A story (fiction) - 'Friendship'

A story of fiction for this weeks blog topic ... Friendship



                                                             Friendship




Olivia took one last look in the mirror before she rushed to answer the door bell.  She checked her appearance: slim tall figure,  Levi jeans, red skivvy and white Dunlops;  long dark hair pulled up  neatly into a  chignon.  She knew that she looked younger than her 31 years.  People were always telling her how young she looked.  Probably the ridiculously long hours she worked in the hospital as a senior Obstetric and Gynaecology registrar would explain the lack of photo-aging in her skin.  Her skin had rarely seen the sun in the last decade.

Olivia  always felt a twinge of sadness and regret when she considered the fact that she'd missed out on carefree times in her twenties.  That decade had  been filled with work and study and long hours. It had passed by in a blur of tiredness and stress.  Maybe that was why she could never keep a boyfriend.  The men in Olivia's life hadn't  understood the fact that she had to work the hospital roster she was given.  They didn't understand, like her three girl friends understood, how important her career was to her, and how difficult the exams were.  Her friends understood as, like Olivia, they too were doctors specialising in their respective medical disciplines in the hospital system.

Olivia's three  friends - Taylor, Emily and liza had been close since they'd all met at university 13 years earlier.  They'd been through a lot together since then, but now they had all passed their specialty exams and the poverty stricken, exhausting registrar years were finally behind them.

Olivia had finished her  exams a year after her friends, as she'd taken a gap year to travel to Europe after her internship.  The others had all gone straight through to training in their respective fields.
So for Olivia, the last six months had been especially hard.  She still had her exams to sit, and she'd been  ill with the worst case of flu she'd ever had.  The flu had occurred at the worst possible time too - only weeks before the exams.  Her friends had rallied around and helped her - just like they always did.  She always appreciated how reliable and supportive they were.

So, on this night the four young women  were meeting  at Olivia's place for pizza and wine and good conversation before they left for a three week holiday in Europe the following morning.  Three weeks well deserved R and R starting in Paris.

Liza, Taylor and Olivia were going.  Emily wasn't coming, unfortunately.  She'd had some reason or other.  Olivia had been too tired and too busy to really go into it with her.  Although, she recalled, it was all a bit cryptic and mysterious.  Emily had been particularly vague about what she was doing.  Olivia knew that she had four weeks leave from work, like the rest of them. But at least she was coming over with the others before she drove them to the airport in the morning.  The four of them would sleep at Olivia's place - and that way it would be easier in the morning travelling together.

As Olivia sprinted to the front door she took a last look around the apartment to see that everything was ready: four wine glasses sat on the smoked glass coffee table in the middle of the modern minimalist apartment.  Black plates sat on the breakfast bar between the sleek black and chrome kitchen and the lounge.  Olivia had left the curtains drawn so that they could enjoy the city lights and view.  She looked out through the large wall of glass  onto the small balcony disappearing into the darkness of the evening.  The large mass of purple irises sitting in the terracotta tub against the steel and glass railing stopped her in her tracks.  A rush of sadness hit her and almost took her breath away.

Michelle had given them to her as a house warming present five years earlier, when Olivia had moved into the apartment.  Michelle used to be her best friend.  Although, in the last six months Michelle had rarely bothered to speak to Olivia or visit her.

The sight of the irises seemed to paralyse her.  They held her gaze like magnets and they captured her thoughts and her heart.  Michelle had told her, at the time she'd given her the flowers, that they symbolised 'the importance of friendship' and also 'hope and faith'.  Michelle was always so sentimental like that.  Symbols and heartfelt gestures, Olivia thought sadly.

Michelle and Olivia had been friends for much longer than the other three girl friends Olivia now had.  They had been best friends from the start of high school when they were only twelve years old.  They'd been like 'twiddle dee and twiddle dum' at school, their teachers had told them.

They'd bothed duxed the school but they also got up to a lot of pranks and fun at school as well.
They'd been more like sisters than friends.  They were both 'only-children' in small families without cousins or aunts and uncles.  Then when Michelle's parents both died when she was only in her early twenties, and Olivia's parents had been too busy globe trotting to notice they had  daughter, the two of them had become even closer - more like family to each other.

Michelle was the calm and quiet one.  Olivia was more impulsive and wild than her friend.  However, like Yin-Yang they were good for each other.  Michelle gave Olivia the stability and calm she needed.  In a world that sometimes felt like a wild unpredictable and violent storm -  Michelle was a safe haven, a secure home for her to feel calm and gather inner strength again. Olivia felt that she contributed to the friendship a spark of excitement and spontaneity and fun.

Olivia recalled the time when she was over at Michelle's place, when they were both around fourteen years old, it had been her idea to get the sheets of corrugated iron they'd found in the shed and sled down the pine needles on a steep hill nearby.  What a wild ride that was.  It had been all fun, she recalled, until she'd gone through the barb-wire fence at the bottom of the hill and slashed her arm deeply.  Blood was everywhere.

Typically, Michelle had come to her rescue.  She'd ripped the Golden Breed t-shirt she was wearing to make a tourniquet for Olivia's arm.  It was her favourite top too.  She hadn't hesitated for a moment.  She'd then run home to get her dad and they'd taken Olivia to the hospital. Twenty stitches she'd needed.  And she'd lost a lot of blood.  The doctors had said if not for Michelle's quick thinking with the tourniquet she would probably have died.

Then, in that Emergency room, while everyone was focusing on her, Michelle had quietly collapsed to the floor in a corner.  She was blue and gasping.  The worst asthma attack she'd ever had.  Typical Michelle.  She was so busy making sure Olivia was getting help  that she hadn't told anyone how ill she'd become herself.   The stress related to Olivia's injury, and all that running to get her dad had triggered the attack.  A code blue was called.  The resus trolleys were everywhere and the next thing Michelle was off to ICU.  She'd nearly died.  So stupidly unselfish, Olivia thought, annoyed.

The door bell rang again and Olivia was back in her apartment and in the present.  She wiped tears from her eyes.  Whenever she thought of Michelle lately she seemed to get upset.

She continued on to the door and pulled it open with a yank.

The three young women standing there yelled their 'hellos' and shoved bottles of Chardonney at Olivia before they pulled  their 'wheely-suitcases' inside.

'Come in you lot!' Olivia yelled. "Sit down and I'll get the pizzas.  Pour me a drink too!  The glasses are on the table.'

Olivia ran off to the kitchen and got the  hot pizzas out of the oven.  She grabbed some tea towels to pick them up and then brought them into the lounge, where her friends were all now comfortable in the large black leather chairs placed around the coffee table.  They were just finishing pouring the glasses of wine.

Olivia threw the pizzas down, in their burning silver aluminium trays, onto the  table and then she plonked herself down into a vacant chair.

She couldn't help feeling grateful to these girls for helping her so much in last six months.  If not for them she may not have passed her  exams.  They were her friends.  Sadly, Michelle, the friend she thought was her closest friend, had been 'missing in action.'

In the last six months Olivia had seen Michelle only a couple of times.  She'd phoned once or twice and that was it.  When she was so sick before her exams with the flu - bed ridden - her three girl friends  had come to help, and they'd even brought her hot chicken soup.  But not even one visit from Michelle.

Maybe they'd grown apart, Olivia thought.  What other reason could there be for a friend deserting the other one during the hardest time of her life.  Those exams had meant so much to Olivia.  She'd devoted her young life to this vocation.  And where was Michelle who had passed her O&G exams the previous year.  Gone.  Missing.  Olivia thought bitterly about how much she'd helped Michelle when she had been studying for her final O&G exams.

The evening raced by and talk turned to the holiday.  Paris and fun and holiday romances maybe.  They all deserved it.  Boyfriends would now be back on the cards.  The four friends had no more exams for the rest of their lives and the next phase of their lives could begin.  High status exciting jobs and hopefully husbands and children of their own.

Olivia went to the kitchen to get coffee for everyone.  However, as she was returning with the cups she noticed the three women talking in whispers between themselves and she heard the name Michelle mentioned more than once.

Olivia all at once knew there was something about Michelle the other knew and they weren't telling her.  A secret about Michelle!  Oh my god! she thought.  Maybe there was a reason that she had rarely seen or heard from her old friend in the last six months. She had been so stressed with study and being ill and work that she hadn't ever considered something was going on with Michelle.  But then that was Michelle, wasn't it?  Quietly expiring in a corner while everyone focused on her and helped her.

Olivia stood absolutely still.  Holding the two coffee mugs she watching the worried and sad faces of her friends who were still unaware that she'd seen and heard them.

'OK. What's going on with Michelle?' she demanded. 'I heard you and you're all whispering.  So what is it?'

The three women all turned and looked at Olivia who was staring back at them - fixed to the spot and deathly pale.

Finally Taylor spoke. 'She's sick Livvy.  She didn't want you to know until after your exams were over and after you'd had your holiday in Europe.  She wanted you to pass your exams and she said you really needed that holiday.  She made us promise.'

Emily continued, 'She's got cancer.  Breast cancer.  It's aggressive and it's already spread to her  nodes. She had surgery six months ago ... '

Olivia dropped the cups.  'Six months ago! Six months ago! And you all kept it from me?  I don't care what she wanted. What she told you.  I should have been there with her. To help...'

Emily got up and helped Olivia to her chair. Softly she spoke to her friend and she put her arm around her shoulder, 'We were there Livvy.  We all passed our exams last year.  You were the last one to finish.  We all wanted you to pass your exams.  We've been with her through her chemo, and we've kept her up to date on you.  We've all been with her through everything Livv.  We've looked after her.'
Emily rubbed Olivia's back to calm her down. 'She wanted to see you when you had the flu but she was neutropenic - so her Oncologist wouldn't let her.  And we wouldn't let her either.  We let her make you her chicken soup.'

Olivia remembered the soup.  Of course, she thought, Michelle always made her that soup when she had a cold.  She's remembered that it had tasted familiar.

'She also loaned you her lecture notes for your exams.  She told us that at high school you used to like her super-organised notes.  We told you that they were from one of our friends.' Emily smiled, 'That was sort of true, as Michelle is our friend.'

Olivia realised now that the hand writing had been Michelle's in the notes.  Those notes had got her through the exams.  Her own notes were typically all over the place.  Michelle was the tidy organised one.

'Livvy, that's why I'm not going to Paris with you,' Emily continued.  'I have leave from work but that's so I can be there for Michelle through her radiotherapy.'

Olivia was already up and walking to the kitchen.

'Olivia,' Emily said firmly, 'Michelle wants you to go on the holiday.  You can help her when you get back.  She'll be so upset if she knows you found out and missed your trip.'

Olivia was now out on the balcony cutting off all of the long stemmed irises.  She then  brought the large armful of them inside.  As she walked to the kitchen to wrap them in newspaper she said to her friends, 'Do you know what irises symbolise?  They symbolise "the importance of friendship" and also "faith and hope".'

Olivia wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her wrist as she wrapped the bouquet.

She walked into her bedroom, as the three young women sat silently watching her.  They knew what she would do and they knew that they couldn't say or do anything to stop her.

Olivia wheeled her suitcase, already packed, from her bedroom.  She walked over to where her friends sat and threw her airline tickets onto the table.

'You've all done a great job looking after me when I needed you, and also looking after Michelle.' Olivia looked at Emily and put her hand gently on her friend's shoulder, ' Emily take my tickets.  You've got holiday leave from work and a pass port - so don't tell me you can't go.  Send me some post cards.  It's my turn to take care of Michelle.'

Olivia then gave each of the women a hug and a kiss on the cheek.

'Take care and have fun, you lot!  You deserve it.'

And with that she took her bag and her flowers and she left.

She was going to  be with her best friend.





                                                            The    End




The inspiration for this story was from some of the wonderful friends that  I've had in my life.  Friends I've had  for many years.

In particular, one of my best friends inspired the story.  We've been best friends since we were both twelve years old when we met in high school, and we've remained best friends through all of our years studying medicine together at uni and all of the years beyond that through so many things - fun and wonderful times as well as difficult times.

This friend and I did sled down a steep pine-needle  covered  hill on sheets on corrugated iron,  and  I did go through a barb-wire fence when we hit the bottom of the hill.

However, it was my friend's idea to sled down the hill, not mine, and I only slashed up my jeans when I hit the fence. I recall we then both laughed for a good ten minutes.

She is still one of  my best friends - and she always will be.  A 'sister' to me.

I know she reads my blog - so thanks for being such a great friend, Jenny.

Friendship

This week I thought that I would discuss ... friendship.


I think that 'friendship' is  a lovely word.


I was inspired to discuss this topic by a conversation that I had this week with one of my long term patients, a man in his early 70's who I'll call Jim, because that isn't his name, as I excised another skin cancer from his body.

I have known Jim for many years as, like many of my patients, he has had multiple skin cancers and for me this means that we have had multiple conversations  while  I perform his surgery.

Some doctors, like my husband, play music during surgery and they say very little to the patient as they operate.

Some doctors who perform surgery under general anaesthetic, obviously more complex and major surgery than I do, chat with their colleagues during the surgery and /or listen to their music CD's etc that they bring in.

If patients were awake I think that they would be shocked by some of the conversations the doctors have. It's not that the conversations are nasty or disrespectful.  They're not.  It's just that a lot of us perform better in surgery when we're mostly on 'auto-pilot' and not over-thinking things.  It's like driving a car. It's largely automatic - and if you think about every move you make in silence - you will likely drive less well.

But to give you an idea of the conversations  doctors sometimes have in the operating theatre  - I do recall one conversation, when I was an intern.  The topic that day was: 'What would be the best way to die?'

All I recall is that the winning answer agreed to by the doctors,  amidst the many funny and far fetched answers was - 'to be shot by a jealous lover at the age of 103!'


So, back  to the conversation this week which inspired my blog topic.

Jim was telling me, during his surgery, two stories from his life over the last year.  One sad and one happy.

Firstly, he told me that his son, aged in his forties, had died within the last 12 months from a long and chronic illness. His son had never married, likely related to his many health issues, but he was much loved by his family and the many friends that he had in his life.

Jim told me that over 200 people came to his son's funeral.  Many had  lovely stories to tell about his son. Stories about what a good friend he was to many people.

For example,  his son would regularly mow a neighbours lawn.  He would say to the elderly woman, when she told him that he shouldn't bother doing it,  that he had the lawn mower out anyway  so it was no bother.

His son also had a work colleague with a very nice car which he 'detailed' (whatever that means) on his week ends - for free.  He did this just for  the joy of helping someone, plus he obviously loved cars as much as his work mate did. Apparently the car  was some special exotic model.

Anything to do with cars doesn't register in my memory.  Maybe that's a female thing.  Cars are not of any interest to me.  Someone recently asked me what kind of car I own.  'A white one', I said.  And then, realising that I knew something else about it, I added excitedly, 'with seven seats.  A people-mover car.'
Beyond that - I don't care.

Blasphemy! - male readers will scream.


I told Jim that it sounded like his son was a lovely man.  He had many friends and he was a good friend to many people.
I also told him that there is a saying:
'The measure of how loving a person is - is how much they are loved.'
His son was  much loved by his many friends and by his family.  That says a lot about him.
Jim smiled.  He was quiet for a while.


After a short time, Jim  told me a happy story from the last few months.
He told me that he had recently run into a woman he'd known many years earlier.  The woman's daughter had been in one of the netball teams he had  coached around 30 years previously. He is still a netball coach today.  He travels all over Australia coaching and umpiring netball.

The woman told him that her daughter always spoke so well of him and she thought that her daughter would like to hear from him.  She then gave Jim her daughter's e-mail address.

Hesitantly, Jim e-mailed a letter saying 'hello' to the young woman he'd coached so many years earlier.

He was shocked, he said, that the young woman e-mailed him back within only a couple of hours.

She told him how important he'd been in her life and what a good friend he'd been to her when she had needed one as a child.  She was now forty years old and she was a senior  law partner in a large law firm in Ireland.  She was married with two dogs and she was happy in her life.

She said that as a child she had been bullied at school because she was Sri Lankan  and she was therefore different to the other children.  The bullying had been damaging her self esteem and she had felt depressed by it.  However, she said, in the netball team which Jim coached, she had felt safe and 'as good as everyone else'.  She felt accepted and befriended by the others and  this  greatly helped her self esteem and  helped her to feel happy again.

She reminded him that  he used to say to the children after a netball game, 'Who do you think was the best player today?'
The children would all look around at each other, unsure  who it was.
He would then tell them,'You all were!  You are a team and everyone is important in a team.  You all help each other and you're all important.'

The young woman said that she had returned to Australia a few times over the years to visit her parents and on all of those occasions she had gone to his house to say 'hello' and to tell him how much his friendship had meant to her in her childhood.  Unfortunately, she said,  he hadn't been at home each time that she called.

He told me that soon after their e-mail conversation she came out to Australia and visited him.  He said that she now looks like a beautiful movie star.  She hugged him and said that she would like to be able to visit him and write to him sometimes.  Just like she did with her parents.  She hoped that they could always be friends, she said.

Jim told me that  he was surprised that showing simple  respect and kindness to a child, being a friend, could make such a difference in their life and they would appreciate it so much.


I wasn't surprised.


I told Jim that a similar thing had happened to me growing up, so I fully understood how the woman felt toward him.


When I was a child my family was dysfunctional and my father was an abusive bully.  He had no interest in me or my life and regularly told me he hated me.

However, when I was seven years old an English couple moved into the house behind ours.  The new neighbours had a daughter, Wendy, who was my age.  She was in my class at school.  They also had two older children, but they were young adults and they no longer lived at home.

In my childhood Wendy's dad, John, was like the father I never had.  Because Wendy and I were so close as friends our families put a gate in the fence between our houses, when they were rebuilding the fence, so that we could more easily visit each other.

Wendy rarely came to my house.  I don't blame her.  It was like a war zone.  Fighting and screaming and doors slamming.  So the fence was mainly used by me to escape over to my friend's lovely house.  It was peaceful and happy there.  Both of her parents were kind to me.  So I do know that children remember those adults who treat them with respect and kindness.  Especially if that support is missing in other areas of their life.

I would go to my friends's house and her dad would play cricket with us in their backyard.  He would sometimes throw us up into the air off his knee, when we were around seven and eight years old, while we played in their above-ground pool.  On  long hot Summer days Wendy and I would stay in that pool all day and until  nine o'clock at night.  We'd have  a quick intermission for dinner and then we'd run back  into the pool where we'd  stay until bed time, under the pool's flood lights.

I learned to swim in that pool and I still enjoy swimming for exercise.

At other times Wendy's dad, John, would help us make tents in their back yard out of their white sheets, blankets, rope and lots of clothes pegs which we would string up between the fruit trees.  A number of the neighbourhood kids would then sleep out there with our torches and packets of marshmallows and we'd talk and laugh long into the night.

On some Summer evenings their family would get out the home movie reels with the old noisy projector and they'd put up a large white screen on its flimsy wire stand in the eat-in kitchen.  The family would sit around the screen, with me taking pride of place right there in the middle of them all, and we'd eat vanilla ice-creams in cones as we'd watch their home movies. The wire screen back door would allow an occasional breeze to waft through the room, as well as the noise from the many cicadas outside on the lawn.

I recall being around eight years old as I watched one home-movie from when the family was back in  England, before they emigrated to Australia.  It was a day at the  beach. The beach was like no beach I'd ever seen.  It was all stones and pebbles with no sand!  The wind was gale force and everyone was trying to shelter behind something they called a 'wendy-house' - which was a cotton sheet type construction held up on a folding screen designed to be a wind-block.  Hats were flying away  up the beach and people were scrambling away after them. Umbrellas were being  brought out, and some were being blown inside out in the wild weather, as the drizzling rain started.  The sky was grey. The clouds hung dark and low.  I could see no sunshine. Still the family were smiling and waving at the camera while wearing bathers and reclining on banana lounges!?

'Why did you go to the beach on such an awful day?' I asked, astounded at the bizarre scene that I was witnessing in these home movies.

'That's a Summer day in England,' they replied and then they all laughed.

I was shocked.  Speechless.

True story.  Seriously, I was not exaggerating about the  home-movie 'beach day out'.  English people may recognise what I've just said as true.

Sometimes, when Wendy was off at another friend's house, her dad would tell me that she wasn't home, when I came over to their house to play with her.  He would usually tell me that I could 'stay over' until she got home in an hour or so, and I could watch television or just  sit with him and chat.  I usually stayed.

I loved our chats.  Wendy's dad would get chocolate out of his 'secret chocolate drawer'.  Actually, Wendy and I knew all about his chocolate drawer.  After school we'd frequently help ourselves to the caramello chocolate.  But on these occasions her dad and  I would chat about all sorts of things.  Wendy's mum, Mary, would also often sit with us and chat too.

Wendy's dad, John, was the dad I never had.  He was also a friend to me as a child when I needed one.  He was lovely and I'll never forget him.


Among the many lovely qualities John had - one of them was also 'courage'.

One night a woman diagonally across the street from their house was attacked and almost killed by her abusive husband.  Apparently she was screaming for help late one night at around 11o'clock.  John worked as a security guard and he must have recognised the urgency of the situation.  He asked his wife Mary to  phoned  the police while he ran across the road and pulled the violent gorilla of a man off his battered wife.

John wasn't a tall man.  He was solidly built but only around 5foot 8 inches.  The other man, we all knew in the street, was big.  Bigger the John.  Taller and stronger.  But John still ran over there and pulled this massive thug off his wife, and he fought him.  The man ran off into the night.   The police caught him  a few hours later.

John then stayed with the battered woman until the ambulance arrived.  She was seriously injured.  Her eyeball had been partially torn from the socket and it was sitting on her cheek.

John had saved her life.  In doing so he had also risked his own.


John died from a massive heart attack when I was 14 years old.  He was still only in his forties.  He was about the age that I am now.  He came home from work one day and said that he felt unwell.  He said that he might just have a little lie down on his bed.  He never woke up.

I still visit John's wife, Mary,  every Christmas.  More than 30 years after those childhood days in the 1970's.  I don't see Wendy anymore and I haven't seen her in decades.  Like many friendships - ours just ran its course.

Wendy's parents were a lovely couple who were my default parents in many ways and they were both good friends to me when I was a child living in a lonely abusive household.  They gave me so many wonderful and fun childhood memories.  They were also marvellous role models for me and in my life today I follow many of the traditions and behaviours I so admired and enjoyed in their house with both of them.

When Mary and I chat, if she talks about John she often says 'my husband'.  I think she does this because many of the people she has mixed with in the 30 years since his death wouldn't know him. So it's easier for her to just say 'my husband' and then she doesn't have to explain who 'John' was.   However, I always correct her when she says this.  I interrupt her and I say,  'You mean John.'   I remember him.  I knew him.  He was not just 'her husband' to me.  He was John -  my dear friend.  His memory is embedded deep in my heart.


So I do understand what Jim meant to the young woman who visited him and who still remembers him.  The woman who still calls him her dear friend.  He is a kind man and his friendship during a difficult phase of her childhood helped her to find happiness and a positive self image.  His friendship changed her life.  He just didn't know it.  I bet she's glad she got to tell him


I never got to tell John what he meant to me. But I got to tell Mary.  So that's something.


They were both good friends to me in my childhood.



A little quote about friendship by Saint Basil (Who? I hear you say.  I don't know either - but I like what whoever he is said):

'A tree is known by its fruit; a man by his deeds.
A good deed is never lost;
he who sows courtesy reaps friendships,
and he who plants kindness gathers love.'

                                      *                                         *                                     *




                                                                   Friendship:


So, what is 'friendship'?


The Oxford dictionary defines 'friendship':
                      1. a person with whom one enjoys mutual affection and regard (usually exclusive of family bonds)
                      2. a sympathiser, helper, or patron.
                      3. a helpful thing or quality.

The word 'friendly' in the dictionary similarly uses the two words to define it:  kindness and helping.



Although there are many forms of friendships - certain characteristics are often found in these relationships:
- affection, sympathy, empathy, honesty, altruism, mutual understanding and compassion.

- enjoying each others company, trust, and the ability to be oneself, express one's feelings, and make mistakes without fear of judgement from the friend.

- friends tend to share common backgrounds, occupations, interests and similar demographics.




Through life the nature of friendships change.

Early:
Friendships in childhood come after 'parental bonding' and before 'couple bonding'.

In the period between early childhood and the onset of full adulthood - friendships are often the most important relationships in the emotional life of the adolescent, and are often more intense than relationships later in life.

Adult life:
After marriage, both women and men report to have fewer friendships of the opposite sex.

In the work place it can also be harder to maintain meaningful friendships - work friendships can take on a more 'transactional'/'colleague' feel.

The majority of adults have an average of two friends.

Old age:
As family responsibilities and work pressure become less - friendships again become more important.

Friendships give people a link to the community, which has been shown to be associated with wellness.



A number of studies have found that strong social supports improve the prospects for good health and longevity in people.

Conversely, loneliness and lack of social supports have been linked to an increase of heart disease, viral infections, and cancer, as well as higher mortality rates.

(In medicine this may be associated with increased 'stress' associated with loneliness and social isolation. Studies have shown that stress negatively affects T-cells in the immune system, and we know that T-cells are important in fighting both viral infections and reducing cancer.  People on immune suppressive medications or with immune deficiency from other causes have a higher incidence of cancer).

So the link between social isolation and ill health is a physical thing.  It's not just all 'in your mind'.  The mind and body are intricately linked.

In medicine we talk of a 'bio-psycho-social model'.  Psychological stresses can cause physical changes in the body.  Also social problems can affect both psychology and biological issues for people. ( i.e. poverty- hunger, cold, exposure to the elements - leading to colds, illness (biological changes) and stress, depression (psychological changes)).



So while we know that friendships are important to a person's health - we don't the all of the reasons for how.

It may be that good friends encourage their friends to lead to more healthy lifestyles; access services when needed, improve coping skills to help with illness and health issues, and effect physiological pathways (as discussed).

The 'quality' of friendships is important.
High quality friendships are 'life enhancing'.  These friendships  have good ways of resolving conflict and are mutually supportive and caring.
High quality friendships directly contribute to self-esteem, self-confidence, and social development.



Making friends:
There are three significant factors -
- proximity - being near enough to see each other or do things together.
- repeatedly encountering the person informally
- opportunities to share ideas and personal feelings with each other.

So joining classes or groups with people who enjoy your likes and interests is a good start to making friends.

But you need to get out there into the world and be open to having fun and doing things.  Find out what you enjoy.  Think back to your childhood, if you need to. Try to  remember what you used to have fun doing.  Those times when you were having so much fun that you just lost track of the  time. Think hard. Even go for a walk and think.  Pose the question to your mind and let the answer bubble up to the surface.  This lets your subconscious work on the question.

Then, as Dr Phil would say - put yourself into a 'target-rich  environment'.
You will not likely meet your soul mates wandering in the street or sitting in a pub or a coffee shop alone. Also, as an aside,  I do think that people have more than one soul mate in life (friends are often soul mates, as well as partners and children).


Be 'friendly' as well.  Smile.  Chat to people.  Be interested in them.  That is a great way to connect with other people.  Genuinely care about them.  Worry less about what they think of you. Think more about how you might care about and help them.  Help may be as simple as being an ear to listen to what they have to say.

Smiling when you socialise as a way to make more friends - is not such 'simple' idea as it sounds.
Research shows that we tend to like those people who like us and we tend to see others as liking us more if we like them. So, it appears liking breeds liking and loving promotes loving.


Try, as well, to be true to yourself.  Don't pretend to like things you don't.  There are loads of people out there who would be lucky to have you as a friend. And they share your genuine interests.  Just find what those interest are. Photography groups. Yoga.  Gym. Swimming. Writers groups or book clubs.  You may even treat these groups as stepping stones.  They may be just practice to get started in meeting people and going out.  These groups may help you discover other fun groups and people.  'Six degrees of separation' style.


But you need to decide to make friends, try to find what you like doing and what you might enjoy and then get out of the house and be friendly (obviously in a safe environment and using good judgement).

As Einstein said: (or words to this effect)
Madness is doing the same thing over and over - but expecting a different outcome.



Also note that friendships do sometimes run their course.
Friends can come and go.  They just do.  It is often no-ones fault.  People move on or away or their shared interests or priorities change.

Sometimes those friendships can pick up again years later.  Sometimes not.

What is great is that new friendships come along often - if you get out into the world and you are interested in people and you are a friend to others.


The writer Anais Nin said about friendship:
'Each friendship represents a world in us, a world not born until they arrive, and it is only by this meeting that a new world is born.'

I agree.

These friendships leave wonderful memories, experiences and lessons learned.

Sometimes, in my mind, I  walk happily  through the memories that I have of old friends and times  we shared ; like walking through a lovely garden that I've planted and tended.  I have the joy and the colour and the beauty still clear in my mind, and the love and kindness  of those friendships still warm in my heart.

These friendships were worth the time and effort I put into them and the high priority I gave them in my life.

This is likely why I get a bit teary , like other people, when I hear  'Auld Lang Syne'  on new years eve.  Warm memories of friends from the past - gone from our lives but not from our hearts.



One last point with friendships.

You need to be a friend to yourself - to have friends.

As Dr Phil would say - 'You teach people how to treat you.'

You need to know that you deserve to be treated with respect and kindness.  Anyone who does other than this is not your friend.

To accept love and friendship I think that people need to love themselves.

There is a thing in Psychology called 'self verification'.  It means that people seek feedback that matches and supports their own 'self image'.

So if people tell you how kind and interesting you are - but you have very low self esteem and you believe that you are dull and boring and unworthy of love - you won't believe them. You won't accept this hand of friendship extended to you.

I recall a man on television once - I think it was on Dr Phil.  The man had told a very sad story about his life and his self esteem was very low. Thousands  of people wrote letters of love and support to him - care of the television show.  However, amongst all of those letters three were critical of him.

What was fascinating  was that the man ignored the letters of support - thousands of them - and he focused only on the three critical letters.


The man was 'filtering'.  He filtered all of the kind words of support he received in the thousands of letters - as they were at odds with his own critical self image.  All he could accept was the evidence that was concordant with his own sad beliefs about himself. In pile of thousands of letters - he could only accept the three which criticised him.

This 'filtering' is  part of the reason that people with  low self esteem need to work of self love before they will  be able to let others  love them or befriend them often.
These people won't believe that they are worthy of love or friendship.  They won't believe that people are genuine when they tell them nice things about them.  They can't believe complements from others - when  they don't believe these things about themselves.

Beliefs can't change just by telling yourself to change.  Beliefs change when people are exposed to evidence contrary to their beliefs.  Evidence which invalidates their own negative self beliefs.


If this may be you then I would suggest the following:

Firstly, write down all of your negative beliefs about yourself.

Then write down the opposite belief. (i.e.Negative self belief: I'm boring.  Opposite: I'm interesting).

Now get a small  notebook and pen and whenever someone says that you are interesting or they stay engaged as you talk or they thank you for your help or opinion - write that down.

Then, Look at all of these examples - this evidence for your value and worth  and for the new positive self belief - everyday.

You could also say the list out loud daily:  the positive self beliefs and the evidence for them.
Try to spend about five minutes, three or more times per week, reading aloud your list.


You can self - hypnotise yourself to positive thinking.

Hypnosis doesn't require an altered state of consciousness for it to be achieved.  If a person simply hears something said or thought over and over again - you'll start to believe it. This is a form of hypnosis.  Even if you are completely awake the whole time.

So, in abusive relationships, for example - people may be told over and over that they are 'useless' and 'unworthy of anyone caring about them' - and when they've heard that over and over for long enough - they will usually start to believe it.

People may give themselves negative 'self - talk' which acts toward low self esteem in a similar way.  If you tell your self constantly how awful you are - you'll believe it - and this will affect your behaviour.  You may feel that you don't deserve nice things in your life - like good quality friendships and love.

Well, fortunately you can use this 'self-hypnosis self talk' in a positive way as well as a negative way.

If you tell yourself over and over - at first aloud and then in you head - how valuable you are and capable and deserving of success and love in your life  - you will start to believe it, and a change in your behaviour will follow.

So, as I've said, make a tape or read aloud at least three times per week positive affirmations and evidence that you've gathered to support the positive things you tell yourself.

See how your mood and confidence improve as well as your ability to accept compliments and love and friendship from others.


It will.  Psychology is a science - and studies show this sort of process works to help your self esteem and mood, and then your behaviour, and then your life.



                           Voila - fun with friends, and happiness in your life.  You deserve it.




Seriously, friendships are so much fun!!  Also, in hard times - we could all use friends.


Last quote (I remind my kids of  this one often):

Ralph Waldo Emerson

'The only way to have a friend is to be one.'




                                *                                            *                                      *




A quick joke before I go regarding 'friendship'.


My teenage daughter showed me a cartoon recently which she thought was good.

The cartoon showed a large church empty except for just two people sitting up the front.

It's a funeral and the casket sits alone near the alter.

One of the two people says to the other one, " He had over 500 friends on Facebook.  I would have thought there would have been a bigger turn out.'


My teenage daughter is quite cynical about what some people call friends on the internet - so she thought this cartoon was  quite an apt depiction of this concept.

     


                                         *                                *                              *





I have a nice short story (fiction) about friendship that I'll write next week.




PS: If you liked this blog or found it helpful - please let others know - it may be helpful to them or just a nice read.

Short true story from my first blog - 'Love?!'

For my first blog I have a short true story about my own life:




                                    The First Time I Realised That I Loved My Husband.


It all sounds ridiculous now. Now that I'm older and I've realised how superficial and unimportant appearances are.  However back then in the 1980's I was acutely aware of the old saying "Men seldom make passes at girls who wear glasses".  So for most of the first four years of my university life I refused to wear my glasses outside of the lecture rooms.  Unfortunately I couldn't wear contact lenses as my eyes were dry and the lenses hurt like brocken glass when I tried to wear them.

I was legally blind which means I couldn't even read the top letter on those reading charts - 1 in 60 vision - without my glasses.  Objects further from me than about one metre were a blur of colour and light with no distinct form. 

I managed to get around the university campus by mostly ignoring people if they called out to me.  I'd been embarrassed too many times by waving and responding to people who didn't know me and who had been waving at someone else that I had  decided  it was safer to ignore everyone and look at the ground feigning deafness or deep thought or both.   

At a pinch I worked out that if I memorised what people were wearing - the colours of their clothes - when I was close enough to see who they were, along with remembering the sound of their voices and their general body shape and height - I could mostly work out who people were and where they were when they were further away from me and once again only a blur of colour.

It wasn't all vanity.  My self esteem had taken a pummelling during my childhood and youth in my abusive family.  I was sure that I was ugly enough even without the dreaded glasses.  The words of my abusive father were still loud and clear in my mind then. 

My father frequently told me what a 'nothing' I was, how stupid I was and of course how ugly I was.  My father would comment how pretty other girls in my high school classes were.  The girls who would occasionally call at my house so that I could help them with their homework.  The fact that I did well at school - in fact I was top of the entire highschool of more than 2000 students - meant nothing to my father.  He would tell me every day how much he hated me.  At other times he would kick me across the room, chase me up the street to hit me or punch me and bash my head into a wall.  I would tell friends at school that I had another accident with a cupboard door when they saw my cut lip or bruises.


My clever ploys used to avoid wearing glasses fell apart within three days of starting my fifth year of medicine.  I was 21 years of age and that was the year that I started work as a student doctor on the hospital wards.  It was also the time I met David who was to become my first and only boyfriend and later my dear husband.  David was then the  intern on the ward.  He was 24 years old, tall, dark, handsome, smart, funny and, as I was soon to find out, really kind. 

My first hospital rotation was on a surgical unit at a large tertiary hospital in Adelaide, South Australia.  The hated spectacles had been shoved deep into my new white coat's pocket and I wandered the wards in a hazy blur for the first two days - squinting at bed charts and trying to work out who was who from the different  voices and clothes and body shapes of the staff on the wards.  

Day three came and it was my first day assisting in the operating theatres.  The student doctors all changed into our green surgical scrubs with white papery hats to cover our hair and white papery boots for our feet.  The operating theatres were a large white labyrinth of corridors with a multitude of operating theatres stemming off them.  It was all a confusing maze even for people with good vision.  However with my poor sight it was a shiny blur of dazzling white with green blobs of colour scurrying here and there  and I quickly realised that I was hopelessly lost... and blind.  My usual system of working out who people were by their clothes and hair colour no longer worked at all  as everyone was wearing surgical scrubs and hats to cover their hair.  One white corridor looked like the next.  I looked at my watch.  The time was 8.55am. I was due in theatre with my surgical registrar, Brendon, and my fellow student doctor, Carolyn, at 9am.

My heart was racing, perspiration was dripping down  the back of my neck and my forehead under my white hat.  A tight band squeezed in around my skull and my mind screamed at me, My God!  I'm lost and I'm going to be sacked and I'll fail and never become a doctor. I ran down corridors.   This is my first day,  the thoughts raced through my mind,  and they've probably started operating already.

Somehow I found the doctor's tea room - another white space through a door filled with green blobs around the periphery of the room drinking coffee.  Racing into the room, breathless, eyes wild I stopped in front of the first two green blobs sitting nearest to the door and in a shrieking voice that I hardly recognised as my own  I cried, " I'm a fifth year med student and I've lost my registrar and the other  student - Brendon and Carolyn.  Have you seen Brendon and Carolyn?"

I stood there staring at the two figures sitting two meters in front of me.  Panic all over my face.  Limbs tense and anxious to rush away and get to where I was meant to be five minutes ago.

However the figures just sat there in silence watching me.  I  wondered why they didn't answer and whether  they had understood my question.  Finally the larger of the two figures responded in a deep masculine voice he said, "We  are  Brendon and Carolyn".

A stunned silence followed this and then the laughter began.  All the green figures in the room were laughing at me. Fortunately my mind has blanked out whatever happened next.  I'm sure it was all pretty awful and humiliating and I did go and  retrieve my glasses and from that day forward I accepted defeat and became the girl who wore glasses. 

I also became the girl who stood two meters in front of her new registrar and fellow student and asked them in a state of panic if they knew where they were.  I was worse than Mr Magoo - the blind cartoon character from my childhood.  I was lucky I hadn't stopped to have a chat with a hat stand on the way through the door.


I realised that day that I would prefer to appear ugly with glasses than to look stupid without them.


The story of my 'blind stupidity' spread throughout the  hospital community and to all of my fellow medical students.  Over the next few months the story became almost a legend in stupidity.  I got used to hearing the story told and retold and the laughter and pointing that followed.

However a few weeks after that embarrassing event  I was examining a patient late one night on the wards with the curtain pulled around the patient's bed.  The ward was silent and then I heard two voices only meters away at the nurses station.  It was my fellow student doctor, Carolyn,  and my new friend, David.

Carolyn was telling David the hilarious story of blind Robyn in the operating theatre's tea room a few weeks earlier.  When the story  ended and Carolyn began to laugh I noticed only silence from David.  I sat listening only meters from them as they were both still oblivious to my presence in the room.
Finally David responded.  "I don't think that's funny", he said.  "Robyn just needed her glasses. That could have happened to anyone".  Carolyn stopped laughing and David continued to say many kind supportive words about me.


Almost thirty years have followed since that night.  David and I have now been married for over 24 years and we have been life partners from soon after that conversation.
I think that was the first time I realised that I loved my new dear friend, David.  He demonstrated  integrity, kindness and loyalty  as I sat listening behind the curtain that night to his lovely words.


I realise now that I learned a few lessons  from my humiliating and stupid mistake in that surgical tea room back in 1987.

I learned that men do make passes at girls who wear glasses.  Glasses can be really cool.
Obviously it is better to wear glasses than to look like an idiot pretending that you don't need them.
Actually it eventuated that my handsome new boyfriend was more myopic than me.  He also wore glasses but when I first met him he had worn contact lenses.

I also  learned  how kind and loving people can be - in this case my dear husband David.  Defying other people who laughed at me and being my champion.

Finally I learned that my father was wrong about me.  I was not ugly or stupid and I did deserve to be loved ... even though he didn't and still doesn't care for me.  I know that  all people deserve to be loved and respected.



We all have bodies - but we also have souls.  I think rather than us being bodies with souls - we are souls with bodies and a  kind soul is where true beauty lies.





Last thing before I go - some words of wisdom:


'Adversity introduces a man to himself.'
Albert Einstein

Short story from my blog - Parenthood and (some of) its challenges

                                                              Rainbows



Ellen sat on the floor as she watched her baby son, Tommy,  playing with his toys on the lounge room carpet.


Ellen was tall and slim with long dark hair which she wore up in a messy ponytail most of the time.  Her standard form of dress these days was  skinny blue jeans, a sloppy red wind-cheater and white sneakers.  And this is what she wore now.  She dressed for comfort.

Tommy was a happy and healthy  boy, ten months old with silky blond hair.  He was sitting amongst a pile of  cars and blocks and trains and numerous other colourful plastic toys.   His chubby arms waved about wildly as he played.  He laughed and squealed with delight and, at frequent intervals, he would look over to his mother with his large blue eyes framed by long dark  lashes and he would smile at her.

Ellen felt a strong sense of happiness and love for this child.  She loved him so much that it sometimes scared her.  He was her primary reason to live.  The most important thing in her life.

Tommy crawled over to his mother and put his soft pudgy arms about her neck.  He climbed over her legs and into her lap.  His soft wispy hair brushed her cheek and his delicate little hands held onto her nose and her mouth before pulling on  her hair.

He'd recently learned to say 'ma ma' and he now repeated the word in his high pitch babbling style.

She kissed his cheek and held him close.


Ellen's gaze moved around the room in which she sat, and her happiness leached away... as it usually did when she considered the situation of her life.


Ellen was 19 years old and lived alone in a rented one bedroom flat.  The room was icy cold as she rarely had enough money for food - let alone heating.

Grimy white paint peeled from the walls and flaked off the ceiling.  A dirty brown couch with  torn and ragged fabric stood in a dark corner of the room.   She'd found it on the side of the road six months earlier and her friends had helped her to bring it home.  Before that she'd had only fold-up plastic chairs. On a blue upturned plastic box in another corner sat an old television.  Other than that the small room was empty.

The house felt as desolate to Ellen as the rest of her life did.

Tommy was a little campfire in the wilderness that was her existence.  He was her one source of warmth and light.

Ellen hardly remembered her own mother.  She'd blown in and out of her life, as she grew up, like a piece of litter scattering unpredictably in the wind.

Her mother  couldn't cope with being a mother.  So she'd just left.  She returned occasionally if it suited her.

Ellen's maternal grandmother, Carla, had raised her.  It had been just the two of them but together they had been a happy little family unit.  Carla had been everything that a mother could be to Ellen.  She was kind and loving. She'd taught Ellen to cook and to knit and they'd played cards together in their  little flat many nights of the week when Ellen wasn't doing her homework.

Ellen smiled, a bitter sad smile, as she recalled what her plans for her life had been.   How far, she thought, she was now from where she'd hoped to be at this age.


Her father had left and never returned before she was born.  Her mother had all but abandoned her.  Her  grandmother had been her only source of love.  She now realised, looking back, that her need to feel wanted and loved had made her  easy prey for any young man who professed to care for her.

The young man who had taken advantage of her situation was Tommy's father.  Once he knew that Ellen was pregnant ... he'd gone.  Sure, at  first he'd made excuses for why he couldn't visit her much.  However, soon he wasn't  returning her phone calls and finally he'd  just sent her a break up e-mail: "It's over . Sorry."

And that was it.

Ellen was alone and pregnant.  She'd stopped counting the number of girls her ex- boyfriend  had  been with after he'd dumped her.  She no longer cared.  She'd realised that she and Tommy were better off without him in their lives. He was as useless to Tommy as her own mother had been to her.    But she had made a promise to herself and to Tommy that she would be the best possible mother  that she could be and she would never leave him.  Ever.

Ellen held Tommy's warm little body to herself.  The room was so cold  she could see the mist of condensation in the air as she breathed out.

She reflected on the last eight months.

It had been so sad when her grandmother died.  Tommy was only six weeks old at the time.  She had carried him in a baby sling to the funeral.  She'd been so annoyed with herself for not bringing any tissues.  She hadn't realised that she would cry as much as she did.

Actually she  had been  in a heavy fog of tiredness during  those first few weeks after Tommy was born. With so little sleep she couldn't organise very much of anything in her life.

At her grandmother's funeral she had  stood at the back of the packed church.  There had been  no seats left when she arrived late. The buses seemed to be never on time when she needed them.

Tears had run in a constant stream over her cheeks and her nose had dripped profusely throughout the service.  She had searched through the baby bag and found that all she had to mop up her tears were wet wipes.  Most of the funeral was now a blur.  All she could recall now was feeling utterly alone in the world and very uncomfortable with a terribly wet face. Tommy had slept through the whole thing, fortunately.


Life was so hard, she thought.  Apart from Tommy, her life was lonely and dull and futile.


Ellen realised that she was hungry .  She knew what was in the fridge and the kitchen cupboards - nothing... other than some baby formula and baby food for Tommy.

Ellen always made sure that Tommy was never hungry or cold.  His toys were from the Goodwill shop - but he had toys.  His clothes were from Salvation Army but they were warm.  His  blankets and his pram and his cot were donated by friends - but he had them.  Poverty or not - Ellen would always ensure Tommy had what he needed.


Ellen lifted Tommy from her lap.  She walked out into the dark kitchen.  The whole flat always seemed dark somehow and she'd noticed that it always smelled of boiled cabbage.  Maybe it was due  the grime on the walls and the floor.  She'd tried to scrub it off - but to no avail.

Ellen brought Tommys pusher out from her bedroom and got her cotton shopping bag from the bedpost where it hung.  She had $15.40 in her purse.  Her budget was so tight - she always knew how much money she had for each bill and each day and every expense.

She made a short shopping list, put Tommy into his little blue parker, strapped him into the pusher, pulled a little woollen blanket over his legs and put a plastic rain cover over the front of the pusher.
She  opened the back door and a burst of cold air swept in on her.  It was raining again.  Not heavy.  She would be OK to walk the half mile to the shop with her umbrella.  She'd needed her parker so she ran back to her bedroom  to retrieve it.  And then she left.

Walking toward the shop the world appeared grey.  Literally grey.  These rainy cold days there was so little colour in the world.  Even the trees looked grey.  The wind was cold and as her legs became wet the wind felt like ice on her skin.  Her shoes were now wet and her feet had gone numb.

She checked on Tommy.  He was sitting up in the pram - warm and dry.  His little blanket was over his legs and a his toys were next to him, although he didn't play with them. His eyes shone as excitedly he looked all around at the cars and the world and the rain.  He squealed with delight.

Ellen walked on.  She recalled days like this with her grandmother. The two of them would sit by the window looking out into the stormy weather.  The wind would howl outside as the rain belted down and the world was wet and cold.  Her grandmother would remind her that together they were warm and cosy inside, and the love they had for each other would mean that in their hearts they would always be  warm and safe.

She would remind Ellen that after a storm, after the rain and the wind have died away, the sun comes out again.  And sometimes there's a rainbow.   A rainbow reminds people that once storms pass, the sun comes out again and once more the world is a beautiful place.  Rainbows are all the colours of the beauty in the world, she would say.  They are all the colours of nature -  the flowers, the  sunshine, the grass and the trees and the sky and the oceans.  Rainbows are beautiful as life is beautiful.  You just need to be patient. You need to ride out the storms before you get to see the rainbows.


Arriving at the supermarket Ellen was aware of the stares that she received.  The few times that Ellen saw her mother in her childhood she would tell Ellen that she looked like a 'drowned rat' or 'something the cat dragged in' - when she'd come in out of the rain from playing.  These words sprang to her mind now as she tried to ignore the disapproving glares from the other shoppers.

Hurrying through the aisles - Ellen got what she needed and quickly made her way to the check-out.

In the check-out queue an elegantly dressed woman stood ahead of Ellen unloading groceries onto the conveyer belt.  She appeared to be in her mid forties.  She was tall and slim like Ellen.  She wore a tailored wool skirt with a cashmere cream jumper.  A lovely red crepe shawl covered her arms and  a  designer leather bag hung from one shoulder.

She was unpacking a large pile of groceries.  Some of the items were things that  Ellen had never seen before let alone tasted.  Goats cheese and exotic dips and herbs.

The woman turned and smiled at Ellen and then, looking down at Tommy in his  pusher, she smiled at him and waved her fingers to him in a gesture of hello.   Ellen thought that she had a kind and gentle face.

"He's beautful" the woman said, gesturing toward Tommy. "How old is he?"

"Ten months", Ellen replied.  She felt awkward with the conversation.  Somehow in her life  she had  felt that she needed to be defensive with everyone, other than her grandmother, as if she needed to protect herself from criticism constantly.

"Well, he's a picture of health", the woman said stooping down to pat Tommy's head.  "He'd be saying a couple of words by now and pulling himself to standing and  crawling I would think?"

Ellen felt safe with this woman .  She relaxed a little.
"Yes," she said, "he's crawling and he can pull himself up to stand."  She felt  a sense of pride in her child and in her achievements as a mother for a brief moment as she spoke.  "He says mama now".

At that moment she became aware of how few people  were actually interested in Tommy's progress and she realised that she had no one to discuss these things with.  Her school friends weren't interested.  They'd seen  Tommy as a slight amusement initially but they'd quickly grown  bored by the whole 'mum' thing.  They never really understood why Ellen couldn't go to the parties and outings they invited her to.  So, gradually they had stopped asking her.  Ellen felt that she was now in another world to these girls anyway, and while she didn't miss them too much she was often very lonely.

The woman was playing peek-a-boo with Tommy now.  Tommy squealed in delight.
"I'm a children's doctor,"the woman explained. "A paediatrician.  I've always loved children".

She stood up. Her groceries were almost through the check-out.  She seemed sad and away in some memory for a moment, Ellen thought.

"I would have liked to have had children".  She paused and then turned away and busied herself with putting her grocery bags into her trolley.  "But I never had any".

She turned and smiled to Ellen.  I bought myself a puppy last week.  She wiped something from her eye quickly and then added " a little poodle.  I've called him ... Edward".


Ellen laughed.  "Edward?  Thats an unusual dog name."

"Yes, I know.  It was my fathers name.  And I always thought that ..." She stopped her sentence.

The sad expression returned fleetingly and then it was gone.

Her groceries were packed now and she paid the check-out girl and started to leave with her trolley.

She was walking from the store when she suddenly stopped.  She stood still briefly, and then turned and walked quickly back to the check-out where Ellen had placed a few meagre groceries on the counter.

"I know that you will think this strange," she said," but I want you and your baby to have this."  She put her arm down into the large  leather bag she carried and pulled out a crumpled old package the size of a small tub of butter.  It was  wrapped in worn yellow tissue paper.  It looked like she'd had it for a long time - or someone had.


The woman looked excited as she put the package on the counter next to Ellen.


Ellen was unsure. She didn't know this woman, although something about her seemed really kind and genuine.

So Ellen picked up the package and opened it carefully, although she was aware that the paper was already grubby and torn in places.


As the wrapping peeled away a beautiful pair of brown leather baby shoes sat there on the paper.  They were detailed with intricate patterns grooved into the leather and Ellen could tell that they were expensive.

The woman looked at Ellen.  She seemed to be looking to see if Ellen liked them.  She was smiling and seemed excited to be giving them to her.

Ellen was speechless. They were the most beautiful shoes she'd seen ever.  She would never have bought anything like this for Tommy.  Nothing so good and expensive.  He would be walking in the next few weeks and these would fit perfectly.

Ellen held  the shoes tightly up against her chest. She found it hard to speak at first.  She didn't know how to thank this woman. Finally she said, "I love them. Thank you."

The woman seemed relieved.  She put her soft warm hand onto Ellen's icy fingers and added,  "They're baby shoes.  They've never been worn." She paused and looked reflective. "I've had them for a long long time.  But I want you and your baby to enjoy them.  I won't be needing them."  Ellen noticed tears in her eyes before she turned and left.

Ellen watched her exit the shop and walk away toward a late model black BMW sedan parked outside.  The check out girl smiled at Ellen. "They're beautiful" she said.


As Ellen left the shop she noticed that the rain had stopped.  The world glistened now and colour had come back into the street with the sunshine.

It was then that Ellen saw the rainbow.  It arced across the entire sky.  It's colours were bold and bright and beautiful.  Ellen felt happy.  She hadn't felt happy like this since before her grandmother died.

Tommy squealed and pointed at the rainbow.


Ellen squatted down next to him as he sat in his pram.  She pointed to the rainbow and as she held Tommy's little  hand she explained,
"Tommy, that's called a rainbow." She watched his  face and he seemed to be listening to her. "Rainbows happen after the rain has gone and the sun has come out again.  They are all the colours of the beauty in the world - the flowers and the sunshine and the trees and the oceans.  They remind us that after the storms blow away - the world really is a lovely and beautiful place.




                                                                     The End





The inspiration for this story is partly the blog title - parenthood and its challenges.

But it's also something Hemmingway wrote in a novel.  Hemmingway was always  pithy with his writing.

He wrote these six words.  Short and poignant.


"For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn."




                                                 *                                 *                             *





PS: If you enjoyed this story or found it helpful please tell your friends and colleagues about the blog site.

Parenthood - and (some of) it's challenges

This week I thought I'd write about parenthood ... and some of its challenges.


I say 'some of'  because this is not a topic which could ever be covered completely in a single blog entry.  It is a topic which is probably endless and I will look at other aspects of parenting challenges in other blogs in the future.  Not whingy blogs.  Just reflective discussions on the issues.

OK, there may be just a tiny smidge of whinging - occasionally.


However, before discussing the challenges of parenthood I will say that I love my four children very much, like most parents do.  My children have brought so much joy into my life.  I think they've taught me at least as much as I've taught them.  I know that people often say this - but it's true.

My children have taught me how to have fun again.  I think that with work pressures and the responsibilities that come with adult life we can sometimes forget that life is meant to be fun and enjoyable.  My children have  taught me to be more spontaneous and less serious - at least some of the time, to live in the moment and not constantly dwell on the past or worry about the future, to feel intense love for another human being - both giving it and receiving it, and so many other things as well.  That list is probably endless as well.

Being a parent has brought into my life a lot of happiness.

However, parenthood is not easy.  Many of the most worthwhile things in our lives aren't.


I decided to talk about  some of the challenges of parenthood in this week's blog  as I was  inspired by some  events which  occurred during the last few days in my own  life.


The event to which I refer involved my four year old son Oliver, affectionately known to us as Ollie unless he's naughty - and then it's back to Oliver.  Ollie became ill earlier this week and this resulted in me needing to juggle my medical work load so that I could take a day off work in order to stay home and look after him.


For those who have not read my blog before, I'm a medical doctor and I work with my husband David,  who is also a doctor, in our own  medical clinic in Adelaide, South Australia.

My husband and I have been married for 25 years - and 'we've never had a fight' ... that was my fault.

That 's a joke by the way,  as like every couple we have our fair share of disagreements  which are both of our fault of course - see the many entries in this blog so far and to follow - as proof.

Actually it's been said that  couples who say that  they don't ever fight are either lying or they're not communicating.

Anyway, my husband David and I  have four children ranging in age from four to sixteen years.  In our family whenever the children have been sick it has been an unspoken rule that I am the one to stay home from work to look after them.  Rightly or wrongly.  And I'm fine with this.  I like to be there for the children at these times.  And this was the case  when Ollie got sick this week.

My son wasn't very sick.  He had a  viral illness with some vomiting early on  but he's now well again. However, his illness and my juggling  work and parenting duties this week got me to thinking about all of the other times over the past 16 years where  I've had to juggle motherhood with work. Very often more difficult to do than it was this week.


My memories bring me back to the first time that I had any idea of how hard parenthood might be ... and I almost fell off the stool that I was sitting at that moment.


It was 16 years ago in 1997 and I was then 30 years old.   I was working as a senior paediatric registrar   in the A&E (Emergency) department of a large teaching hospital in Adelaide and I was chatting to my friend and colleague, Shameena.

Shameena was a resident medical officer (RMO) in paediatrics, junior to myself in medicine but we were a similar age. She was a very sweet and quiet Indian girl and we were both expecting babies in about 5 weeks time.  I was expecting my first child and Shameena was expecting her second.  She already had a four year old daughter, so she had experience as a mother.  I had no idea.

I had finished my specialty exams to qualify as a paediatrician about ten months earlier.  The exams had been very difficult with a low pass rate and I was now doing advanced specialty training as a senior registrar.

With all my exams over and only three fairly easy advanced training years to go before I was a fully qualified  paediatrician I had decided that it was a good time to start my family.

The day that Shameena and I had our memorable discussion we were both due to take  maternity leave in a couple of weeks time.  I had just finished explaining to Shameena how I would spend my maternity leave.

I told her that I would spend the four months leave writing a research proposal to get a grant to do a Master's in Endocrine.  I had planned to sub-specialise as a Paediatric endocrinologist and I  explained to Shameena the details of the research I was planning.

After I finished my long and complex speech I  smugly leaned back against the doctor's office table where we were both  sitting as we wrote in our respective patient notes.  I was waiting for some indication of how impressed she had been  by my lofty ambitions and plans for my future career as a high status and highly specialised physician.

However, she didn't appear to be as impressed by me -  as I was ... by me.

Instead she had sat quietly listening,  as I excitedly told her about all of my plans.  She then sat quietly for a moment longer before she finally responded to what I'd just said.

She smiled kindly at me and then gently, in her usual sweet way, she said to me, "Robyn, you do realise that  being a  mother is a full time job".

I was shocked by her words.  Her words hit me like a punch in the face.  I nearly fell off my stool at that moment - I was so taken aback.

No!  ...  No, I hadn't given that any consideration at all!

I was speechless.  I was dumb founded.

At that moment I realised that I had given absolutely no thought to the concept of actually being a 'mother'.

The baby was due in less than 5 weeks - and while I'd given lots of thought to many other things related to the baby - they were all medical things.  I had given no thought at all to what 'motherhood' would  be like.

During the pregnancy I'd thought about the many different developmental stages of the fetus and then the baby as it got larger.  I'd thought about the many medical problems that may occur in the baby and I'd paid much attention to all the medical test results.  I'd considered many  issues related to the labour.  I'd been to hundreds of deliveries as a paediatrics registrar - cases of meconium aspiration, premature labour, forceps deliveries, infections in utero and neonatal problems and so many things.  All medical things.

The idea that, until that conversation in A&E,  I'd given no thought to 'motherhood' should seem even more amazing and ridiculous considering that I was a senior doctor in paediatrics.  I was a 'children's' doctor. I should have had at least some idea about motherhood.  Surely.


However, in my defence, and as I said often at that time, I was  a paediatric doctor.  

Doctors would do the ward rounds and whizz passed the children.  We would examine their chests with our stethoscopes.  We would examine their ears and throats with our auroscopes.  We would make complex diagnoses and arrange for very specialised tests and investigations and devise detailed treatment plans.  We would treat the children and their medical ailments.  But we would not  'parent' them.

That was something the nurses did.

We wouldn't bath them.  The nurses did that.  We wouldn't feed them.  The nurses did that.  We wouldn't put them on our laps and cuddle them if they were scared and they couldn't sleep at 2am.  The nurses did that.  The nurses did all that!  And I had no clue about any of it.


So, at 35 weeks gestation I had given no thought to being a mother.  I hadn't considered what motherhood  would mean in my life or in  my career plans.


Five weeks later, one day passed her due date and on her father David's birthday, my first child Bella was born.

In that moment David and I became parents and we would be so for the rest of our lives.

I held Bella in my arms.  I was her mum.  It was as simple and as complex as that.  I loved her.

I knew at that moment - as I looked down into her  beautiful little face and as I felt her tiny hand clutching my finger - what being a mother was all about.  Motherhood meant that I would always love her.  It meant  that I would look after her and protect her as best as I could.  Not  perfectly ... but to the best of my ability.  It meant that I would mostly put her needs ahead of my own.

I read once a good description for  what we mothers tend to do and it's called 'burnt chop syndrome'.
It means that if we're cooking dinner and we burn a chop - we give the burnt one to ourselves and we give the rest of the good chops to the rest of our family.

I can 'see' through the electronic ether, that is the internet, all the mothers reading this who know exactly what I'm talking about and they are smiling with the familiarity of what I just said.  We all do it. If we run out of food or money for clothes or time - we give what we have to our children and the rest of the family.  We put ourselves after them. We put ourselves last.

Maybe we do that too often.  But we do it.  It is just what most mothers do.


I left my job in paediatrics 12 years ago, one year short of finishing my advanced paediatric training to be a fully qualified physician.  I found it too hard to try to be a specialist doctor and a mother at the same time.  I needed to choose - and I chose motherhood above my career.

Other women would not necessarily have had to choose career or motherhood, and they would still be wonderful mothers.  But, in my circumstances I felt that I must  choose one or the other.

I subsequently  found a medical job with much greater flexibility and a lot less working hours than a specialty job would demand.

It's funny, looking back,  that I had thought  that once my specialty exams were over - advanced training and motherhood would all be so easy.  I had no idea...


I've  learned over the years that being a mother is a full time job.  It's a wonderful job.  It's exciting and fun and scary and tiring and so many other things.  But it isn't easy. 


So, this week my son Ollie was sick and I rearranged my work  schedule so that I could  to stay home with him.  I'm his mum.  It's what I do.  I'm grateful that I am able to choose to do that.

For some mothers it is less easy to just take time off work.

Ollie's fine now.  But I stayed home with him and gave him lots of cuddles and fluffed up his pillow, brought him lots of drinks and toys while he watched cartoons on the television and stayed 'cosy warm', as we call it, at home.

He said to me, during this time, "I love you more than all the stars, Mummy."

"That's lovely, Ollie," I replied.  "Where did you hear that?"  I didn't think a four year old would just come up with an expression like that.

"I heard it on Peppa Pig on tv,"he said.  "The daddy pig said it to Peppa.  But I do love you more than all the stars Mummy," he insisted as he hugged me tightly around my waist.

And I think he does.

I certainly love him more than all the stars.



                                        *                                         *                                      *


 I have no regrets about  the choices  I've  made with regards to my career  and parenting - but that reminds me of something funny I read in the newspaper this week:


A man was talking about a fairly simple minded woman he'd met at a dating agency.  She  had a tattoo on her neck, he said, and the tattoo read:  'REGRATS'.

Yes that was an 'A'- it's not a typo (well I suppose it was the tattooists 'typo').

The man's comment about the tattoo (REGRATS) - was that he knew of one that she had already!


Amusing and ironic.



                                 *                                             *                                          *



I'm writing a short short-story this week.  It's called:  'Rainbows'.


However, once again 'mum duties' call me away - and I work long day tomorrow - 12 hours.


It's a nice story.  It's in my head but I've run out of time for  today.


I'll write it, like I did last week, on Sunday morning.

The story is  inspired by this weeks blog title but also something Hemmingway wrote.


I'll explain ...  Sunday.





                                       *                                *                               *




                                                              Rainbows



Ellen sat on the floor as she watched her baby son, Tommy,  playing with his toys on the lounge room carpet. 


Ellen was tall and slim with long dark hair which she wore up in a messy ponytail most of the time.  Her standard form of dress these days was  skinny blue jeans, a sloppy red wind-cheater  and white sneakers.  And this is what she wore now.  She dressed for comfort.

Tommy was a happy and healthy  boy, ten months old with silky blond hair.  He was sitting amongst a pile of  cars and blocks and trains and numerous other colourful plastic toys.   His chubby arms waved about wildly as he played.  He laughed and squealed with delight and, at frequent intervals, he would look over to his mother with his large blue eyes framed by long dark  lashes and he would smile at her.

Ellen felt a strong sense of happiness and love for this child.  She loved him so much that it sometimes scared her.  He was her primary reason to live.  The most important thing in her life.

Tommy crawled over to his mother and put his soft pudgy arms about her neck.  He climbed over her legs and into her lap.  His soft wispy hair brushed her cheek and his delicate little hands held onto her nose and her mouth before pulling on  her hair.

He'd recently learned to say 'ma ma' and he now repeated the word in his high pitch babbling style.

She kissed his cheek and held him close.


Ellen's gaze moved around the room in which she sat, and her happiness leached away... as it usually did when she considered the situation of her life.


Ellen was 19 years old and lived alone in a rented one bedroom flat.  The room was icy cold as she rarely had enough money for food - let alone heating.

Grimy white paint peeled from the walls and flaked off the ceiling.  A dirty brown couch with  torn and ragged fabric stood in a dark corner of the room.   She'd found it on the side of the road six months earlier and her friends had helped her to bring it home.  Before that she'd had only fold-up plastic chairs. On a blue upturned plastic box in another corner sat an old television.  Other than that the small room was empty.

The house felt as desolate to Ellen as the rest of her life did. 

Tommy was a little campfire in the wilderness that was her existence.  He was her one source of warmth and light.

Ellen hardly remembered her own mother.  She'd blown in and out of her life, as she grew up, like a piece of litter scattering unpredictably in the wind. 

Her mother  couldn't cope with being a mother.  So she'd just left.  She returned occasionally if it suited her.

Ellen's maternal grandmother, Carla, had raised her.  It had been just the two of them but together they had been a happy little family unit.  Carla had been everything that a mother could be to Ellen.  She was kind and loving. She'd taught Ellen to cook and to knit and they'd played cards together in their  little flat many nights of the week when Ellen wasn't doing her homework.

Ellen smiled, a bitter sad smile, as she recalled what her plans for her life had been.   How far, she thought, she was now from where she'd hoped to be at this age.


Her father had left and never returned before she was born.  Her mother had all but abandoned her.  Her  grandmother had been her only source of love.  She now realised, looking back, that her need to feel wanted and loved had made her  easy prey for any young man who professed to care for her.

The young man who had taken advantage of her situation was Tommy's father.  Once he knew that Ellen was pregnant ... he'd gone.  Sure, at  first he'd made excuses for why he couldn't visit her much.  However, soon he wasn't  returning her phone calls and finally he'd  just sent her a break up e-mail: "It's over . Sorry."

And that was it. 

Ellen was alone and pregnant.  She'd stopped counting the number of girls her ex- boyfriend  had  been with after he'd dumped her.  She no longer cared.  She'd realised that she and Tommy were better off without him in their lives. He was as useless to Tommy as her own mother had been to her.    But she had made a promise to herself and to Tommy that she would be the best possible mother  that she could be and she would never leave him.  Ever.

Ellen held Tommy's warm little body to herself.  The room was so cold  she could see the mist of condensation in the air as she breathed out.

She reflected on the last eight months.

It had been so sad when her grandmother died.  Tommy was only six weeks old at the time.  She had carried him in a baby sling to the funeral.  She'd been so annoyed with herself for not bringing any tissues.  She hadn't realised that she would cry as much as she did. 

Actually she  had been  in a heavy fog of tiredness during  those first few weeks after Tommy was born. With so little sleep she couldn't organise very much of anything in her life.

At her grandmother's funeral she had  stood at the back of the packed church.  There had been  no seats left when she arrived late. The buses seemed to be never on time when she needed them.

Tears had run in a constant stream over her cheeks and her nose had dripped profusely throughout the service.  She had searched through the baby bag and found that all she had to mop up her tears were wet wipes.  Most of the funeral was now a blur.  All she could recall now was feeling utterly alone in the world and very uncomfortable with a terribly wet face. Tommy had slept through the whole thing, fortunately.


Life was so hard, she thought.  Apart from Tommy, her life was lonely and dull and futile.


Ellen realised that she was hungry .  She knew what was in the fridge and the kitchen cupboards - nothing... other than some baby formula and baby food for Tommy. 

Ellen always made sure that Tommy was never hungry or cold.  His toys were from the Goodwill shop - but he had toys.  His clothes were from Salvation Army but they were warm.  His  blankets and his pram and his cot were donated by friends - but he had them.  Poverty or not - Ellen would always ensure Tommy had what he needed.


Ellen lifted Tommy from her lap.  She walked out into the dark kitchen.  The whole flat always seemed dark somehow and she'd noticed that it always smelled of boiled cabbage.  Maybe it was due  the grime on the walls and the floor.  She'd tried to scrub it off - but to no avail.

Ellen brought Tommys pusher out from her bedroom and got her cotton shopping bag from the bedpost where it hung.  She had $15.40 in her purse.  Her budget was so tight - she always knew how much money she had for each bill and each day and every expense.

She made a short shopping list, put Tommy into his little blue parker, strapped him into the pusher, pulled a little woollen blanket over his legs and put a plastic rain cover over the front of the pusher.
She  opened the back door and a burst of cold air swept in on her.  It was raining again.  Not heavy.  She would be OK to walk the half mile to the shop with her umbrella.  She'd needed her parker so she ran back to her bedroom  to retrieve it.  And then she left.

Walking toward the shop the world appeared grey.  Literally grey.  These rainy cold days there was so little colour in the world.  Even the trees looked grey.  The wind was cold and as her legs became wet the wind felt like ice on her skin.  Her shoes were now wet and her feet had gone numb.

She checked on Tommy.  He was sitting up in the pram - warm and dry.  His little blanket was over his legs and a his toys were next to him, although he didn't play with them. His eyes shone as excitedly he looked all around at the cars and the world and the rain.  He squealed with delight.

Ellen walked on.  She recalled days like this with her grandmother. The two of them would sit by the window looking out into the stormy weather.  The wind would howl outside as the rain belted down and the world was wet and cold.  Her grandmother would remind her that together they were warm and cosy inside, and the love they had for each other would mean that in their hearts they would always be  warm and safe.

She would remind Ellen that after a storm, after the rain and the wind have died away, the sun comes out again.  And sometimes there's a rainbow.   A rainbow reminds people that once storms pass, the sun comes out again and once more the world is a beautiful place.  Rainbows are all the colours of the beauty in the world, she would say.  They are all the colours of nature -  the flowers, the  sunshine, the grass and the trees and the sky and the oceans.  Rainbows are beautiful as life is beautiful.  You just need to be patient. You need to ride out the storms before you get to see the rainbows.


Arriving at the supermarket Ellen was aware of the stares that she received.  The few times that Ellen saw her mother in her childhood she would tell Ellen that she looked like a 'drowned rat' or 'something the cat dragged in' - when she'd come in out of the rain from playing.  These words sprang to her mind now as she tried to ignore the disapproving glares from the other shoppers.

Hurrying through the aisles - Ellen got what she needed and quickly made her way to the check-out.

In the check-out queue an elegantly dressed woman stood ahead of Ellen unloading groceries onto the conveyer belt.  She appeared to be in her mid forties.  She was tall and slim like Ellen.  She wore a tailored wool skirt with a cashmere cream jumper.  A lovely red crepe shawl covered her arms and  a  designer leather bag hung from one shoulder.

She was unpacking a large pile of groceries.  Some of the items were things that  Ellen had never seen before let alone tasted.  Goat's cheese and exotic dips and herbs.

The woman turned and smiled at Ellen and then, looking down at Tommy in his  pusher, she smiled at him and waved her fingers to him in a gesture of hello.   Ellen thought that she had a kind and gentle face.

"He's beautiful" the woman said, gesturing toward Tommy. "How old is he?"

"Ten months", Ellen replied.  She felt awkward with the conversation.  Somehow in her life  she had  felt that she needed to be defensive with everyone, other than her grandmother, as if she needed to protect herself from criticism constantly.

"Well, he's a picture of health", the woman said stooping down to pat Tommy's head.  "He'd be saying a couple of words by now and pulling himself to standing and  crawling I would think?"

Ellen felt safe with this woman .  She relaxed a little.
"Yes," she said, "he's crawling and he can pull himself up to stand."  She felt  a sense of pride in her child and in her achievements as a mother for a brief moment as she spoke.  "He says mama now".

At that moment she became aware of how few people  were actually interested in Tommy's progress and she realised that she had no one to discuss these things with.  Her school friends weren't interested.  They'd seen  Tommy as a slight amusement initially but they'd quickly grown  bored by the whole 'mum' thing.  They never really understood why Ellen couldn't go to the parties and outings they invited her to.  So, gradually they had stopped asking her.  Ellen felt that she was now in another world to these girls anyway, and while she didn't miss them too much she was often very lonely.

The woman was playing peek-a-boo with Tommy now.  Tommy squealed in delight.
"I'm a children's doctor,"the woman explained. "A paediatrician.  I've always loved children".

She stood up. Her groceries were almost through the check-out.  She seemed sad and away in some memory for a moment, Ellen thought.

"I would have liked to have had children".  She paused and then turned away and busied herself with putting her grocery bags into her trolley.  "But I never had any".

She turned and smiled to Ellen.  I bought myself a puppy last week.  She wiped something from her eye quickly and then added " a little poodle.  I've called him ... Edward".


Ellen laughed.  "Edward?  Thats an unusual dog name."

"Yes, I know.  It was my fathers name.  And I always thought that ..." She stopped her sentence.

The sad expression returned fleetingly and then it was gone.

Her groceries were packed now and she paid the check-out girl and started to leave with her trolley.

She was walking from the store when she suddenly stopped.  She stood still briefly, and then turned and walked quickly back to the check-out where Ellen had placed a few meagre groceries on the counter.

"I know that you will think this strange," she said," but I want you and your baby to have this."  She put her arm down into the large  leather bag she carried and pulled out a crumpled old package the size of a small tub of butter.  It was  wrapped in worn yellow tissue paper.  It looked like she'd had it for a long time - or someone had.


The woman looked excited as she put the package on the counter next to Ellen.


Ellen was unsure. She didn't know this woman, although something about her seemed really kind and genuine.

So Ellen picked up the package and opened it carefully, although she was aware that the paper was already grubby and torn in places.


As the wrapping peeled away a beautiful pair of brown leather baby shoes sat there on the paper.  They were detailed with intricate patterns grooved into the leather and Ellen could tell that they were expensive.

The woman looked at Ellen.  She seemed to be looking to see if Ellen liked them.  She was smiling and seemed excited to be giving them to her.

Ellen was speechless. They were the most beautiful shoes she'd seen ever.  She would never have bought anything like this for Tommy.  Nothing so good and expensive.  He would be walking in the next few weeks and these would fit perfectly.

Ellen held  the shoes tightly up against her chest. She found it hard to speak at first.  She didn't know how to thank this woman. Finally she said, "I love them. Thank you."

The woman seemed relieved.  She put her soft warm hand onto Ellen's icy fingers and added,  "They're baby shoes.  They've never been worn." She paused and looked reflective. "I've had them for a long long time.  But I want you and your baby to enjoy them.  I won't be needing them."  Ellen noticed tears in her eyes before she turned and left.

Ellen watched her exit the shop and walk away toward a late model black BMW sedan parked outside.  The check out girl smiled at Ellen. "They're beautiful" she said.


As Ellen left the shop she noticed that the rain had stopped.  The world glistened now and colour had come back into the street with the sunshine.

It was then that Ellen saw the rainbow.  It arced across the entire sky.  It's colours were bold and bright and beautiful.  Ellen felt happy.  She hadn't felt happy like this since before her grandmother died.

Tommy squealed and pointed at the rainbow. 


Ellen squatted down next to him as he sat in his pram.  She pointed to the rainbow and as she held Tommy's little  hand she explained,
"Tommy, that's called a rainbow." She watched his  face and he seemed to be listening to her. "Rainbows happen after the rain has gone and the sun has come out again.  They are all the colours of the beauty in the world - the flowers and the sunshine and the trees and the oceans.  They remind us that after the storms blow away - the world really is a lovely and beautiful place.




                                                                     The End





The inspiration for this story is partly the blog title - parenthood and its challenges.

But it's also something Hemmingway wrote in a novel.  Hemmingway was always  pithy with his writing.

He wrote these six words.  Short and poignant.


"For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn."




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