New post on Substack!

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

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

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

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

It has arrived!

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

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

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

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

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

Please enjoy, and share with your friends.

The Most Uncertain Gift

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

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

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

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

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

“We’re going in. Are you ready?” 

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

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

Flags of the Forgotten

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Say Their Name

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

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

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

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

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

The Escape

She gently patted her abdomen, imagining the life budding within. Nobody could tell yet. Nobody had to know yet. As the weeks ticked by, her secret would be out, but for now, the serendipity of the situation was hers alone to enjoy. Luck didn’t come to her often.

They would not be pleased. In fact, they would think it scandalous. She didn't care. This was her private joy, a secret that brought her great happiness. This could be her ticket to freedom, a way to cut ties with a life that she did not want and move on to her own independence. There was also great danger with a secret like this. Her strictly conservative family were known for their heavy punishments, for even minor infractions. She would do anything to get away from their iron grip. Their oppressive rules felt like a heavy weight, suffocating the light within her. She held onto her hope as she counted down the days until she would reveal everything, silently planning her escape.

She hid in her room, alone as always, mulling over the best way to share her secret. It was such a bland space. There was none of her personality here at all. The bareness of her walls steeled her resolve to follow this through. She had never been allowed to express her individuality. Everything was rules and regulations and boredom. Even her shelves, full of books, were filled with only what they allowed her to have. She had never read a single one.

Nothing useful came to mind from her deliberations. No matter how she told them, it wasn't going to be pretty. Instead, she allowed her mind to wander to the excitement she had felt when she had met the new boy at school. There had been such a flood of emotions as she explored her relationship with him. It had been difficult with all the strict rules that she had to follow, but the thrill of being with him far outweighed the fear and anxiety over their forbidden love. She soon returned to imagining the life growing within her, the product of their lust and her ticket to liberty. A fortuitous secret that they shared together. Anxious questions surfaced in her head. How long could she hide it? Would it be enough time to be ready? She didn't know, and she didn't care. As long as she was free.

She endured the violent tirade from her family. She endured their cruel words and declaration of disowning. The words did not hurt one bit. The bruises did, but they were worth it. She patiently endured that first long night alone with youthful optimism buoying her heart. Nothing would stop her now. She was free. Only one more night and she would be with him again, this time for good. Their carefully planned escape now lay ahead of her. She had gambled her life, and could only hope that he really would be there to journey with her.

What We Leave Behind

 Alternate title: The Forgotten

The big grey horse looked miserably over his stable door, waiting hungrily for his breakfast, although he knew it probably wouldn’t come. All the others in the row had been fed. Mistral, a big black mare, Danny, a chestnut pony, Henry, another grey like himself, Pirouette, a flashy brown show mare, and Pete, a small bay gelding, were all busy devouring their breakfast – but not Billy. He looked forlornly about him, trying to find even a wisp of lucerne that had, perhaps, blown his way on the slight breeze that ruffled his once-white mane.

His tail too, had once been white, and the rest of him covered in a soft, shiny coat that felt like satin. Now though, all was hidden beneath a layer of dirt and dried sweat. Underneath that layer, his ribs were beginning to show through the build-up, as his condition faded away. Billy had once been a girl’s best friend, a pony club champion, until that girl discovered boys. Now he remained all but forgotten, fading away quietly in his little stall.

Had Billy been a person, he probably would have wondered why no-one fed him, why no-one ever groomed him, and why someone wasted their money on a stable for him when they clearly could not be bothered looking after him. He was always lonely, locked up all day while the others went out to the field, except for the odd occasion when a passing child patted him on the way to their riding lesson, or perhaps offered a carrot, although his old teeth found those difficult to chew. He longed for the days when his girl’s laughter rang out around him, long summer days when they’d be splashing in the dam, or those weekends when they would be off to a competition, or those long, peaceful rides through the nearby forest with their mates.

A girl walked down the stable row, going about her business cleaning the stalls once the other horses went out for the day. Billy saw her often when she mucked out. Sometimes she would have a treat for him, but not today. He nickered to her, hoping for a small scrap of something, anything would do. Without a word, she stopped outside Billy’s stable, and, looking around to make sure nobody else was nearby, quickly unlatched the door. She swung it open, before silently walking away.

Billy stood for a moment, staring at freedom. He took a tentative step forward, expecting a reprimand, then quickly trotted out, heading for the nearest patch of grass he could see. Despite being somewhat dry and brown in the midsummer heat, that patch looked lush, green and inviting to Billy. He took a few mouthfuls, then with a sudden burst of energy, lay down and rolled, relieving the many built-up itches beneath his dirty exterior. He then stood up, shook himself all over, and began to pick at the grass once more.

His freedom, however, was short-lived. The girl who had released him soon returned, a sad expression on her face, carrying a halter and lead rope. She buckled the halter about Billy’s head, and led him slowly back to his stall. He ambled along slowly, suddenly remembering that he was an old horse with many aches and pains and could not move very fast anymore.

‘I’m sorry, old mate,’ she whispered to him as they returned to the dark musty box, ‘I wish I could give you more, but I would be in big trouble if I did.’

Billy let out a sigh when he found no food in his feed bin, almost as if he’d never expected it, but still hoped anyway. He couldn’t possibly understand why nobody could help him. His owners refused assistance and caused trouble if anyone tried to interfere, despite the efforts of all who knew Billy.

The girl patted Billy and left, locking the door as she went. He sadly resigned himself to starvation and neglect once more. He watched the girl walk away, staring after the only person who cared about an old, grey horse.