Freedom (a story of fiction)

                                                      

The alarm screamed out.  It smashed into David's dream and dragged him back into the cold reality of his existence.  His dreams were his sanctuary.  In his dreams he was at peace and he experienced a natural world filled with sunshine and trees and open spaces  and … freedom.  

David looked at the grey clock next to his small single bed.  It was 5.30am.  The same time that he had woken every morning for the past 20 years.  He had been imprisoned for all of that time. He suspected that he may have even become institutionalised.  

His mind relinquished thoughts of freedom. He found that he could cope with his life, as it was, if he made himself numb to feelings. He could cope if he simply existed through each day, rather than try to live his life or enjoy it or experience it in a mindful way.   If he existed in a machine-like manner  - then he could cope.  His life was a matter of surviving for the time that he was in this place.  And that was all it amounted to.

He got out of bed and started the routine that he had followed over the past two decades.  He showered. He shaved. He got dressed into the grey uniform that he had worn since forever.  He combed his hair.  

Soon he was waiting in the line at the cafeteria.  It was the same every morning:  a grey plastic tray and a bland assortment of  stodgy breakfast cereals and cold toast.  He filled his bowl with a dollop of the grey-brown cereal; he filled his white plastic cup with water, and he poured himself a weak cup of flat white coffee with two sugars.  He then trudged over to a grey laminate-table in the corner of the room and he sat down in a grubby white plastic chair.  It was the same table and the same chair in which he had eaten all of his meals since he had come here so long ago.  

He looked about the shabby cold room.  So many pale and weary faces filled it.  The same tired faces everyday.  Expressionless.  Numb.  Existing, through the monotony of each day, like him.  Day after day.  Year after year.  A life-time.  

A small window high up on a sterile white wall allowed a little sunshine to creep into the dank cave-like interior of the room.  Artificial lighting, present  day and night  in every room throughout the building, created an unnatural jaundiced hue.  Every room felt stale and drained of colour.  Entirely artificial.  The sunlight softened and warmed the place - just a little.  The slim shards of warm light filtering into the room hinted at freedom and life beyond the walls. 

David ate his cereal and drank his tepid coffee and then he got up to start his day.  As he rose from the table he remembered, for the first time since he'd woken two hours earlier, what day this was.  

A flicker of a smile formed on his tired face and he looked again toward the sunlight filtering in through the window. He thought about freedom.  For the first time in 20 years - since he had first come here - he allowed himself to think about freedom:  A life beyond these horrid walls.  A life out in the real world again.  A life away from all of the suffocating rules and rigid regulations of this place.  A life away from the  endless artificial-lighting and the stale air heavy with the smells of disinfectants and cleaning fluids and the stench from grubby beds and grimy toilet blocks.  

This was to be the last day that he would stay in this place.  He would be released and free to leave at 4pm in the afternoon.  

He would be free.  

He would walk away from this place, with his few meagre possessions thrown into a small bag, and he would never return.  He had made a promise to himself.  He would never return to this place.  Not for as long as he lived.

He let his mind consider freedom for a moment longer.  His freedom was now so close.  Not just an illusion, to be experienced in his dreams and then snatched away, like a cruel joke, when he woke each morning.  It would be real this time.  It would be his. 

An unfamiliar feeling of excitement stirred within his soul.  Just a flicker.  Yet he was acutely aware of it as he had not felt such an emotion for so long.  He had pushed his own feelings aside and buried them so long ago.  And from there his feelings had lay dormant.  Silent. Waiting. He had almost forgotten how it felt  to be excited. But now it felt … nice.

He vaguely remembered his life before he had come here.  It was more than 20 years earlier.  He had been a young man then.  He had felt happy in his life.  He had found life to be full of exciting opportunities and possibilities.  He had been hopeful - for so many things.  

He had met and married his wife, Janet, when he was young.   He had bought a nice little house in the suburbs.  Life had been filled with colour and fun and joy - as he remembered it.  

How things had changed since then.  His wife had long ago divorced him and moved with their two young boys to Melbourne.  She had remarried and started a new life and a new family.  She had moved on … from him and their life together.

Yet,  he was glad that she had found happiness with someone who could be there for her - when he couldn't be.  Someone who could be the father to their boys that he wasn't. A father who was available for them. Although, he had never stopped loving his sons and a part of him still loved his ex-wife. No-one could say that he didn't love them.  He loved them more than he knew it was possible to love anyone or anything.  And for that reason he had let them all go.  Leave him.  Be free from him and his life stuck within these walls. 

David returned his tray and dishes to the cafeteria trolley in a corner of the room.  He would not think about freedom yet.  The hours until 4pm would drag if he did.  The day still ahead of him would become intolerable.  

The smile faded from his lips and once again a dull and tired expression replaced it.  He had much to do before he could claim his freedom. Even if it was in only a few hours.

The day dragged by and David remained busy.  Finally, however, a little after 4pm, he was ready to leave.

He picked up the few possessions that he owned to take with him.  He had packed them away into his bag which he now carried.  He was escorted to the automatic-doors at the exit to the building. Yet, before he left, for the last time he turned around and took one last look at the grey and oppressive interior of the building and he observed for a last time the dull and pale faces of inmates still shuffling about within.  And then he turned and left.

As he walked hesitantly out into the world and up along the asphalt footpath, he squinted in the brilliance of the sunlight which warmed his face and seemed to melt his cold and lonely soul. He counted each step as he took it.  Each step created more distance between himself and this place which had been his life for the last 20 years.   He felt the binds holding his soul to the building begin to break.  He felt his freedom becoming more real.

Suddenly a voice broke into his reverie.  It was a woman's voice.  It was calling him back.  He stopped.  His heart was pounding.  His breath became shallow and rapid.  His mind froze.  Slowly he turned around.  The solid grey concrete walls towered over him still.  Standing at the entrance doors a small figure was waving and running toward him.  She was dressed in a grey uniform.  She was calling out to him:

'Dr Whelan!  Dr Whelan!'  She continued to run toward him until she stood immediately in front of him.  Breathless. Pale.  She had tears in her eyes.  She looked up into his face and quickly wiped her cheeks with both hands.

'Dr Whelan!  I didn't get to say goodbye.'

She paused to catch her breath.  Tears were flowing down her cheeks.  She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her nurse's uniform and wiped her face roughly.

'Dr Whelan, I'll miss you so much.  We'll all miss you, sir.  I wanted to tell you that I have been honoured to work with you during these past 10 years.  I know you've been here at the Royal Adelaide longer than that.  But I started here 10 years ago and I wanted to tell you what a wonderful person you were to work with and what a gifted surgeon you are.  We all say it.  All the nurses and the other surgeons.   And you are so kind as well.'

David felt awkward.  He never knew how to deal with emotional people.  He never really knew how to deal with women either.  They were often so emotional.  

'Thank you, Denise.'  David put his leather briefcase down onto the footpath.  Awkwardly he took both hands and patted the young nurse on her shoulders.

'That means a lot to me.  Thank you,' he said.

The young woman, tears still flowing down her face, flung her arms out and hugged the tall surgeon who now stood stiffly and awkwardly, like a tin-soldier, in his smart grey suit.  It was the same suit, or an identical copy of the same style of grey suit, which he had worn every day to the hospital over the last 20 years. The young woman held him tightly for a few moments longer and then, reluctantly, she released him and wiped furiously at her face again.

'Dr Whelan, I was also so sorry to hear about your illness.  If there is anything I can do …  I would be so pleased if you would let me bring you some home-cooked meals or if I could help you at home in some way, sir.'

David looked at the ground again.  'Denise, I don't think there is much anyone can do for me.  But thank you dear.  No, I'm afraid my time is now very limited. A stage 4 brain tumor is beyond the scope of any doctor or any person, sadly.  I've resigned myself to the situation.  I'll be alright.  I'm hoping that I'll get another six months … so that I can spend some time with my sons.'

'I didn't know that you had a family, Dr Whelan.  You never spoke about your boys.  I'm so glad that you will have them with you … at this … time'

The doctor and the nurse stood silently … and awkwardly for a few moments more.  Both looking at the ground or around at the passing cars in the street.  Finally, and much to David's relief, the young woman spoke again:

'Well,' she said, 'I'll let you go then, sir.  But thank you again.  For everything.  And … for being so kind to all of us nurses. To me.  You really are a great man, Dr Whelan.  You are a decent and good man.'  And with that she turned and walked slowly back into the dark interior of the hospital, wiping her face roughly with the sleeve of her uniform as she went.

David picked up his leather briefcase from the footpath, and he turned and continued walking as he had done a few moments earlier.  Strangely, all he could think about now was the words from a book written by a survivor of  Auschwitz,  Viktor Frankl.  The book was called 'Man's search for meaning.'  It had been a famous book, in its time, selling over 10 million copies around the world. 

In the book, Viktor Frankl had said that it was his belief that there were only two races of men: decent men and indecent men.  No society is free of either of them, he had written.  He had found both types of men amongst the German soldiers and the other prisoners in the concentration camp.  

Denise had said that she thought he was a 'decent man'.  Somehow, that meant a lot to him. He had made so many mistakes in his life. He could see that now. Ironically, it took dying  for him to realise what it meant to live. And now it was too late.

He should have spent more time away from the hospital and with the people that he loved. With his sons. With his wife. He should have given himself more leisure-time as well. He should have allowed himself more time out in the world, outside the walls of the hospital, to experience more of life.  But that didn't make him a bad person. It made him fallible. Maybe, in spite of his mistakes, he was still a decent man.

He felt some relief from his guilt when he considered this. Maybe, he thought, he could learn to forgive himself.

Another comforting passage from Viktor Frankl's book came into his thoughts: 

'The truth as it is set into songs by poets and proclaimed as the final wisdom by so many thinkers is that love is the ultimate and highest goal to which we can aspire.  The salvation of man is through love and in love.'

Viktor Frankl had written that ' a man who has nothing left in this world may still know bliss, be it only for a brief moment, in the thoughts of his loved ones.'

David thought of his sons and his ex-wife.  He loved all three of them.  He had never stopped loving them.  He would always love them.  Even beyond death.  He had trouble showing love.  He had trouble expressing love.  But he felt love as deeply and acutely as any man could.

As he thought of his sons, now both in their early 20's and living in Melbourne with their mother, David decided that he would make sure that he told them how much he loved them before he died.  He would spend what time he had left, albeit belatedly, showing them how much he loved them.  Awkward as that might be for him to show it.  He would try.  He must try.

He would apologise to his ex-wife for neglecting her and their marriage.  For choosing his career over their relationship.  He realised now that, with a more balanced life, he could have had both.  This would be one of his life's regrets.

A flicker of light and happiness re-ignited in his soul as he considered all of these things: An understanding of the meaning of life which death had brought to him.

Over the next few months, and on his death-bed, the flame of life and love in David's soul would once again burn brightly - as it had many years earlier.  He would finish his days surrounded by his family who had never stopped loving him.  He would find happiness and freedom again.  Finally.

                                               

                                  The end

Leisure-time

                                     

    

I have just enjoyed my first full-week off work this year, during my children's October school-holidays.

I work only four days per week - so I'm not complaining about how hard I work.  Also, my husband, David, and I both agreed to take only three weeks annual-leave this year, instead of our usual five weeks leave, as we're building a larger house and there will be many extra costs to deal with.

However, while I was taking my leave I was acutely aware of how guilty I felt about 'not working'.  It was only one week leave from work.  I still had my four children to take care of, and the housework to do, and the lawns to mow, and the groceries to buy, and so forth. But I felt myself getting bored and it felt so 'strange'  to not  be rushing out the front door and … well, rushing.  

Seven days off work and I felt restless and guilty.  What does that say about me and/or my lifestyle? Maybe I'm not alone in my rushed life as a tired and hectic working-mother.  I think I may even like that pace.  My life feels interesting and fun and even exciting at times.  But, is it a balanced life?  

I recall feeling a similar restless-energy during holidays when I went to university, decades ago.  My life was so crammed with  work and study, back then, that when it all stopped for the holidays I would feel like I was still spinning; still racing.  A feeling similar to when you ride a roundabout in a playground - and your head continues to spin for a while even after you get off .  You feel quite off balance for a while.

I also recall, during those university holidays, riding my bike to the beach and sitting on the shore in the sunshine and looking out over the glistening water and dazzling white sands and thinking …'now what?!'  I couldn't quite remember how to have fun and relax.  I was 18 or 19 years old and my head was still racing … and exhausted.  How to rest? 

So, during my children's recent school-holidays I read some magazines - and I cleaned up the last of the moving-bags from the recent house move - and I went for a few nice walks on the beach and in the country-side - and I sorted out the carport and did some study - and I visited a few cafes - and I cleaned out all the kitchen cupboards - and I watched some DVD's - and I felt guilty about not working in the clinic …  How to rest?

Leisure-time.  Work-time.  Balance.  I think the work-life balance is an individual thing and you know its right for you when you feel content and 'right' about it.  It would depend on the person and the job and all the variables in our different lives.  But, similar to many things, the balance would be found empirically.  Trial and error.  It would feel right.  

Obviously, sometimes what feels right may be irrelevant if bills must be paid and one must work longer hours like it or not; or if a child were sick at home, a parent may need to stay home to care for the child and work must fit around that.  Like most people I have been in both of the aforementioned scenarios, at different times in my life, and my work schedule has been thus dictated by things other than what suits me.  

Also, some jobs don't allow an employee to titrate the dose of work; pick and choose days and times and hours worked each week.  It may be a matter of: 'Here's your work schedule. Take it or leave!'  

I was in that situation in my work as a senior Paediatric registrar in a public hospital for eight years.   I worked every Christmas day for seven years - even after having my children.  And once, when I was six months pregnant, and after I had cooked Christmas lunch at my house for 20 guests - I had to then go in to work in the Emergency department at 4pm and do a 10 hour shift, until 2am, as the senior doctor. Although, before I went to my hospital shift,  I also washed the Christmas dishes (we had no dish washer.  My dear husband said we didn't need one.  Appararently we already had one: guess who!). All while six months pregnant!  Exhausting.  

However, looking back, I recall finding that working in the Emergency department of the Adelaide children's hospital was easier  than hosting christmas dinner for 20 people.   

I think we all have our 'exhausting work stories' - like old battle stories in which we fought and survived.  Although, as they say,  what doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Or wiser.  Wisely - I later left that job!

However,  in an ideal-world or in the future, or even with a bit of soul-searching and reflection on one's life and work options - a work-life balance, or something closer to it than presently exists, may be something we could move towards. 

I think it's nice to acknowledge that we often have more options in our work and life than we realise.  It may take a bit of planning and organising and courage  to consider changes required to achieve more balance in our lives - but I, for one,  am very glad I made the leap to a different lifestyle - with less work and more life.  

Life is too short to not allow ourselves time to enjoy it.  Even before retirement.  It may be spooky to make changes in our lives.  The 'unknown' is often a bit scary. But, if you are less than happy with your work-life balance - it may be worth the effort to at least consider what changes may improve things.  Even if only minor changes at first.

Looking at the situation of work and leisure time in the history, it seems that people at one time worked a lot less than we do now, and then they worked a lot more than we do now, and then, gradually, people are working less again.  Hooray!  More leisure-time.  We also have more money to enjoy our leisure than we did historically. 

Let me explain:

The consensus among anthropologists is that people living in the early hunter-gather societies enjoyed significantly more leisure time than people living in the later more complex societies.  It is thought that working hours during 'hunter-gatherer' times were generally less than five hours per day.

Later, as populations in Europe increased and farming societies became the norm, the standard of living remained not much above subsistence - while working hours became long.  Most of the population focused on producing their own means of survival.  In medieval Europe, for example, as much as 80% of the labour force was employed in subsistence agriculture. Yet, even up until the late 19th century most of the population in the world suffered from chronic hunger and malnutrition. The life expectancy at that time was very low.  In France, before 1750, the life expectancy was only 35 years, and it was only slightly higher in Britain.

The life expectancy in the US, around that time, however, was markedly longer at 45-50 years and the people were much taller than they were in Europe.  This was because people in the US then were adequately fed.

The 'British agricultural revolution' in the 18th and 19th centuries, related to more efficient mechanised farming and improved agricultural techniques, enabled an unprecedented growth in the population and it allowed more people to leave the farms and work in industry.  

The 'industrial revolution', a time of transition to new manufacturing processes, began in the north-west and midlands of England around 1760.  Workers freed from farming work, by the agricultural revolution, now moved from rural areas to cities and towns and they continued to work very long hours in the factories and mills.  The industrial revolution spread to western Europe and the US in the early 19th century.

The working hours in the factories and mills were at least 10 hours per day.  As recently as 1900, most industrial workers in the US still worked 10 hour days and 12 hour days in the steel industry. On Saturdays factory employees worked two hours less and most had Sundays free.

The working hours of domestic servants, however,  were even longer than those of the factory workers.  During the 19th century and until WWI 'domestic service' constituted the largest single employment for English women, and the second largest employment for all English people, male and female, after agricultural work.

It's been calculated that during 1873 a house-maid worked 12 hours per day from Monday to Saturday, inclusive, with only a slightly shorter day on Sunday.  In some individual house-holds the hours worked would have been longer than this.  

Can you spell: S-L-A-V-E.  Seriously!

No days off.  No holidays.  And most finished their lives with no savings and living in the poor-house!

The hours worked by domestic servants were unregulated by any legislation.

So, during the 19th century, domestic servants were working around 90 hours per week and factory workers were working around 58 hours per week.

Children had it hard as well.  Children could perform many of the unskilled jobs in the factories and mills - at only ~ 20% of the cost of adult workers.  Some children weren't even paid at all.  Children as young as four were employed. 

The working hours for the children were horribly long.  Some child coal miners and hurriers (a 'hurrier' transports the coal that has been mined - in a cart or a basket) worked from 4am until 5pm.  Children employed as 'mule scavengers' in cotton mills (they would crawl under machinery and pick up cotton - a dangerous job with many injuries and even deaths) worked 14 hour days, six days per week.

So working hours have been truly awful - for a long time. Yet, from this low-point for work-life balance - things have steadily improved.

Firstly, the children have been protected.  Initially, in 1833 and 1844, the first general laws against child labour (The Factory Acts) were passed in Britain: children younger than nine were not allowed to work; children were not permitted to work at night, and a work-day for a youth under the age of 18 was limited to 12 hours.

Although, child labour remained in Europe and the US up until the 20th century.

Henry Ford, the automobile manufacturer, supported shorter working hours  which he introduced into his own factories in the early 20th century. His motives were more related to business than goodwill .  He realised that his workers were the main consumers of his cars and as such they needed adequate leisure time to perceive a need to buy them.

Over the 20th century working hours have reduce by almost half - mainly due to rising wages associated with the growth of our economies.  But other factors which have also supported these changes were: trade unions, collective bargaining, and progressive legislation.

The 'regulated' working week (many countries regulate the 'working week' by law) has dropped steadily in most of the industrialised world to about 40 hours per week after WWII.

Technology has continued to improve worker productivity - allowing standards of living to rise as hours decline.  We have overall more money and less work.

The US has an average working week of 33 hours (down from over 60 hours/week in the late 19th century).

France adopted a 35 hour working-week in 2000.  The average weekly work hours are now around 30 hours/week.

In the mid-2000's the Netherlands was the first country in the  industrialised world where overall the average working week dropped to less than 30 hours (27 hours/week). At this rate the Netherlands is set to become the first country to reach an averge working week of less than 21 hours.

Germany has an average working week of 25.6 hours. (2011)

Australia has an average working week of 33 hours. 

In Australia, we also have four weeks of paid annual leave,  increased incrementlly since 1936, when the idea of any 'paid annual leave' was first introduced.

So, even though it often feels like we're all working harder - we are actually working progressively less but becoming more wealthy over the last century - in the industrialised countries.

So, as I said at the beginning of my blog this week, I have recently had a week of annual leave.  My first week off work this year.  I work four days per week and I run a house with four children and one 'domestically-challenged' husband. But I am not complaining. I know that I am very lucky in my life. This is a relatively large amount of 'leisure-time' compared to the days of yore.

It could be worse!  

My maternal grandmother was a domestic servant in Adelaide at the turn of the last century. I imagine that her working hours would have been incredibly long.  And no fancy washing-machines or dish-washers or packet food to toss in the oven as I do. 

My great grand-mother came out to Australia from Ireland, with her brother, in the late 1800's.  She and her brother farmed the harsh arid land of the mid-north of South Australia before she married and, I hate to say this but it is unfortunately true, her 'lazy' husband, my great grandfather, hated farming (he preferred reading his academic books which he ordered in from his homeland in Sweden) so they lost their farm eventually and, in order to feed the family of three children (my grandmother was one of them), she  set up and managed a local post-office and shop at Bowhill, in rural South Australia.  A hard worker.  I'm sure she never got any annual leave!  

And even then, compared to a lot of other people, even living today through really hard times, I'm sure that my ancestors 'got it easy' - relatively speaking.  

So leisure-time is an absolute necessity in life.  And sufficient leisure time too.

We work to live and not just live to work.  No consumer products or fancy home addresses or stuff is worth the sacrifice of endlessly working without leisure time. 

I know from the many years that I spent working as a Pediatrics doctor in the public hospital system in Adelaide -  that insufficient leisure time makes life feel not worth living.  Doctors have a higher rate of depression, drug-abuse and alcoholism than the general population.  The long hours of work go at least part way to contributing to this situation.  

For example in Australia 'non-consultant' doctors still work the kinds of hours  people did back in the 1800's. They still regularly clock up a 50 − 60 hour working-week plus study time at home on top of this.  

In one hospital I worked at we would do a regular 32 hour shift every fourth day plus work generally 6 or 7 days per week of 9 hour-shifts.  I was often so tired after these long shifts that I had trouble even driving home.  I had to consciously try to remember where the accelerator and brake were in the car in order to drive.  I was so tired that driving was no longer automatic. And I would put my air-conditioner on full blast and turn the radio up to stay awake driving home.  We also worked every public holidays of course.  

A survey of 914 'non-consultant hospital doctors,' reported in the Medical Journal of Australia in 2009, found that 69% of these doctors had 'burnout' and 71% had low job satisfaction and 53% reported working 'high risk' long shifts of up to 43 continuous hours.  I'm sure the long working hours of hospital doctors are similar in other countries as well.

My point?  I had a choice. I didn't have to work in that job.  If I hated that lack of work-life balance - then I could leave. 

So I did! 

I left that job one year short of finishing the last year of specialty training.  All the exams I had passed. The research projects required for 'advanced training' were done and published. A high status job with more money and prestige was within my grasp.  I could taste it. I was almost there.  I would be a specialist Paediatrician. But at what cost?  To myself and my family.   So I left.  Just like that.  My colleagues wondered what was wrong with me.  I wanted more life and less work.  I needed more leisure-time.  I have never regretted that decision.  I think I only regretted not leaving sooner.   

One of the best things that I have done in my life has been to spend time with my family.  No job or money or status could ever replace that.

Leisure-time.  A crucial part of a balanced and happy life.  Not the only part.  But really important all the same.

                                         *

Finally, before I go, I will quickly give a little description of a lovely place my family and I went hiking on the weekend at Waterfall Gully in the Adelaide foothills.  I hope that a little of the beauty of that place can be felt in my words:  

It's Sunday and the weather is 21C (70F).  It is beautifully warm with an occasional breeze cooling us as we hike along a dusty trail up into the Adelaide hills. 

It is late Spring now in Australia.  Summer is almost upon us.  The grass is still lush and green, following the rains of winter, but it will soon become yellow and brittle and dry; a hallmark of the Australian bush and countryside. Butter-yellow  daisies splash colour across the grass and, among the mass of flowers, bees hum so loudly they almost drown out the other sounds of the bush.

Eucalypts tower above us casting a mottled shade across our path.  And, as we gaze up into the bold-blue cloudless sky, the smooth white limbs of the gum-trees, sprinkled with olive leaves, create a stunning contrast; a glorious vision of Australiana. This is a natural art.  So elegantly beautiful.

Birds of the bush are loud and cheerful.  An endless chorus.  So many different birds: chirping, singing, cheeping, calling. A happy melody along with the hum of the bees and the occasional rustling of leaves in the breeze.

The hillsides of the valley are, in places, a violet-purple covered with knee-high salvation-jane. Along the dry creek-bed, which runs parallel to our path, masses of white hawthorn flowers create an enchanting floral display.  The hawthorn shrubs and small trees creep up the steep hillsides of the gully creating a vision of blossom - white as snow. Raspberry-purple sweet pea wind through the grass alongside our trail and climb up the trunks of trees and bushes.  The colours of spring linger still.

Suddenly, five year old Ollie calls out that he's seen the grass 'wobble' near to where he's standing on the trail.  We stop and look toward the embankment in front of which he is now standing paralysed … staring and pointing.  We see the brown leathery tail of a snake disappear into the long grass.  Once the snake has gone we realize that our hearts are racing and, collectively, we take a moment to catch our breath.  We know the potential dangers of the Australian bush.  We make sure that we stay on the trail. Even then, snakes can lie across a track basking in the sun.

Before we have recommenced our hike, we notice a  large smoky-grey object, the size of small television set, resting on a low branch only six feet off the ground, in front of us.  The object is furry.  It looks at us through beady black eyes.  Motionless.  Silent.  Ollie squeals with delight. 'A Koala!' he cries out. 'She has a joey too!' he says. 

And she does.  She's holding the joey in her left paw while her right forepaw clings to the branch of the eucalypt.  Liana, eleven years old, has a camera.  She takes a few photos.  Ten minutes later we drag her away. 'Enough photos already!' we tell her.  

Ollie insists we climb higher into the hills, where it gets 'viewier'  he says.

We continue up the path for another ten minutes.  Ollie is now bored and, as usual on our walks, he's keen to find a McDonalds for our traditional late lunch.  He refuses to walk further.  I ask his brother to help him to continue up the trail and hold his hand. 'I want mummy's hand!' he insists.  'Only mummy's hand!  No-one elses!' he stresses and refuses to move. He plonks himself down onto the dusty track.  

I walk back down to where he's sitting. 'I have the magic hand,' I joke to the others as I hold my hand out to Ollie and he gets up.  

'Ooh! Where?' he asks excitedly.  He stares at my hand; eyes wide in anticipation of 'magic'. We laugh. He hates it when we laugh at him. He walks and sulks.  But at least we're moving again.

We reach the top of the hill … and it really is 'viewier' up there!

I feel happy.  I couldn't  imagine a better moment than this … with my family in the beautiful Australian bush on such a glorious day.

A lovely way to spend my leisure-time.

                                             *

I hope everyone has a lovely week with some time to do nothing … and enjoy it.  Less work - more life.  

                                             *

I'll write a short story about leisure-time next week. 

The photo of the Koala bear in the eucalyptus tree, at the beginning of this blog, was taken by my daughter, Liana, on our walk this week.

                                                                                 *

If you found this story helpful or interesting - please share it

with others.  I hope they may find it interesting and a topic 

worth thinking about.

A word: Victimhood

                                         

Words are powerful.

Sitting quietly in a dictionary - words appear weak and inert.

Yet words are the seeds from which our thoughts and our feelings and then our actions derive and grow.  Words are potent.  Words can change the world. Words can change our lives. The words we choose can determine how we interpret and react to events and situations in which we find ourselves. 

Events do not have emotions attached to them per se.  We interpret events through the words we choose to explain them and give meaning to them in our thoughts - our 'internal dialogue'.  Our personalities also partly determine how we interact and respond to life events.  Different people will therefore see events and react  to them differently.

During our childhoods we learn many of the words we use in our internal dialogue later in our lives.  The words we choose are mostly learned.  They are not innate.  These words are determined partly by the experiences we have, in our young life, and partly from the lessons  learned from our parents, and the words they use.  

For some individuals their internal dialogue can be very negative and they can react to events in their life in a hopeless and helpless way and become, consequently, angry and depressed and resentful at the 'good fortune' others seem to have.  

These individuals may see themselves as 'victims' of life, and fate, and the perceived attitudes and behaviours of other people. Their negative thinking can become a self-fulfilling prophecy, as well.  As the saying goes: 'whatever you think your future will be - you are probably right.'  

This brings me to the subject of my blog topic this week: the word: 'victimhood'. 

I decided to look at the concept of a  'victimhood' or 'victim mentality' as I have seen the word 'victim' used so often in relation to many different people - both individuals and groups -  in newspapers and on television recently.  

These self-proclaimed 'victims'  have included 'victims' of racial discrimination, religious discrimination, gender-discrimination,  poverty and difficult childhoods.  I'm sure people could find themselves 'victims' of many other things as well.  

I might find myself a victim of 'gene-poverty' in the sense that my parents were negligent in not providing me with the genes that I feel I deserve and need to fulfill my Olympic dream in gymnastics.  Of course, Olympic glory is the only way that  I could ever be truly happy!  Feel free to pity me.  Life has treated me very unfairly. (I'm joking, of course!)

In my experience, as a doctor over the last 25 years,  I have found that  the vast majority of people never refer to themselves or see themselves as 'victims' - even when other people might see them that way and feel that they deserve the label. 

Think of Stephen Hawking (famous and successful physicist and author who is almost completely paralysed with motor neuron disease)  or Hellen Keller (author and famous speaker who became blind and deaf as a baby) or Oprah Winfrey (famous media identity and entrepreneur who is a female African-American who suffered being molested in her childhood and, after she ran away from home at 14, had a baby son who died soon after birth) or Evonne Goolagong (world number one tennis-player in the 70's and early '80s who is a female Aboriginal and  the third of eight childen in a family where her father was an itinerant sheep shearer). 

The list could just go on and on. But the point has been made. These famous and hugely successful people would likely be insulted if they were ever to have been referred to as 'victims' of their physical disabilities, or their race, or their poverty, or their gender.

Most people do not  want to be seen or spoken of as a 'victim'.  The label disempowers them and it leads to others pitying them - which is something that most people would find abhorrent and insulting. 

It is a good thing that most people never see themselves as victims.  If they did society would cease to function.  The very nature of taking on a 'victim-role' results in an individual becoming less productive, or even non-productive, in society and they are more likely to demand help from others - but not reciprocate the help in return.  People who see themselves as victims are often  angry and miserable, as well.  What kind of a world would we have if we were all proclaiming to be 'victims' of some sort?  Imagine it for a moment.  A horrible nightmare. We'd probably all starve as well and it would greatly weaken society.

So let's look at the concept of 'victim mentality'.  And later, when you read the newspaper of watch television,  see if you can identify the thinking and behaviour of the self-proclaimed 'victims'.  You'll find the words they use and their mood and their behaviour is often 'text-book', as we say in medicine. 

Also, think about all of the people with similar disabilities or similar races or similar religions or gender - who never proclaim to be 'victimised'.  Is there any difference in their situations?  Likely not.  Simply the 'non-victims'  have made a choice  to avoid the 'victim-label' and these people are generally happier and more successful and remain contributing and caring members of society.  Team-players.  Pleasant to be around.  Inspiring. 

'Victimhood' (or 'victim mentality') is an acquired (learned) trait in which a person tends to regard themself as a 'victim' of the negative actions of others - and to think, speak  and act as if that were the case even in the absence of clear evidence for it.  

This is different from 'mood disorders' related to neuroticism (anxiety and depression) or psychoticism (schizophrenia) which have a strong biological and genetic basis.

A 'victim' is anyone who experiences injury, loss, or misfortune as a result of some event or series of events.  But this experience is not enough to result in the individual developing a sense of being a 'victim'.  

To define themselves as a 'victim' the person feels that they were not only harmed but they were not responsible for the harmful act; the harm constituted an injustice which violated their rights, and they deserve sympathy. 

A 'victim mentality'  has additional features, over and above simply seeing oneself as a 'victim' of an event.  These individuals possess  a range of behaviours or ways of thinking and talking, such as:

- Blaming others for a situation that one has created oneself or significantly contributed to.  They are also unwilling to take responsibility for their own actions which have contributed to the situation and they are unwilling to take action to improve or fix it.

- Ascribe non-existent negative intentions to other people (similar to paranoia)

- Believing that other people are generally luckier or happier than they are ('Why me?)

- Gaining short-term pleasure from feeling sorry for oneself or eliciting pity from others.  They may also elicit sympathy by telling exaggerated stories about the bad deeds of other people.

People with a 'victim mentality' may be generally:

- Negative (see the 'glass half empty' - type people)

- Self-absorbed

- Defensive and hinder the collective solutions to problems, instead creating unnecessary conflict

- Black-and-white in their thinking (people are either 'good' or 'bad' with no shades of grey)

- Unadventurous (do not want to try to change and try new things to improve their situation)

- Display 'learned helplessness' - feel that they are powerless and unable to change things

- Stubborn - they tend to reject suggestions from people trying to help them and are unwilling to try to implement the ideas from others - for their own benefit.

A common outcome for people with a 'victim-mentality' is that they remain either unemployed or dissatisfied with their current employment situation.  The are often angry and miserable as well.

A 'victim mentality' has some features which are similar to something doctors know as the 'sick role'.  

The 'sick role' was a concept created by  functional sociologist, Talcott Parsons in 1951.  Parsons said that the best way to view 'illness' sociologically was to view it as a form of 'deviance'  which disturbs the social function of society.  

Being 'sick' is not simply a 'medical condition'.  It contains within itself a number of 'rights' and 'obligations'.

The 'rights' include:

- the 'sick person' is exempt from normal social roles

- the 'sick person' is not 'responsible' for their condition

The 'obligations' are:

- the 'sick person' should try to get well

- the 'sick person' should seek technically competent help and co-operate with the medical profession to get well.  AKA: 'Get back in the game' ASAP

The 'sick role' model is more directed at explaining 'short term' illnesses (such as the flu or measles) rather than chronic illnesses. Chronically ill people are encouraged to be independent.

So, the annoyance by the rest of us - toward people who persist in acting like 'victims' - in which they may withdraw from the workforce and contributing to society,  endlessly complain about their problems, and  endlessly demand help from the rest of us  - financially or in many other ways, similar to the behaviour of a  sick person while they're acutely  ill -  is that  people stuck in a 'victim mindset'  are not seen by us as being a 'legitimately ill' or deserving of the title 'victim'.  They often don't plan to 'recover' any time soon or accept the help and advice from others to overcome their negative attitudes and beliefs.

For the rest of us, we understand that life is not meant to be easy.  It is actually hard for all of us.  And I can tell you that anyone who says their life is wonderfully easy and lovely all of the time - is a liar.  Fact.  

I've been a doctor for a long time and I can say that I've never met a person who has not had problems and disappointments and sadness and illness and failure and loss and any number of difficulties in their life.  

So we could all quite reasonably claim to be 'victims' in life.  But we don't.  We just don't. 

We don't allow ourselves to 'give up' on behaving like responsible hard-working adults and adopt a 'victim mindset' to act like children - petulant and demanding and selfish and having 'tantrums' if we don't get everything the way we demand it.  As if that were our 'right'!?

Another concept that may be relevant to individuals who persist in holding onto a 'victim mentality' is something in medicine called 'secondary gain'.

Secondary gain is defined as the advantages that occur secondary to having an illness - real or just 'stated' (a 'malingerer' feigns illness to obtain the benefits related to being 'sick').

Secondary gain might include advantages, resulting from being sick, such as:

- avoiding military duty, obtaining compensation (ie litigation), obtaining drugs, avoiding a jail sentence,  avoiding many of the responsibilities associated with adulthood - working, earning money, doing the housework, taking care of the children, mowing the lawn and so on.

The secondary gain of claiming  'victimhood' can be similar to the advantages of being sick.  These advantages may be another reason that many individuals labelling themselves 'victims' are not very motivated to 'recover' and change their views and behaviour.  

Finally, another reason that people acting like 'victims' and claiming 'victim status' annoy the rest of us is related to something in psychology called 'reciprocal altruism'.

Altruism -  is the act of helping someone else although, in the process, there is some cost to our own welfare.  We put ourselves at some disadvantage by helping the other person.  For example we might give away some of our own food, or some of our money, or our time, or put our own health at risk or our safety at risk to help someone else.  

The expectation, however, associated with altruism in biology, is that the one you help may help you at a later time.

So, reciprocal altruism is a form of sharing or kindness that results in mutual benefit. To exist it requires other animals to return the favour regularly and for an animal to be able to grant a large benefit to another at a small cost to himself. Altruism is common in the animal kingdom - especially where species live in complex social structures.

This process of 'reciprocal-altruism' is generally helpful to the species as a whole.  This was likely necessary through history, especially during very difficult times like the ice-ages, when people, and other animals, needed to pull together more and support each other in order to survive.  

Problems occurs, however, when some individuals 'cheat' in this process. Cheaters take from the altruistic helpers - but do not return the favour. They exploit the system. 

It has been demonstrated, in studies in psychology, that people usually become angry and resentful when they have helped another person and the behaviour is not reciprocated at a later time.  They feel exploited and 'used'. The helper is then less likely to assist the 'cheater', or person who took advantage of them,  in the future. 

This negative reaction to 'cheaters' in the process of 'reciprocal altruism'  happens with other species.  An example is vampire bats.  

Vampire bats are nocturnal mammals who feed on the blood of larger animals while they sleep.  But food is relatively scarce and bats regularly return home to their roost hungry.  If a bat goes more than 48 hours without blood, it will begin to starve and die.

If this happens other bats will regurgitate blood into its mouth - to nurse it back to health.  For the system to work, bats that receive blood must return the favour when roles are reversed.  Systems exist, within this process, to detect 'cheats' who do not repay the favour.

This concept of 'reciprocal altruism' might help to explain why many of us are so angered and resentful of 'cheaters' in our societies - who claim  'victimhood' and, with this 'excuse,' they refuse to enter the workforce. Cheats in the process of 'reciprocal altruism' are both frustrating and infuriating for the rest of us who work hard and give to the community in our taxes, and in many other ways as well.  Then these self proclaimed 'victims' come along and just take and take -  returning nothing but bitterness and anger and resentment of us!

So, it is clear, I think, what my attitude is to individuals who claim 'victimhood' and then whine endlessly about how hard their lives are and sponge off welfare and attack the rest of us for 'causing' all of the problems in their life.  These people so often accept no responsiblity for their situation in life - they will blame anyone and everyone - except themselves, and they  refuse all genuine offers to help to them relinquish the 'victim mentality' and get back into the game of life.  

Life is hard for all of us.  It is hard.  It can be disappointing and we can be scared at times and hurt by other people and experience loss and illnesses and even abuse from others.  But, it is comforting to know that life is hard for all of us.  It is nothing personal.  That is just what life is. But that doesn't make us 'victims' or entitle us to a 'victim mentality'.

                                                                        *

Before I go, I have a little story  about  'letting go of a victim mentality'  which happened to a patient of mine.  I hope it inspires even one person to consider the benefits of choosing to avoid the word 'victim' in their own life.    

I know that I was tough and 'mean' in this blog - regarding 'victimhood'.   But I mean it as a 'tough love' type of discussion on the topic. 

A sort of 'you'll thank me later' type of talk.  

My true story is an example of when I did this kind of 'talk' for a patient of mine -  five years ago.  She recently thanked me for being tough on her back then.  She has now let go of her 'victim mentality'.  And, surprisingly, at the time she was not even consciously aware that she had adopted the label of 'victimhood' for herself.

My patient is a woman in her early 40's.  She is kind and interesting and she works hard in her work as a medical professional. I'll say no names and no other details that might identify her - of course.  Although, I think she is very proud of herself now.  And so she should be. 

I'll call my patient Jane, for the story, because that is not her name.

I met my patient for the first time eight years ago when I diagnosed and treated an early melanoma on her upper back.  Her chance of cure is at least 98%. Fantastic. But that's fortunately not the story.

When I first met her she saw herself as a victim of the poorly understood condition - 'Chronic Fatigue Syndrome'.  She'd had the condition for many years and was regularly being followed and counselled by her General Practitioner.  She was having regular blood tests and all manner of other tests and investigations and she attended GP-visits during most weeks.   She was having so much medical management -  but she continued to get worse.  

She seemed quite sad, when we first met, and she had by then reduced her consulting hours to only a couple of hours on only one day of each week.  Furthermore, she was planning to stop working entirely soon.  She has no children and nothing else to do with her time - and I presumed that she was planning to just sit at home contemplating the awfulness of her existence, while she became increasingly more depressed.

She asked me, at that time, if I could write a letter saying that due to the melanoma she could not work at all anymore.  She planned to claim a full-time disability pension - increased from her current part time pension.  

I told her that I could write her a letter stating that she had an early melanoma - but that she would require only one or two days off work for the small surgery she'd needed to remove it. Otherwise, there was absolutely no reason, relating to the melanoma, for her to stop working. I told her that I would write her the  letter after her consultation and post it to her.  

In the medical letter that I subsequently wrote for her I suggested that she was depressed and anxious and she required a psychologist to help her with that - for a limited time only.  Nothing else. I thought that she should be able to return to work reasonably soon.  

I knew that she might get angry with me and feel insulted by my opinion that she was suffering mostly from a mood disorder and she needed to see a psychologist.  But that is what I thought.  So I sent the letter. 

A few months passed, and she did return for her next three month visit, following the melanoma diagnosis. I was relieved and pleased to see her. I wondered if she would return - depending on how annoyed she was about the letter I wrote and sent to her.  

Her husband came in with her for this appointment and it seemed that he was there for one reason.  He told me that he thought that she should leave work entirely and just simply rest at home - due to her Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.  'It's all too much for her!' he insisted.  He wanted me to agree with his opinion and tell her so. 

I told him that there was no way in hell that I would advise such a thing!   I told him about my life and my stresses and the fact that I just 'get on with it.'  I push myself constantly - tired or not tired.  I have four dependent children and I work 12 hour days twice a week and another two shorter days each week in the clinic … and on I went.   

'Life rewards action' I told him.  'I think it would really good for Jane to work more hours.  Not less! I think she needs to get out of the house and get engaged in life - not retreat to her bedroom!'

My patient listened to all this.  She said nothing.  Neither did her husband. I got down off my soap box.   We continued the examination silently. All feeling a bit awkward.  I wished her luck and smiled encouragingly to her.  'Don't listen to him pushing you deeper into a 'sick role'' I thought to myself.

I continued to see Jane three monthly over the next two years, as is the protocol following a melanoma diagnosis, and then I saw her six monthly over the next six years up to our recent chat a few months ago. 

I had  noticed that over this time Jane's mood improved markedly.  She seemed more animated and happy. Her conversation was more positive and hopeful. She began to chat with me about her job and the pride she felt doing it, the patients she helped. She was increasing her hours - until she was working more days than I was.  

She also excitedly began to tell me about a group she had begun - to help people stay well and feel positive about life and help themselves.  She and her husband even had beautiful business cards for their 'wellness' clinics and talks.  My patient is kind and smart with decades of medical knowledge and experience and her classes were quickly booking out months in advance.

I most recently saw Jane a few months ago.  She was happily telling me all of her news as I examined her skin. Then she said something that shocked me.  She watched my face as she enjoyed my reaction.  

She told me that she had recently been considering her life and she thought that one of the best things that had ever happened to her in her life was getting her melanoma eight years earlier.

I was speechless.  Why?!

She explained.  

She said that it helped that I was tough on her back then - refusing to allow her to remain in a 'sick role'.  I believed in her and I knew that she was capable of so much  more in her life.  I supported and encourage her and befriended her … and she did the rest.

She said that when I gave her the diagnosis of melanoma - she was shocked to realise that she really didn't care if she died from the cancer.  She hadn't realised, before that, how depressed she had become.   The depression had insidiously crept up on her until it felt like it had consumed her soul and smothered any hope she had for happiness or enjoyment in her life.

The crisis of the melanoma and my 'kick up the bum' - figuratively speaking of course - got her back into the game of life.  She got her life back.  She shook off the depression and she climbed back out of the hole in which had been stuck.

It wasn't easy though, she said.  It took a lot of work and determination and help from other people to recover and leave her 'victim' beliefs behind. 

She learned meditation.  She learned adaptive coping-mechanisms to deal with stresses in her life.  She worked on her self esteem with a clincial Psychologist.  She joined a gym and learned to eat a healthy diet. 

And, after all of that and in time, she rediscovered herself and her life.  She rediscovered the joys of finding a life-purpose, of creating goals  - which she then achieved.  She rediscovering self respect and pride in herself and her abilities and her achievements.  

She found happiness in her life again - thanks to the crisis created by her melanoma diagnosis eight years earlier. She turned her life around.

Now she was helping other people to do that too.  She was giving back to the community.  She was reciprocating the help she had received. She was no longer a victim.

She had relinquished her 'victim mentality' which had been destoying her life. 

I was so pleased for her.  She hugged me as she left - after telling me her lovely story.  Although, now I think about it,  she had always hugged me as she left her appointments.  She was just that kind of person.  Kind.  A lovely and brave woman.

                                              *

I hope that anyone reading this finds inspiration and not just anger at the things I've said.

I meant my words to be helpful.

I hope you also realise the power of words.  Words - even in your own internal dialogue can be wonderful and helpful.  But they can also be destructive.  Words like 'victimhood'.

Life's hard!  It is. It's scary and tiring and a lot of work.  But it can be so rewarding and wonderful as well.  It is truly worth the effort that you put into it.

 A little verse that I remind myself of every so often:

May I have -

 the courage to change the things that I can change;

 the serenity to accept the the things that I can't change;

and the wisdom to know the difference.

Inspiring words ...

If you found this discussion helpful or interesting - please share it with others.  I hope they may find it interesting and a topic worth thinking about.