She so was so brave and so selfless, and you wish that she was just that bit selfish enough to take the bait, because it's her courage and selflessness that makes her deserving of the right to see her kid.
People are so extraordinary.
This is what I've realised. I know it doesn't sound like much, it's just... It's just one of those things, those ideas or thoughts that are blasé, you just take them for granted, and then, one day, bam: it hits you. It touches your soul.
Look at that. That's Hitler with a little girl. Hitler. Do I need to iterate what this guy is responsible for? And yet, when Star showed me this, it came with a little tumblr discussion that pointed out that yes, he did many horrible things (I don't have words), but we cannot just simplify him as this creature of super-evil in order to comprehend what he did. The fact is, despite all that he did, Hitler was still a man, and there must have been a great many other things going on in that little head of his, not all of them psychotic, that we will never know.
Stalin, man. Putting aside the bigger picture of his endless cruelty, this is a guy who said "He can't even shoot straight" when his son tried to kill himself. But when his wife died, according to Wiki (and a certain historian), he is quoted as saying: "This creature softened my heart of stone. She died and with her died my last warm feelings for humanity." He threw himself in her open grave at her funeral, and had to be dragged out. His gun was taken away from him because his comrades were worried about the extent of his grief.
(I mean, let's be real, grieving or not, I would never think a gun was safe in Stalin's hands.)
The point is, would you ever associate this tragic lover with the heartless dictator?
I'm not writing this to elicit sympathy for the nastier figures of history. I'm just astounded.
Isn't it just so amazing how absolutely complex people are? These gallimaufries of stupidity, courage, malice, selflessness, imagination, ridiculousness, contradiction, empathy... I mean, it goes on and on and on and we could never, ever get to the bottom of it.
And it is the stories of people that I am in love with.
And I think this is why I've found my niche in paramedics/nursing. It may sound unrelated, but really, this course has given me the best platform to discover people. Really, since I started, I've wondered why I chose the course. Yes, I like the idea of paramedics and nursing - helping people, taking care of them, etc - but there are other ways to do this, right? I mean, all careers end up doing this in some way or another ('cept politicians?). We all contribute to society, so we will all inadvertently helping each other.
Aside from that, I've never been interested in medicine or health. I've never been fascinated by biology, or anatomy and physiology. I've always been iffy about needles and blood and all that.
And I've always been a humanities kid. I love my reading (did I mention that?), my writing, my history, studying issues and discussing ideas. One does go into my course looking for this stuff.
But over the past year and a bit, within uni but mainly through a series of placements, I have made the acquaintance of so many different people, and... it fills me up. It opens my mind, it changes me, it moves me, it gives me new perspectives - I can't explain it. I just love the experience.
It's not that I only pick up amazing people in the ambulance, or that only quirky people come into hospital. These people are everyday people. Sometimes it's their medical story - the dog bite, the spider bite, the rare genetic condition - the one with the unlucky lottery of a jumble of rare conditions, for that matter. The guy with the apple piece up his butt (best ice-breaker ever).
Sometimes it's their personal stories.
There was the relatively elderly gentleman who spoke to me about his experience of moving from England to Australia, how he and his family may not have explored much in the former, but were prone to just packing, selling, upping and travelling around the latter in a caravan, settling in whatever state or territory took their fancy, every now and again. How just once, he and his wife wanted to do it by themselves, so when all the kids left the nest, they did. How soon after they completed the dream, they found out she had lung cancer - though she'd never smoked in her life - and suddenly she was gone. It had been a few years, but he still had tears in his eyes as he told me, lying in bed in the recovery room.
There were a few travellers - the guy from Germany, another who travelled constantly on business... Contrary to what I thought, that you'd be left in a perpetual state of longing to take flight again, he said that no matter how wonderful it was to see the world, he never stopped wishing that he could just settle down, for a bit, and just be with his family.
And sometimes it's just who they, in general. The 42-year-old woman who ended up in the same room as another 42-year-old woman and they ended up becoming soul sisters. When one was discharged before the other, they literally wept because of the separation. In the following days, the one that was discharged would call daily to catch up - she actually wished she was back in hospital to be with the other. The one that stayed, she was my patient, and I adored her. She was in because one of her implants, following a bilateral prophylactic mastectomy, became infected with cellulitis. But despite over 15 days in hospital, and many more to come; despite the constant IV medications, the drain tubes, the pain, the loneliness, the discomfort, she was such a bright spark. We talked about her daughters, my sisters, her conditions, my understanding, and just anything, and I've decided I want to be like her when I'm 42. (Divorced, 2 kids, happy). (Probably not a healthy ambition). (Whatever).
I remember my clinical educator, at my second aged-care placement last year, telling us about how when she went up to the Northern Territory for missionary work, there were these Indigenous people who, even though they'd be given housing, preferred to sleep outside at night. Just like that. In the bush. How beautiful is that? I don't think it'd be as breathtaking and liberating in the middle of suburbia, but up there, where it's remote, with the starry night sky as your blanket... They'd occasionally have an issue with people being run over, but I prefer to look at the side of wonder.
There is so much to say about people. Everyone seems amazing one way or another. They always seem to have something to share. This quote, from Death in The Book Thief: I am haunted by humans.
And I know this is cliché, and I know you probably saw this coming, but I wonder: what is my story?
I feel like all I have to relate belongs to someone else. I feel like I'm always the prop in a production starring someone else, like a rock. Or a tree. It's not really that I want centre stage. I don't really do well in the spotlight. But what I would like is a story worth sharing, something I own even if no one hears it in the end. It's like... It's like life is this gift, this... Notebook. (God, how often I've been given stationary, and I love it, but I never know what to put in it). And you have to write something worthwhile in that notebook, make the words count on the page, even if no one ever reads it.
So I want mine to be a good one. I know what I want. I have these dreams, these ideas. The problem with this metaphor - that you are the star of your own show - is that you don't get to write everyone's lines, things don't happen in accordance with the script you devised. I don't know how this is going to unfold. I don't know what the point of this post is. I just had some thoughts I wanted to get out.
Peace in,
Laila
I mean, you know this. You know this because you absolutely must know by now how much I love reading. I am always reading. I always have a book on my bedside table, or in my bag - I'm always in the middle of some book or another. The more stressful or busy life gets, the more I need a book. I may read in smaller increments, but I solemnly swear - I am always reading. The gap between me finishing one book and starting another is v-e-r-y narrow.
So this realisation, you may think it's a bit... well, glaringly obvious, le duh.
But this is different. Nothing's changed, I've just evolved a little - a little in understanding about myself. Sort of.
I usually gravitate towards the fictional. I love make believe. I love it in something as outrageous as fantasy, the occasional drip in sci-fi, but I also love it in the slightly more believable, still romanticised, high school or family dramas. Even closer to reality, give me a bit of historical fiction. Or just shock me with something terrifying, something disturbing, something mysterious. I'll take it all.
There are only two things that bother me with fiction. One is, well, it's fiction. It's not real. The other, while closely related, is still a little distinct: it's not real, and it'll never be mine. No pirates or witches, no struggle through war or some other colossal disaster, no tragic romance or numbered days with impending doom - I know it's sort of terrible to wish these things, but I can't help it. When I've read it in a book, it's always romantic. It's an experience, woven together in such pretty words that I can't help wish they were describing me.
And that's just fiction.
So you can imagine how I feel when I read someone's epic story, and it's real. Like Stasiland. Oh how my heart broke for Miriam, who went and asked them every day how Charlie could have hung himself in those sparse cells she'd experienced herself, and they gave her different answers every time. And Frau Paul, who sacrificed seeing her baby boy to save a guy she barely knew in the West. She so was so brave and so selfless, and you wish that she was just that bit selfish enough to take the bait, because it's her courage and selflessness that makes her deserving of the right to see her kid.
People are so extraordinary.
This is what I've realised. I know it doesn't sound like much, it's just... It's just one of those things, those ideas or thoughts that are blasé, you just take them for granted, and then, one day, bam: it hits you. It touches your soul.
Stalin, man. Putting aside the bigger picture of his endless cruelty, this is a guy who said "He can't even shoot straight" when his son tried to kill himself. But when his wife died, according to Wiki (and a certain historian), he is quoted as saying: "This creature softened my heart of stone. She died and with her died my last warm feelings for humanity." He threw himself in her open grave at her funeral, and had to be dragged out. His gun was taken away from him because his comrades were worried about the extent of his grief.
(I mean, let's be real, grieving or not, I would never think a gun was safe in Stalin's hands.)
The point is, would you ever associate this tragic lover with the heartless dictator?
I'm not writing this to elicit sympathy for the nastier figures of history. I'm just astounded.
Isn't it just so amazing how absolutely complex people are? These gallimaufries of stupidity, courage, malice, selflessness, imagination, ridiculousness, contradiction, empathy... I mean, it goes on and on and on and we could never, ever get to the bottom of it.
And it is the stories of people that I am in love with.
And I think this is why I've found my niche in paramedics/nursing. It may sound unrelated, but really, this course has given me the best platform to discover people. Really, since I started, I've wondered why I chose the course. Yes, I like the idea of paramedics and nursing - helping people, taking care of them, etc - but there are other ways to do this, right? I mean, all careers end up doing this in some way or another ('cept politicians?). We all contribute to society, so we will all inadvertently helping each other.
Aside from that, I've never been interested in medicine or health. I've never been fascinated by biology, or anatomy and physiology. I've always been iffy about needles and blood and all that.
And I've always been a humanities kid. I love my reading (did I mention that?), my writing, my history, studying issues and discussing ideas. One does go into my course looking for this stuff.
But over the past year and a bit, within uni but mainly through a series of placements, I have made the acquaintance of so many different people, and... it fills me up. It opens my mind, it changes me, it moves me, it gives me new perspectives - I can't explain it. I just love the experience.
It's not that I only pick up amazing people in the ambulance, or that only quirky people come into hospital. These people are everyday people. Sometimes it's their medical story - the dog bite, the spider bite, the rare genetic condition - the one with the unlucky lottery of a jumble of rare conditions, for that matter. The guy with the apple piece up his butt (best ice-breaker ever).
Sometimes it's their personal stories.
There was the relatively elderly gentleman who spoke to me about his experience of moving from England to Australia, how he and his family may not have explored much in the former, but were prone to just packing, selling, upping and travelling around the latter in a caravan, settling in whatever state or territory took their fancy, every now and again. How just once, he and his wife wanted to do it by themselves, so when all the kids left the nest, they did. How soon after they completed the dream, they found out she had lung cancer - though she'd never smoked in her life - and suddenly she was gone. It had been a few years, but he still had tears in his eyes as he told me, lying in bed in the recovery room.
There were a few travellers - the guy from Germany, another who travelled constantly on business... Contrary to what I thought, that you'd be left in a perpetual state of longing to take flight again, he said that no matter how wonderful it was to see the world, he never stopped wishing that he could just settle down, for a bit, and just be with his family.
And sometimes it's just who they, in general. The 42-year-old woman who ended up in the same room as another 42-year-old woman and they ended up becoming soul sisters. When one was discharged before the other, they literally wept because of the separation. In the following days, the one that was discharged would call daily to catch up - she actually wished she was back in hospital to be with the other. The one that stayed, she was my patient, and I adored her. She was in because one of her implants, following a bilateral prophylactic mastectomy, became infected with cellulitis. But despite over 15 days in hospital, and many more to come; despite the constant IV medications, the drain tubes, the pain, the loneliness, the discomfort, she was such a bright spark. We talked about her daughters, my sisters, her conditions, my understanding, and just anything, and I've decided I want to be like her when I'm 42. (Divorced, 2 kids, happy). (Probably not a healthy ambition). (Whatever).
I remember my clinical educator, at my second aged-care placement last year, telling us about how when she went up to the Northern Territory for missionary work, there were these Indigenous people who, even though they'd be given housing, preferred to sleep outside at night. Just like that. In the bush. How beautiful is that? I don't think it'd be as breathtaking and liberating in the middle of suburbia, but up there, where it's remote, with the starry night sky as your blanket... They'd occasionally have an issue with people being run over, but I prefer to look at the side of wonder.
There is so much to say about people. Everyone seems amazing one way or another. They always seem to have something to share. This quote, from Death in The Book Thief: I am haunted by humans.
I imagine that when people see that as my status/whatever it's called on WhatsApp, they probably roll their eyes and see it as a wannabe attempt at depth. It's just that those words really hit home for me. When I hear peoples' stories, they stick, in my head, and I ruminate over them, I ponder them, I picture them playing out before me. I collect them.
And I know this is cliché, and I know you probably saw this coming, but I wonder: what is my story?
I feel like all I have to relate belongs to someone else. I feel like I'm always the prop in a production starring someone else, like a rock. Or a tree. It's not really that I want centre stage. I don't really do well in the spotlight. But what I would like is a story worth sharing, something I own even if no one hears it in the end. It's like... It's like life is this gift, this... Notebook. (God, how often I've been given stationary, and I love it, but I never know what to put in it). And you have to write something worthwhile in that notebook, make the words count on the page, even if no one ever reads it.
So I want mine to be a good one. I know what I want. I have these dreams, these ideas. The problem with this metaphor - that you are the star of your own show - is that you don't get to write everyone's lines, things don't happen in accordance with the script you devised. I don't know how this is going to unfold. I don't know what the point of this post is. I just had some thoughts I wanted to get out.
Peace in,
Laila
Wednesday, September 24, 2014
'the man shot dead'
I use 'know' very loosely here. He went to my school. We've been in the same class. He walked the same halls as me. Talked to people I knew. I've spoken to him.
He's my age.
It's just so close to home. I don't know what to do.
It doesn't feel real.
Just how. What. What.
I have to admit, I had a reaction I'm not proud of. I mean, after the initial shock, I was just... Like... I wasn't angry or contemptuous, but I just initially accepted he was in the wrong. It's so mean, right?
I just didn't have the best impression of him, personally, in my goody-two-shoes way. He was a bit obnoxious in my French class. He used to always argue with this girl - she was provocative too - but the thing is, they would shout and swear, and that just makes me nervous.
But I've been thinking about it... All day... And there are just so many dimensions and I'm so confused and frustrated and absolutely very completely ... Listless. It's just bizarre.
Like... I'm not sure what I can say here, because I don't know if people can find this stuff and so... I can't spill secrets, I don't want to compromise other people or be involved... But I really... I feel like I'm going to explode.
It's just that I don't know what to believe and I don't know what to think but I don't think I need to find a stance like it's not really my place to find a stance on this but then how do you not have a stance and I knew him and how is someone the class clown one day and compelled to stab policemen another day and then just dead and what if the police are lying what if the media are lying what if we're all just lying and was it a malicious act was it just stupidity was he scared or was he angry was he really so threatening and did the police really have to shoot or was it just like an instinctive reaction or were they hateful and how does this happen and how skeptical are we allowed to be about things how can you believe everything you hear but then how can you not just believe everything I mean I
JUST
DON'T
KNOW.
What I do know.
He's not an 18 year old man, terror suspect. He's a boy. Maybe he was into stupid things, but he had time to change and grow up.
Peace in,
Laila
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Never grow up
I've done four placements for paramedics, and I loved them, but I gotta say that the one-week nursing placement I had last week was the one that really hit me.
Aged care.
I've always been uncomfortable around nudity and stuff, but... now... I've seen it all. I helped with the bathing, the toileting, the changing, the moving, the feeding. It was exhausting stuff, and to be honest, I don't think I did all that much. I was, technically, just assisting. I can't even begin to imagine what it's like to be the actual one-woman-show on a daily basis. Or two-woman-show. For like, 15 dependant elderly residents.
And I discovered that I'm pretty capable. I didn't cringe or giggle stupidly. I did whatever I was told, because... I donno. It had to be done. It can't be helped, and there was nothing funny about it.
[INTERMISSION:
Okay, so there are some things funny about it - i.e. my favourite resident, Barry.
Day one, he was hitting on all the female assistants in the vicinity. My mentor went to get him up in the morning, and she was trying to pull the sheets up, but he kept clinging on. She wrestled it off him, and she tried to lift his arm, but he refused.
"I'm holding down my stomach," he insisted.
"Why?" my mentor asked, exasperated.
"So I can look slim for you," he replied.
Smooth, huh?
Day two, he was in a bad kind of mood. He started threatening my mentor because he felt they weren't respecting him.
"I'd love to be your husband for a day or two," he said to her.
"Why, Barry? You were just threatening me, why would you be my husband?" my mentor joked.
"I'd clock you one every morning," he retorted. When my mentors try to stifle their laughter, he continued. "Women like to be noticed."
Day three, I was allocated to another sector for the night shift. However, we went over to his area because we needed to empty the linen. When we walked past his room, I couldn't help but peek in, and he was awake, and before I could escape, he called me in.
"What's going on out there?" he asked.
"Oh, we're just emptying the soiled linen," I replied.
"Why wasn't I informed?" He had that self-entitled, imperious tone.
"Oh - it's not that big a deal. Just cleaning up, you know?"
"Oh, you would think so, wouldn't you?" he said, peering down at me. I mean, he was below me on the bed, but he has that Dumbledore-peering-over-his-half-moon-spectacles thing going on, although he was more conspiratorial as opposed to wise.
"Well, I'll have you know..." he started, and went on to describe the various weaponry he apparently had around his room. Apparently he had a pistol under the covers, and the table legs weren't really as they seemed. He asserted that he was prepared to leave the room and shoot everyone in the shins, as necessary... something something... Then he started talking about the girl he loved, Phyllis, who apparently didn't love him back, and his father always said that 'you should never make a woman uncomfortable - if she doesn't want you, that's it'... something something... He was always a 'man of the land, not the administration', because the administration was always trying to change the world according to their beliefs and religion and political ideas, but men of the land just lived... and so on, so forth.
These are just snippets, really - Barry and I had many conversations, most of them not really making sense, but I donno; I felt like there was some kind of wisdom in there. He's a cool guy. I love him.]
But most of it wasn't funny because... because. Because it's hard to see people who have a great number of years behind them, who must have grand stories, who should appear regal, who ought to be treated with a kind of a reverence... It's hard to see these people so diminished, mentally.
That was really what confronted me - I can't see people losing their minds.
It scares me and it makes me sick, and it's... so hard to deal with. I don't even know how to explain it. I used to hate aging primarily because I like being a kid. Now I'm just scared of aging because I don't want to end up like that.
My mentor implied that one of the ladies could hold a conversation, so I seized an opportunity to feed her. So I started chatting, asking her some questions - do you have children, grandchildren, are you from around here?
We got to the point where she said she was born in England, but married an Aussie bloke, and she considered herself Aussie. I said, awesome, so when did this happen? As in, when did she come out here?
And then she got teary.
"I don't know, I can't remember! It's too long!" she cried out. And my heart broke a little. Ow.
She's not the only one. I mean, they're all (mostly) sweet, but it's just so hard because theoretically you should speak to them with deference, right? But you end up having to be patronising, and you can't help it. It's so hard.
So no aged care for me. And I'm definitely not growing up.
Also, I had my first personal encounter with a corpse. On my last night, this guy had just been moved back from hospital into palliative care. They thought he had a couple of days at least. The nurse in charge went on break for 10 minutes, and when she came back, he was gone. I had to help wash him.
They go downhill so fast.
When I left, one of my other favourite residents was in the midst of a fever. She was stripped down, sweating and shuddering, and she kept calling out to God. It was awful. And I had to leave right there. I still don't know what happened to her.
Aged care is not for me. I was told that in order to deal, I shouldn't take things personally, but I can't not take it personally. I joined this profession because I like things personal. It feels so cold being detached. I can't do it.
Yep.
Paramedic placements, on the other hand, have been a lot less overwhelming. I've had four one day shifts across the semester. Nothing particularly dramatic, so no good stories to share, but I do love 'em. I can't be bothered walking down memory lane for that stuff, so maybe I'll just write about my next one :)
Ramadan mubarak to all my Muslims out there ♥
Peace in,
Laila
Wednesday, June 18, 2014
Thus far
So I have an exam in two days - my last - and I decided to write up a blog post.
Priorities.
Did I ever comment on your blog with a whiny little plea for you to blog more often, because, you know, I totally understood that you had a life, but I really did miss you and would it really be too hard for you to write a blog every now and again to lettuce know you're alive?
Did I ever comment on your blog with a whiny little plea for you to blog more often, because, you know, I totally understood that you had a life, but I really did miss you and would it really be too hard for you to write a blog every now and again to lettuce know you're alive?
...
I lied. I never understood. Now I understand.
I tried to write a post much before - I really did want to keep you guys updated. This is what it was:
There aren't enough hours in a day.
This post, right here? It's going to be written in the gaps. In little moments that I can steal. Because this is what university life is coming down to. Fleeting conversations with would-be friends between huge chunks of lectures. Hurrying to catch the bus, hurrying to get home. On the bus, trying to fit as many songs in as I can, make that always short period of respite last forever. Those bus rides - the only moments where there isn't something I have to do, pay attention to, or go somewhere, the only place I can just be. And there are assignments that seem so far in the distant, and suddenly they loom up before you. Devoting hours to taking notes on one unit, to pass a weekly quiz that takes 15min. Brief meetings with old friends on a uni campus I don't even attend, only to discuss when we can we can next catch up for a proper conversation. Will it ever happen? I want it to happen. I don't know if they do. But I think we both have to accept that the chances are slimming down, rapidly.
Why do I always come across as depressed?
I am not depressed. I am tired. So tired, always.
This post, right here? It's going to be written in the gaps. In little moments that I can steal. Because this is what university life is coming down to. Fleeting conversations with would-be friends between huge chunks of lectures. Hurrying to catch the bus, hurrying to get home. On the bus, trying to fit as many songs in as I can, make that always short period of respite last forever. Those bus rides - the only moments where there isn't something I have to do, pay attention to, or go somewhere, the only place I can just be. And there are assignments that seem so far in the distant, and suddenly they loom up before you. Devoting hours to taking notes on one unit, to pass a weekly quiz that takes 15min. Brief meetings with old friends on a uni campus I don't even attend, only to discuss when we can we can next catch up for a proper conversation. Will it ever happen? I want it to happen. I don't know if they do. But I think we both have to accept that the chances are slimming down, rapidly.
Why do I always come across as depressed?
I am not depressed. I am tired. So tired, always.
How depressing, non?
And it ahbviously failed, because I absolutely could not find the time to write up all the little moments I wanted to. It's been a long, hard road, guys, but I'm happy to say I love where it took me.
So. UNIVERSITY.
I really donno how to condense this, and even though I am going to condense this, it's still not going to be so condensed. Oh well.
Let's start with the course. In summary, I FREAKING LOVE IT. SO. SO. SO. MUCH.
Paramedics and Nursing. One of the best decisions I've ever made.
So this semester, I had to do four units. One was Anatomy and Physiology, which is kinda the overlap between Paramedics and Nursing. You can imagine the grief this unit caused me; I've always been an Arts/Humanities girl - science is not my thing. The funny thing is, I think the coordinators of the unit knew what a pain their unit was, so even though it was still my hardest unit, it was the easiest to study for, and the assignment was really straightforward too - they made everything so clear cut and everything, and therefore, ironically, I ended up liking the unit.
I also had two nursing units. I call one Real Nursing, and the other one Boring Nursing, because it was stupid. Boring Nursing is something to do with 'scholarly communication', and I can see how it might have been relevant in second or third year, but as a first year, I think it was stupid to teach us about research and all that jazz when none of us knew anything anyway. The only good thing, really, was Boring Nursing had no exam, just three assignments. I had one of my First Bad Experiences with this stupid unit, and for the sake of important university memories, I'm gonna write it out for you, but I'm so over it. But feel free to call me out if I'm being bratty ^_^
Bad Experience Uno
And it ahbviously failed, because I absolutely could not find the time to write up all the little moments I wanted to. It's been a long, hard road, guys, but I'm happy to say I love where it took me.
So. UNIVERSITY.
I really donno how to condense this, and even though I am going to condense this, it's still not going to be so condensed. Oh well.
Let's start with the course. In summary, I FREAKING LOVE IT. SO. SO. SO. MUCH.
Paramedics and Nursing. One of the best decisions I've ever made.
So this semester, I had to do four units. One was Anatomy and Physiology, which is kinda the overlap between Paramedics and Nursing. You can imagine the grief this unit caused me; I've always been an Arts/Humanities girl - science is not my thing. The funny thing is, I think the coordinators of the unit knew what a pain their unit was, so even though it was still my hardest unit, it was the easiest to study for, and the assignment was really straightforward too - they made everything so clear cut and everything, and therefore, ironically, I ended up liking the unit.
I also had two nursing units. I call one Real Nursing, and the other one Boring Nursing, because it was stupid. Boring Nursing is something to do with 'scholarly communication', and I can see how it might have been relevant in second or third year, but as a first year, I think it was stupid to teach us about research and all that jazz when none of us knew anything anyway. The only good thing, really, was Boring Nursing had no exam, just three assignments. I had one of my First Bad Experiences with this stupid unit, and for the sake of important university memories, I'm gonna write it out for you, but I'm so over it. But feel free to call me out if I'm being bratty ^_^
Bad Experience Uno
So for this first assignment, it was only an online submission. As a typically studious, terrified first year student, I put in my all to get the assignment done on time, and went over it pedantically only a billion and one times. I have this thing where I can't submit an assignment or leave an exam early, because I would just die if I realised a second after that there was something I did wrong/could have done better. It's one thing where you had no time to fix something, but when you have plenty and you can't fix it... agajhdgkaj, you know?
So it was due on a Friday at 2pm. I uploaded my assignment on Thursday night after much fretting, and then phew, sweet relief.
Five days later, at the Boring Nursing lecture, our lecturer told us that she was concerned because about 100 of 300 students had yet to submit their assignment.
"Can you all just make sure you pressed the submit button, instead of just uploading?"
You can imagine the mini-freakout. So in that lecture, I submitted the assignment, but I wasn't really anxious, because a) the lecturer/unit coordinator didn't sound too fussed, and b) I think I just assumed if 100 students made the same mistake, they wouldn't penalize us.
But y'all know this is a Bad Experience, and hence you know there ain't no happy ending. When I got my assignment, I was initially elated to see that I had received a High Distinction. And then, right next to that, it said my mark had been halved because it was 5 days late.
And by halving my mark, it had essentially become a fail.
Like a backhanded compliment.
I didn't really break down immediately; I was just stunned, I guess. As I was with a whole bunch of friends at the time, they were all really calm and insisted that it was no big deal.
"Email her [the lecturer/unit coordinator]," every single person in the universe said. "You're just a first year, heaps of people made the same mistake, and it was just a genuine silly little mistake, she'll change it." I don't mean just other students; the people at the nursing office said it too. So I emailed her. And she basically said no.
Cue the water works. It wasn't so much the fact that she refused. It was the way her email implied I was slack. I've never been that student, so it burned. That, and the fact it was a fail. I rarely (if ever) fail. I don't always do well, but a fail?!
Moral: Uni staff have no mercy. When fretting over assignment, fret until you're 6000% sure you've submitted it.
As for Real Nursing, I love it because it's the practical side, and it was also about all those fluffy ideals I think of when I think of nurses. Love the lecturers, love the tutors. They're such stereotypes, it's adorable.
And then there's Paramedics.
Gosh. Okay. So how do I explain this?
For all my lectures, tutorials and labs, all the staff have a standard way of introducing themselves: name, qualifications, years of experience, yada yada yada. Nothing spectacular.
So it was due on a Friday at 2pm. I uploaded my assignment on Thursday night after much fretting, and then phew, sweet relief.
Five days later, at the Boring Nursing lecture, our lecturer told us that she was concerned because about 100 of 300 students had yet to submit their assignment.
"Can you all just make sure you pressed the submit button, instead of just uploading?"
You can imagine the mini-freakout. So in that lecture, I submitted the assignment, but I wasn't really anxious, because a) the lecturer/unit coordinator didn't sound too fussed, and b) I think I just assumed if 100 students made the same mistake, they wouldn't penalize us.
But y'all know this is a Bad Experience, and hence you know there ain't no happy ending. When I got my assignment, I was initially elated to see that I had received a High Distinction. And then, right next to that, it said my mark had been halved because it was 5 days late.
And by halving my mark, it had essentially become a fail.
Like a backhanded compliment.
I didn't really break down immediately; I was just stunned, I guess. As I was with a whole bunch of friends at the time, they were all really calm and insisted that it was no big deal.
"Email her [the lecturer/unit coordinator]," every single person in the universe said. "You're just a first year, heaps of people made the same mistake, and it was just a genuine silly little mistake, she'll change it." I don't mean just other students; the people at the nursing office said it too. So I emailed her. And she basically said no.
Cue the water works. It wasn't so much the fact that she refused. It was the way her email implied I was slack. I've never been that student, so it burned. That, and the fact it was a fail. I rarely (if ever) fail. I don't always do well, but a fail?!
Moral: Uni staff have no mercy. When fretting over assignment, fret until you're 6000% sure you've submitted it.
As for Real Nursing, I love it because it's the practical side, and it was also about all those fluffy ideals I think of when I think of nurses. Love the lecturers, love the tutors. They're such stereotypes, it's adorable.
And then there's Paramedics.
Gosh. Okay. So how do I explain this?
For all my lectures, tutorials and labs, all the staff have a standard way of introducing themselves: name, qualifications, years of experience, yada yada yada. Nothing spectacular.
Jaime - the paramedics lecturer/unit coordinator - started our first lecture by pulling up a photo of a baby girl on the powerpoint.
"This is Indie," she said. "She's my world."
She went on to say all this random stuff about her, you know, like she doesn't like wearing shoes, and she loves photography, and she's a family person...
Love at first sight, people.
She's just so AWESOME. Everyone loves her. I'm not even exaggerating. For First Years, the university has this program where they have senior students call you up at certain intervals to see how you're doing. A few weeks in, this guy calls me up and asks me how things are, and I was telling him how much I love my lecturer, and he's like: "Is this Jaime?"
And I'm like why yes, who else?!
In this one lecture, she wanted us to do this quick group activity, and she told us to write our answers on a paper, make a plane, and fly it down to her. It was a fail, but still. In this other lecture, she wanted us to do a survey (andnevermindeveryonewouldclimbmountainsforher) and she felt she had to bribe us, so she brought in this massive container of chocolates, and literally strolled around the theatre throwing them at us. Mind you, that's a couple of hundred students. Just saying. Another day, she thought it was a beautiful day, so she made us all go outside to practise practical stuff. Also, she refuses to record lectures, because she says she loves us so much and she wants to be able to see our faces every week, even if she has to force us to get there.
I love her so much. I want to be just like her. She's such a hippy... such a pocketful of sunshine. I'm just a little obsessed with her. We all are.
And that's just her. The Paramedic aspect in itself is just...everythingIthoughtitwouldbeandmore. The practicals, the jumpsuit, the placements - I've had four so far - it's just... amazing.
I'm gonna end this on a picture of the promised jumpsuit photo, and my precious kitties who have, alas, since left the nest... but I've still much to add, so To Be Continued...
.jpg)
Peace in,
Laila
"This is Indie," she said. "She's my world."
She went on to say all this random stuff about her, you know, like she doesn't like wearing shoes, and she loves photography, and she's a family person...
Love at first sight, people.
She's just so AWESOME. Everyone loves her. I'm not even exaggerating. For First Years, the university has this program where they have senior students call you up at certain intervals to see how you're doing. A few weeks in, this guy calls me up and asks me how things are, and I was telling him how much I love my lecturer, and he's like: "Is this Jaime?"
And I'm like why yes, who else?!
In this one lecture, she wanted us to do this quick group activity, and she told us to write our answers on a paper, make a plane, and fly it down to her. It was a fail, but still. In this other lecture, she wanted us to do a survey (andnevermindeveryonewouldclimbmountainsforher) and she felt she had to bribe us, so she brought in this massive container of chocolates, and literally strolled around the theatre throwing them at us. Mind you, that's a couple of hundred students. Just saying. Another day, she thought it was a beautiful day, so she made us all go outside to practise practical stuff. Also, she refuses to record lectures, because she says she loves us so much and she wants to be able to see our faces every week, even if she has to force us to get there.
I love her so much. I want to be just like her. She's such a hippy... such a pocketful of sunshine. I'm just a little obsessed with her. We all are.
And that's just her. The Paramedic aspect in itself is just...everythingIthoughtitwouldbeandmore. The practicals, the jumpsuit, the placements - I've had four so far - it's just... amazing.
I'm gonna end this on a picture of the promised jumpsuit photo, and my precious kitties who have, alas, since left the nest... but I've still much to add, so To Be Continued...
ROUND #1:
 |
| Kiko |
 |
| Doughnut |
 |
| Socks |
 |
| Princess Fluffy |
 |
| Salem |
ROUND #2:
 |
| Fred & George |
 |
| Odette |
 |
| Sylvie |
 |
| Rafaella |
Laila
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