Images in the dark (a story of fiction)

                                                    

Lana rode her bike along the dirt road.  The countryside around her appeared dark and out of focus - as if she were viewing it through a veil of grey organza.  Her legs felt stiff and heavy - which made riding difficult.  Shadows pushed in from all around - in part created by the dense canopy of gum-trees which lined the road. 

She came to a sign-post.  It read:  'Traver's  lane.  Dead end.'  Lana found herself turning her bike to follow the sign.  She had no idea why she did this.  Yet, she felt that she must.  She pushed her legs to move.  They felt so heavy. It began to rain. A soft watery mist floated around her.  Cool drops hit her face and soaked into her shirt and her shorts and drenched her feet and sandles.  Lana strained to see in the murky darkness.   She had to get there.  Time was running out.  

She came to a  derelict  wooden cottage.  It stood up against the road behind a rusty wire-fence with a broken gate hanging from ancient hinges.  Lana got off her bike and leaned it up against the fence.  She pushed the gate forward and walked slowly toward the house.  She felt that the house was watching her.  Waiting for her. It was as if it knew that she would come.   She found herself  looking into the dark interior of the cottage - through the jagged shards of  filthy glass in a broken window. Somehow she got herself inside.  

Death.  She could feel it.  All around her.  She wasn't sure how she knew this.  But she was certain.  A ghostly dark figure passed her and moved into the kitchen at the back of the building.  Cold.  As the misty figure passed - a biting cold moved with it.  Like a blast of frigid air escaping through an opened freezer-door.  Lana shivered as she watched the ethereal figure.  It turned to look at her:  its shining black eyes penetrating into her soul from under a dark hood. It spoke softly.  Lana strained to hear:   'Lana!  You must hurry!  Almost lost …

Lana woke with a start.  Her heart was racing.  She struggled to breath.  Her lungs felt stiff.  It was as if a heavy weight was crushing down on her from above.  She managed to lift herself into a sitting position from where she could reach her ventolin puffer.  She could just distinguish its shape on her bedside table in the faint dawn light filtering through the curtains. 

She grabbed the puffer and gave herself four puffs.  Then she waited.  Her breathing would become easier in a few minutes.  The tightness in her chest would abate.  The panic rising in her gut would settle.  She'd been through this many times before.  

The doctors had labelled  Lana's asthma 'infrequent episodic'.  She didn't have chronic asthma.  She didn't need daily puffers or tablets or anything like that.  Her episodes  were generally confined  to  only two or three mild flare-ups each year, lasting for only  a couple of days. The usual triggers were either a nasty cold or extreme stress. 

Lana had noticed, recently, that a common trigger for her asthma was the nightmare involving the old house and the ghostly figure.  The dream had recurred many times in the two months since it had first started.  And, each time Lana had the dream, she noticed that the events and the details revealed became more numerous and vivid. 

She had tried to work out the dream's meaning, hoping that if she could understand what it mean then it might stop.  She'd written down everything that she could recall, on waking, over the past few weeks:  The dirt road under the canopy of gumtrees. The words on the street sign: Traver's Lane.  Dead end.   The old wooden cottage.  But none of these things were familiar to her, or held any meaning that she could think of.  She researched books which discussed 'The interpretation of symbolism in dreams.'  Unfortunately, that hadn't helped either.  

A part of Lana worried that the dream may be important, given the fact that it had been recurring with increasing frequency, and an intensifying sense of urgency and detail.  What if, she wondered, it carried with it a warning or a message.  

Alternatively, she thought, it may be just a pointless and annoying dream.  Nothing more.  Possibly it was related to memories  from a book, or an old movie from long ago.  The images and details may have been stored in her subconscious and now, for some unknown reason, the memories were resurfacing in her dreams.  

Either way, she hoped that the dream would soon stop.  She certainly had more important  things to do than worry about dreams. In her waking life - her real life - she had many real problems to deal with.

Lana could feel the effect of the ventolin starting to work.  Her breathing had become less laboured.  She felt calmer.  The heaviness in her chest was gone.  Also, to her relief, the images from the dream had now completely disappeared - evaporating like dew in the morning sun.

Lana looked about the shabby room in which she sat.  It looked and felt as empty as the rest of her life.  Her old single bed was situated in a corner of the room.  Salt-damp meant that pieces of plaster and strips of dirty white paint peeled from the walls and dropped in chunks and powder onto the stained brown carpet.  A bed-side table was cluttered and hidden under her stuff :  a black reading-lamp;  an old alarm clock;  a forgotten dog-earred novel;  a pile of  'the most urgent'  of her  unpaid bills.  

A large window was hidden behind a pair of old brown cotton curtains - held together in the centre by a peg.  The sunlight easily penetrated their flimsy fabric - making their presence virtually pointless. 

Lastly, in a corner of the room, Lana's much loved and well worn guitar rested up against a large oak wardrobe.  The wardrobe was Lana's one valuable piece of furniture.  She loved it.  She had bought it from a Salvation Army shop in town, soon after she had arrived, for only $20.  Actually, it had taken half an hour of determined haggling … and the promise of a plate of home-made biscuits … plus the $20.  But it had been well worth it.

Reflecting on her other possessions, Lana  realised that all of her furniture, and virtually all of her clothes, had been purchased at the Salvation Army shop in down-town Clare.

Lana smiled as she thought about the lovely town in which she now lived: Clare in the Clare Valley of South Australia. A wine region 136km north of the city of Adelaide.  Population: 3,278.  A one-word description of the town and its surroundings:  Beautiful.

Lana appreciated that while her one-bedroom flat may be shabby and small, the town in which the flat was situated was truly one of the most lovely places in the world in which to reside. And that, for Lana, was so much more important. 

For Lana, the Clare Valley was one of the most tranquil places she'd ever known.  The people in the town were also very nice.  Although, Lana chose not to mix with them much.  She liked to keep to herself.   The town and Lana had learned to treat each other with a polite respect … and distance.

Lana remembered when she had first come to Clare, 10 years earlier.  She'd been only 22 years old.  It was  soon after she'd left her violent and abusive boyfriend, Nathan, in Sydney.  When her 'ex' had been put into jail, for drug-related offences,  Lana had seen her opportunity to escape.  She hoped that he would never find her.

She had no family to whom she could turn.  Her mother had died when she was six years old;  she had no siblings; and her drunken father had given her to the state Welfare Services within days of her mother's death.  He couldn't cope.  Not just with her - but with life generally.  And from that time she never saw him again. He never visited her.  He never looked for her.  He never sent her so much as one birthday card or a Christmas card.  Nothing.  Not one thing.  She had hoped that he would.  She had waited and dreamed and hoped for such a long time.

But he never did come for her ...

As the years passed, Lana learned to live alone in the world.  She learned to trust only herself.  She learned not to expect anything from anyone.  And she learned, especially, not to expect that she could ever be loved.  

The remainder of Lana's childhood had been a series of foster-homes and loneliness.  

And that is how, 10 years earlier, Lana had come to live in Clare.  She had hoped to find a quiet place in which she could live simply and safely and alone.   

Soon after she arrived, she had found a casual job in a supermarket in the township of Clare.  She had been content enough in her job there over the years.  The other employees were friendly and kind… and they mostly left her to herself.  Although, more recently, the supermarket had experienced some financial problems and Lana had found the number of shifts that she'd been given, and subsequently her pay-cheque, had plummeted. 

Mounting bills, and the prospect of eviction, were becoming a real worry for her.  With only a bike for transport, and no other jobs in the town for an unskilled worker, she was sadly coming to realise that she might  soon need to consider leaving her beloved Clare Valley.

Lana felt an aching emptiness in her life, during hard times such as this, when she became painfully aware of the fact that she had no-one in the world in whom she could confide her problems.  No-one to whom she could look to for advice and support.

Shaking herself out of her sad reverie, Lana got out of bed. She looked at her alarm-clock:  It was 7am. She only had a four hour shift that day and it didn't start until 10.00am.  A slow morning for her.  

She picked up the clothes, which she'd left on the end of her bed from the previous day, and she put them on again:  a t-shirt;  khaki shorts; Roman-sandles.  She then walked into the kitchen for breakfast.  

As she passed the kitchen window, which looked out over the valley, Lana  became transfixed by the breath-taking beauty of the sunrise:  The sky had become a fire-storm of oranges and reds and pinks splashed across a vast canvas which stretched out above the green vineyards of the valley.  The low hills, on the far horizon, were still in shadow; a black silhouette shrouded still in the sooty darkness of the lingering night.  It was as if the distant hills remained quietly sleeping, while the sky and the valley had woken fully in a vibrant and lively dance of life and sunlight and colour.

The beauty of the summer mornings in the Clare valley were never lost on Lana.  She loved the place so much.  It felt, to her, like she had always belonged there.  In that moment she decided that she would go for a ride on her bike into the country-side before work.  She had plenty of time and the ride would give her a chance to think through some of her problems.  

However, she was also aware that she couldn't be late for work.  The management at the supermarket were currently looking for any excuse to sack casual staff and reduce their costs.

She grabbed an apple from the fridge; sculled down a glass of water, grabbed her bike helmet, and walked out the back door.  As she left her flat, she noticed that her back-pack which contained her ventolin puffer, her purse, and her phone was still sitting on a kitchen cupboard.  She wondered if she might need them.  Although, she considered, she wouldn't be going far, as she needed to get to work soon, and the bag would be one more nuisance to carry.  So, with that, she left it on the cupboard, and closed the kitchen door behind her.

The morning was beautiful and cool.  The burning heat of the day had not yet taken hold.  Lana enjoyed riding her bike, a 12-speed alloy-frame men's racer, either early in the morning or late in the evening.  The roads were, at that time,  the most quiet and she could best listen to the natural sounds of the bush,  breath in the crisp clear air of the valley, and enjoy her own solitude.  She could think.   

Lana rode her bike often along the roads and trails in the Clare Valley and the surrounding districts.  She would usually not stick to the same old roads and routes, but instead she liked to explore random paths and trails which would take her to so many wonderful places:  romantic ruins of abandoned settler's cottages;  beautiful views from hill-tops over villages and vineyards;  secret nooks alongside creeks under tall shady trees where she might enjoy a lovely picnic-for-one; wooded areas; and, of course, the beautiful Australian bush. 

She had been riding for about an hour when she became aware of an eerie sense of deja-vu. She found herself riding along a dirt road, which seemed quite familiar to her, although she couldn't remember ever having ridden there before. The sun was well up in the sky, by this time, but the road was relatively dark, densely shaded, as it was, by a thick mass of eucalypt branches arching overhead, and the dense bush alongside the road.

Lana enjoyed the cool air under the shady trees. Beyond the forrest, in the more open areas of the countryside, the day was already beginning to feel uncomfortably hot.  

She soon came to a sign-post at a junction in the road.  The writing on the sign was unclear until she rode directly up to it.  Reading the words Lana almost fell off her bike.  The blood drained form her face and she felt her heart race and her hands become clammy and cold.  

The sign read:  Traver's lane.

Lana now knew why she had felt a sense of deja-vu as she travelled along the dirt road in this shadowy place.  It was just like the images in the darkness of her dream!  However, in her dream the sign-post had also read :  Dead end.  This sign only read:  Traver's lane.  There was nothing about a 'dead end'.  She wondered what that might mean.  

Still, she knew that she must ride her bike down the lane.  Not out of curiosity.  It was more than that.  It was something she just knew.   Like pulling your hand out of a flame, or off a burning hot-plate.  No-one needs to tell you to do this.  Instinctively … you just know. 

She steered her bike off the main road and started down the dirt lane.  The path was dark under a thick canopy of gum trees, as it had been on the previous road.  Masses of circadas, in the surrounding bush, created an almost deafening  drone.  Birds, hidden by dense foliage, chirped at intervals, as did the mocking cries from kookaburras.   

She rounded a bend in the road and, not completely unexpectedly, she  came to a derelict wooden cottage; similar to the one in her dream. 

The bush seemed to have suddenly grown quiet, as she stopped and looked at the broken and isolated building.  As she stood watching it from the road she became aware of a faint high-pitched cry emanating from within the house.  It sounded like the cry from kitten.  Lana wondered if a kitten may be trapped inside.  She wondered if it might also be hurt or starving.

She got off her bike and wheeled it over to the wire fence at the front of the property.  She rested the bike against the fence, and then walked to a rusted and broken front-gate. She pushed it open and walked through.  The high pitched squeals from within the house grew louder the closer she came to the building.  

She called out:  'Is anyone here?' 

Silence followed.

Lana climbed the two wooden steps onto the decayed and broken verandah.  She knocked at the splintered front-door.  Again there was no response.

'Hello! Hello!  Is anyone home?' Lana called out as loudly as she could.  

She walked from the door to a window at the front of the house and, leaning against the dirty glass, she peered in.  The room within was very dark.  Squinting, Lana could just make out the interior.  It appeared to be completely empty. 

Returning to the front door she gripped the door-handle, turned the knob, and pushed as hard as she could.  It wouldn't budge.  She knew that she must get into the house. If there was a kitten inside, it sounded like it needed her help.  She couldn't just leave it there.

She walked around  the entire perimeter of the house.  There was no sign that anyone lived there - or even visited anymore.  She checked the back door.  It wouldn't open.  She tried to open each of the windows.  They were all jammed shut.  

Yet the cries from within the house seemed to be growing louder.  

Lana's gaze scanned the surrounding area.  She noticed a  large plank of wood lying near to her.  She picked it up and walked over to the window closest to where she stood.  She closed her eyes, lifted the heavy plank high above her head, and she smashed it through the glass.  The window exploded into thousands of tiny shards of glass which blew outwards in every direction.

Lana felt some of the glass fragments hit her in the face and on her arms.  Her heart pounded.  She couldn't feel the pain - even though she now saw the blood dripping down her arms, and  she felt  the sticky warmth of blood running down her cheeks and her brow.  If only she had worn her jeans and a jumper, she thought.  

She cleared the rest of the glass from the window frame, with the wooden plank, and then she managed to climb inside.  

The interior of the house was dark and cold.  Her eyes took a few minutes to adjust to the gloom.  The house smelt musty and stale.  Rat-dropping covered much of the floor, which consisted of broken, water-stained wooden boards.  Cob-webs hung from every corner, and from the ceiling.  The room was empty - except for a couple of beer cans which Lana noticed lying on the floor in a corner of the room.  The cans appeared to be new and, as such, Lana realised that someone must have recently put them there.   

She stood still and listened again.  She could hear that the high-pitched whimpering noise was coming from a room near to the back of the house.  She walked carefully along the broken floor-boards towards the sound. 

The room in which Lana found herself was a kitchen.  As she entered she could see more empty beer cans, and a pile of cigarette butts littering a central wooden table.  Her eyes scanned the room.  She noticed that all of the cupboard doors were either wide open or sitting slightly ajar.  However, one cupboard door had been securely latched and it was from behind this door that the crying seemed to be emanating.  

Standing so close now, Lana was amazed that she'd been able to hear any cries at all from out on the road.  The whimpering sounds were actually extremely quiet and infrequent.  She couldn't understand how she could have possibly heard them standing more than a couple of meters from the cupboard.

Carefully, she unlatched the door and slowly opened it.  If there was a kitten inside, she knew that it might be wild and its claws could be sharp and potentially dangerous.  She was mindful, as well, that she had already inflicted many cuts on her body while getting into the house.  She didn't want to risk too many more injuries - especially as she was far from the township,  and she had no phone.  

As the cupboard-door opened, a pair of shining black eyes looked out at Lana from  the pitch darkness within.  She continued to open the door further - in growing increments until, eventually, the door stood wide open and the entire contents of the cupboard was revealed in the sunlight which flooded in. 

Confusion hit Lana like an punch in the face.  She hadn't been prepared for what she now saw.  She fell backwards onto the floorboards … Stunned …  She brought her hands to her gaping mouth and gasped in horror.  

The source of the cries had not been a kitten.  The cries and the wimpers had been made by a very small child.  Possibly only two or three years of age.  He was bloodied and near to death! 

His black eyes were dull and tired.  He continued to whimper but he could hardly lift his limbs or move his little body which was clad in filthy rags.  His skin was infected and bleeding in many places.  The skin lesions were likely related to injuries: cigarette burns, cuts and possibly rat bites.  Lana could see that the cupboard was full of rat droppings and there were small holes which appeared to have been gnawed through the wood. 

The child's limbs were as thin as pencils, covered with bruises, and his bones protruded such that he had the appearance of a skeleton draped in opaque plastic cling-wrap.  His dark eyes were sunken, and his lips were cracked and crusted in a chalky white powder - like dried plaster.  Lana could see that the child was severely dehydrated. 

He could barely move.  He continued to whimper quietly within the cupboard - which would have soon become his tomb.

'Hello, darling,' she spoke gently to the little face watching her.  'My name's Lana.  Do you have a name?'

The child remained silent.  But, with Lana's gentle voice and her smiles, she could see the fear in his eyes diminish a little.

'I'll help you out of there, dear.'  Lana spoke quietly and slowly.  She held her hand out to the child and together they managed to release him from his deadly cage.  She held the filthy and wasted child close to her warm body.  He was so cold and he felt so fragile.  She stroked his  soft dark hair, and she kissed his little forehead.

'My dear darling boy.'  She spoke softly into his ear.  'You'll be OK.  You're safe now. I'll look after you.'

It suddenly occurred to Lana that whoever had put this battered child into the cupboard could return at any time to check on him - and possibly to  bury him.  She also knew that if they did return then they would likely kill both her and the boy.  Clearly, she was a witness to the attempted murder of the child, and to his abuse.

Lana carefully picked up the small child and she carried him to the back door.  She lifted the latch on the door and, much to her relief, she managed to open it and take the boy from the house.

She could feel a tightness in her chest.  Her asthma was flaring up again.  The stress …

   

It began to rain. Lana looked up and noticed, for the first time, the dark and stormy clouds which now filled the sky.  She hadn't noticed the change in the weather on her ride out.  Although, she had noticed how dark it had become as she rode through the dense bushland.

She lifted the child onto her bike-seat, and then she sat on the seat next to him.  She tied him against her body, using his torn jumper as a type of rope, then knotted the arms of the jumper behind her back.  She then put his head to one side so that he could more easily breath.  She made him as snug and as safe as she could.  And, in this manner, she managed to ride slowly back toward the township.  

Her wet sandles squelched as she rode, and the wind blew the rain hard into her skin such that it felt like needles were being thrown at her - sharp and stinging.  Riding through the driving rain also made it difficult to see where she was going - which was especially a problem as she was uncertain about the path back into town.  

Lana, pushed herself to keep cycling.  She knew that she must get the child to a hospital.  Her legs and arms were bloodied from the broken glass in the window-frame, and her chest felt like it was being crushed in a vice.  Struggling to breath made it harder to work her limbs, which felt stiff and heavy, and she felt her body becoming consumed by tiredness.   

'Please, help me mum!'  Lana whispered into the emptiness of the bush around her. 

She knew no-one else, in her life, from whom she had ever felt that she could ask for help.  And with no phone to call for an ambulance, and no ventolin puffer with her during the asthma attack, she knew that she was now in serious trouble.  

She could imagine both herself and this battered child dying alone out in the bush.  No-one would likely find them, or even look for them, for days or possibly weeks. 

She imagined her mother's face as she trudged on through the rain and her own exhaustion.  She could vaguely remember her mother's appearance.  She recalled a smiling and kind face.  Dark brown eyes, like her own.  Blond hair.  She recalled her only in glimpses. Her mother had been sick with cancer and then, when Lana was only six, she had died.  

However, unlike her father, who had left her through choice, her mother did not choose to leave her.  The cancer had taken her away.  And that was very different. Lana felt that her mother had loved her.  She hoped that she had.  She was the only person in Lana's entire life who had ever loved her.

'Mum!' she spoke quietly again, as she struggled to breath. 'Mum, I need your help.  I can't do this alone.  I need you.  I need someone to help me.

At that moment Lana felt that she was not alone.  From that moment she felt that she was not travelling alone on her bike with the child.  Her legs were still tired and she still struggled to breath - but it felt like she was  being carried along on her bike.  As if a strong tail wind was pushing her now.  But there was no wind or even a breeze anymore.  

The rain eased to a sprinkle and Lana managed to ride back into the township of Clare supported… somehow.  Yet, like everything that had happened on that day, including the strange dream that preceded all of the events, Lana couldn't explain any of it.  And she would never even try to.

The red brick of the public-hospital in Clare came into view.  Lana managed to ride her bike to the Emergency entrance and stagger, holding the child, to the triage desk.  She then untied the little boy, who was still bound to her by the torn jumper, and she gently placed him onto a leather lounge in the waiting room.  Then, with all the strength that she could muster, Lana took the deepest breath that she could and she called out for a nurse to help the child.  Although, in reality, barely a whisper escaped her blue lips.  

She then slumped to the floor … and stopped breathing.

'Hurry up, Finn!' Lana called out to her little boy playing on his trampoline in the backyard.  'I'm playing my guitar at the Clare hotel tonight and you're coming with daddy to help with the band.  Dad says he'll let you play his drums tonight.'  

The seven year old child threw himself off the trampoline and he landed with a thump on the soft grass.  'You beauty!' he cried as he sprinted across the lawn and into the house. 

She smiled as she watched his strong little body running across the yard.  He'd made such a marvellous recovery from when she'd found him in the cupboard of the derelict house four years earlier.  His parents had long ago been convicted of 'attempted murder' and they were now in jail, where they would stay for a very long time.  Fortunately, Finn couldn't really remember them.  And he would never need to see them again.

Lana realised that while she had saved Finn on that day, he had saved her as well.  

Loving him had taught her what it meant to love and be loved.  The social workers had been wonderful in arranging everything so that she could foster Finn initially, and, more recently, she had been able to adopt him.

She closed the sliding door into the backyard.  Long ago she had left the job in the supermarket, and followed her real passion, which was music.  She loved playing her guitar in the pubs and cafes of the Clare valley and the surrounding districts.  Her husband, David, often came with her to play the drums with her band.  Although, as one of the country doctors in the area, he couldn't always attend.  Especially if he was on-call to the hospital.

Lana watched her dear husband making dinner in the kitchen.  He was cooking with Finn.  He only knew how to cook one dish: chicken stir-fry.  Luckily he was a more skilled doctor than he was a cook.  

David had been in the Emergency department on the day that Lana had brought Finn into the hospital near to death.  She had then collapsed to the floor with a life-threatening asthma attack.   David had 'got her back', as he put it, from the worst asthma attack that she'd ever had.  She'd suffered a 'respiratory arrest'.  She'd subsequently needed to stay in the Clare hospital for a few days, in order to stabilise her condition.  And in that time she had got to know David.  

Amazingly, he'd been in the town for at least as long as she'd been there - but she'd never met him.  Then again, that had been before she'd learned to trust people.  She now had many friends in the town.  They had always been there, just waiting for her to feel ready to let them into her life.  And then many of them had gone on to become her dearest friends.

Lana patted her growing belly.  When the baby arrived she was sure that she would  get to make even more friends in the Clare community.  Finn was so looking forward to becoming a brother.  He was such a darling little boy too.  She knew that he would make a lovely big brother.

She turned and allowed herself one last look at her beautiful Clare valley before she would need to rush off and finish getting ready for her gig at the hotel.  Her heart had always belonged to this place.  

She thought back once more to the night after she had rescued Finn when she had almost died.  On that night she had experienced one last strange dream.  In the dream she saw her mother's face again. It was a beautiful face and it was just as she had remembered it - only more vivid and radiant.  Her mother had smiled at her and sent her love somehow.  She had then spoken gently and warmly.  Lana could still hear her voice and remember her words.  

She had said: 'Lana, things will get better for you now dear.  I love you and I am always with you …'

Lana looked out across the valley.  She admired the way the golden light of the setting-sun cast long shadows across the valley: across the vineyards, and the poplar trees, and the majestic gums. 

She smiled.  Her mother had been right.

                                     The End

My short story this week was inspired by an amazing story in our Australian newspapers during the week. 

The events of the story happened last Sunday in a Sydney suburb.  An 18 year old girl and her father had been riding their bikes along a busy road when they decided to stop for some reason.  It was then that they heard what sounded like a kitten trapped down a storm-water drain on the side of the road nearby.

They got off their bikes and peered down into the dark cavernous interior of the drain.  And then, to their amazement, they saw a tiny newborn baby crying softly over 2 meters below on a concrete floor.  The baby was still wrapped in a hospital blanket.

The police were called and the 200kg concrete slab blocking access to the baby was lifted off the drain.  The baby was then retrieved and miraculously he was still alive.

Even more amazingly, it transpired that his 30 year old mother had thrown him down into the drain to die (more than 2 meters) five days earlier - on the day that he was born!  

So the newborn baby had somehow survived 5 days of day-time heat, night-time cold, 5 days with no nutrition, 5 days with no fluid ... and a fractured skull!

Even the doctors called this a miracle.  A wonderful and happy miracle.

Some miracles cannot be explained.  Eight years working in Paediatrics and 26 years as a doctor tells me that this baby should have died in this setting.  Like the other doctors - I cannot explain this 'miraculous' outcome.

The baby's birth mother was found and she has been charged with 'attempted murder'. Apparently she had told no-one in her home about the pregnancy, and she had split with the baby's father - who may not have known about the baby either.  

She'd apparently hoped to simply throw the annoying pest of child away - and carry on as if he'd never existed.

The child survived ... somehow.

Social media - a potential 'Pandora's box'

In classical Greek mythology, Pandora was the first woman on Earth.  On her wedding day she was given a beautiful jar with instructions not to open it.  However, filled with curiosity she did open the jar and when she did all the evil contained therein escaped and spread over the earth.  She quickly closed the container - but the whole contents had escaped, except for one thing that lay in the bottom - the spirit of hope.  

Today the phrase 'to open Pandora's box'  (a jar in the story) means to perform an action that may seem small and innocent, but that turns out to have severely detrimental and far-reaching consequences.

Yesterday I opened my own 'Pandora's box' with the click of a few keys on my laptop.  At the time it was an impulsive decision to act  following a passing thought which happened to  float through my mind while I was on the computer.

Reacting impulsively to fleeting arbitrary thoughts can be dangerous.  

Especially for me.  

I have a tendency to quickly act  on impulsive decisions - before I change my mind! 

Most people - wisely - do the opposite.   They think carefully.  They consider consequences.  They weigh up the pros and the cons of their decisions.  They let their ideas brew for a few hours - or even a few days - or even longer - before they make their final decision.  They don't give in so quickly to temptation or curiosity.  

I should do that more!  I really should.  But I don't ...

I consider myself a 'grab-and-go shopper or 'doer' - in this case.  I rush in.  I think later.  If I'm shopping - I don't scout around and consider my purchases and look for the best price or debate whether or not I really need a 'belly-button-warmer' or that 'pet rock'.  I find one - of whatever it is. I grab it.  I go buy it.  I think later - or - I don't reflect at all.

  

I regret at my leisure. Sometimes.  Other times it  works really well for me.    What if I change my mind and it turned out to be the last 'one-of-whatever' the shop ever stock?  Or it turns out to be something really fun!?  Or the opportunity passes and it never returns? What if I miss out - because I over-analysed the situation?! 

On the other hand - 'fools rush in …'    

And 'rushing in and then regretting it' is what I did yesterday - foolishly.  And it wasn't the first time.  Actually, it's probably the second time - on my computer.  

I've stopped counting when it comes to regrets about rash decisions off the computer.  But that is a story for another time.

So yesterday, within minutes of my computer screen responding to the few little innocent commands I impulsively plugged in - I regretted my decision!  A lot!  A really really lot!  With some decisions there is no going back …  

Within minutes of my computer flashing a response to my key-strokes - I felt awful and depressed and terribly upset.  Within minutes I wished that I had never opened the files that I did.  My day became a horrible nightmare.  I had difficulty functioning for the entire day.  I found it hard to sleep last night and finally, thanks to getting busy at work today and chatting to my lovely patients - as I do everyday at work - I have only just begun to feel better. 

Yet, I think it will take me a while to more completely recover - from my experience on social media yesterday.

Social media can do that to you … sometimes.  It can be a Pandora's box.

What did I foolishly do?  Let me explain:

Firstly, however, some back story - to put into perspective what happened.

My back story  all started twenty-six years ago.  The day I left my childhood home.  

For many young people aged 22 years - leaving home might be an exciting time where one's family come and see your new house or flat.  

One's mother might tearfully hug you and fill a lovely vase (a 'housewarming gift' maybe) with colourful flowers.  She might put a few 'home-cooked meals' in tupper-ware containers into your fridge.  'Eat well, dear,' she might say.  'And I want you to come home every week to visit us and I'll cook you a  nice meal.'

One's father might look around and see that you're safe.  He might check that the  doors can be securely locked.  He might look outside and check that you'll be safe getting  from your car into the house after a  late shift at work.  He'll look for 'good lighting' and all that. He might remind you that he is only a phone-call away should you need your car checked or something heavy lifted.

Well, that was not the case for me. Not even nearly!  Not even remotely!

Leaving home for me, 26 years ago, at the age of 22, was done in the way a woman leaving a domestic violence situation might leave.  

I had planned my exit in detail and a long way ahead of time:  A safe house had been arranged weeks earlier.  I had arranged a $10,000 bank-loan  to support myself while I finished my last year of Medical school.  That money was now sitting in a secret bank account that I had opened. 

My lovely boyfriend, David (now my dear husband of 25 years), had arranged time off work to help me get my possessions packed up quickly and keep me safe while I got myself out of my parent's house.  Finally.

I  had arranged to leave while my parents were at work.  On the morning that I finally left that 'horrible house', as it would forevermore be referred to by me, I'd gone to university, as usual.  My parents, similarly, had left for work, as usual.  However, later in the morning, I had returned to the house with David.  We had two cars - so that we wouldn't need to make a return trip to the house. I did not want to return and accidentally be confronted by them.  

My exit was a skillfull and fast affair.  We got in. We threw some of my clothes and my books and my university-folders into a few green plastic garbage bags.  And we got out.  Fast.  

Fifteen minutes is all it took for me to pack up my few possessions - and get the hell out of there.  

I was so scared that my terrifying parents would come home during the process of my leaving. 

My heart was racing as I packed my things.  I was so vigilant -  listening nervously for any car that might pull into the drive way. I kept my eyes on a clock … constantly. I couldn't even begin to relax until I had driven some distance from the house.  My mind was racing.  

And even then, when I had moved into my elderly aunt's house - where I stayed and paid for my keep for the next 18 months until I married David -  I still had nightmares every night for an entire year.   

My elderly aunt told me later that every night I  would call out in my sleep and sometimes cry.  She said that she could hear my bed banging on the wooden floor as I tossed about during my terrible nightmares.  Finally, after a year, the bad dreams became less frequent.  Now, I rarely have them.

I do recall some of those dreams.  They are often based on traumatic events which actually happened during my childhood and my youth.  In my nightmares I often felt like I would be killed.  So, I presume that must have been my fear in real life at the time. 

For example, in one recurring dream my father chases me down a road to bash me, as he actually did when I was around 14 years old.  But in my dream he carries a gun - which he didn't actually own in real-life.  

During the first 12  months after I moved out of my parent's house,  I also recall that my hair fell out in handfuls.  It was a difficult time emotionally.

Looking back,  I find it interesting to consider the way that during  'war-like'  experiences of violence and horror - one's brain copes by playing down, to an extent, the dangers and the trauma - so that a person can survive and continue to function.  Feelings are often buried such that one may feel almost numb to emotions during that time. 

However, once safety is found and the screaming and violence and the dangers subside - then the nightmares and the emotions often come to the surface again, buried as they may have been before, and a person may seemingly 'drop their bundle', as part of their recovery. They may seem to 'fall apart' a bit, emotionally, before they can review and reframe the things that have happened to them and around them.

It can be a sort of 'darkest before the dawn' situation.  It can feel initially, like it gets harder before it begins to heal and get better. 

And for anyone reading this now - who may be currently in a violent abusive situation - it can get better.  But only if you make the changes you need to and arrange to get out!  You must get away to safety - but you will need to plan and get help first.  Any other changes and councelling or whatever can follow later.  But getting to safety must be the initial priority - if violence is involved.  Safety first.

Also,  when I say 'abuse' - this could include other situations of abuse, other than child-abuse.  Situations such as  domestic violence or even bullying - in school or in the work-place.

To get out from an abusive situation a victim of abuse needs to, firstly, be accurate about the label - 'abuse'. You need to call the situation what it is: 'Abuse'.  Not just say that someone has a 'bit of a bad temper' or they are simply being 'mean'.  

I always say in medicine: 'Half of any treatment is making the correct diagnosis'.  If the diagnosis is wrong then the treatment will be wrong.  

A doctor must therefore think very carefully about medical situations and be extremely accurate with the his/her word choices and labels - to avoid misdiagnoses and poor outcomes for patients. 

Similarly, with abuse, you won't appreciate how serious and potentially dangerous a situation is - if you don't accurately label violence, of any sort, as 'abuse'.  

That is - don't 'misdiagnose' the situation you're in!

Don't 'down-play' it.  Abuse escalates.  You can't placate an abuser.  They almost always get worse.  I have seen not only deaths in children, in child-abuse cases, but also terrible injuries: children with brain damage resulting in - blindness, retardation, quadraplegia, hemiplegia, paraplegia, multiple fractured bones …  These things are heart-breaking to see.

Obviously, I have seen similar terrible injuries in domestic violence situations  as well - and in other violent relationships or situations as well. All of these situations can be very dangerous. And in many cases poor outcomes can be prevented if the victim can get to safety soon enough.

It is never  OK for a human being to be hit or physically attacked or belittled or called names or made to feel bad about themselves.  To attack a person in such a way is not simply someone having a 'bad-temper' or being 'mean'.  It's abuse.  Don't make excuses for them! You deserve better!  

I could have got out of my violent house sooner.  My older sister continuously ran away from home and she was put in foster care from the age of about 14.  She never came home again.

I did go to the police, after my father bashed me at about 18 years of age.  I then took him to court and I got a restraining order against him.  Following that, in my case, while my father did continue to be verbally and emotionally abusive to me - he never hit me again.  Even though this was a bad situation, I thought, at the time,  that while I wasn't being hit I would stay in that house until I finished Medical school.  

However, if my father had hit me again or if I had felt unsafe  then I  would have left university, delayed getting my Medical degree, and got out of that dangerous environment  immediately.

I don't know, in hindsight, if staying in that environment while I finished my degree was the right decision.  But it's what I did. 

I never returned to my parent's house, after I escaped from it at the age of 22, except for a brief time, many years later, when I attempted briefly and unsuccessfully to reconcile with my parents and siblings.  

Typical of abusive families, when I confronted my parents as an adult in my early thirties, they did what most abusive parents do: they denied my accusations about physical, verbal and emotional abuse; told me that I was exaggerating; and said that what did happen was all my fault.

A wonderful book I read on the topic of recovering, as an adult, from child abuse was:  Toxic Parents: Overcoming Their Hurtful Legacy and Reclaiming Your Life.  It is written by Dr Susan Forward.  It has been a number one New York times best seller and more than one million copies have been published.  I think that says something about the prevalence of abused children and recovering adults in society.  It has been estimated in Australia the numbers of abused children (physical, emotional, neglect, verbal and/or sexual) is at least 20%.  

It is worth mentioning here that one of the hallmarks of growing up in a frightening household is that children often think that they are the only ones in such circumstances.  Even when they reach adulthood and realise that many other people had very troubled childhoods - they may still not reveal the details of their abuse to anyone.  This imposes a profound isolation on people which can be very painful and destructive.

Also, typically, and predicted in the books I had read as an adult about abusive families, when an adult-child confronts abusive parents - the other siblings in these dysfunctional families often resent the upset to the status quo created by the victim identifying the 'elephant in the room' - which is the abuse.  The other siblings may become so angry with the 'whistle-blower' adult-victim that they dissociate from the victim making the accusations. They may stop contacting and speaking to the adult victim and thus socially isolate him/her from the family.

This is what happened to me.  For the last 15 years, since I confronted my parents about the childhood abuse, I have been banished from all family events and cut-off from any further communication with any of them: my parents and my two siblings.  I will almost certainly be disinherited as well.  

My siblings are welcome to the few million dollars that my parents will bequeath to them - unless, of course, my parents wish to torment their children one last time, for old-time sake, and they leave all their money to a local 'cats-home'. And they don't even like cats that much!   But, fortunately, none of that is of any concern to me now.   

And the fact that none of my old family speak to me or visit me anymore is absolutely fine with me.  It is more than fine.  It has been bloody fantastic! Smashing! Liberating! Wonderful! 

I have lived a lovely adult life free and safe from my horrible early years in my abusive childhood and in that 'horrible house.'  

With my old family gone from my life -  most of the bad memories and nightmares have gone too.  Also with them, away from my current life and back into my distant past, has gone:  The sadness.  The frustration and anger that abusive people can just 'get away' with what they do to other people - sometimes.  They can remain oblivious and uncaring about  the damage they've done.  They may be happy and  successful in their later lives and even admired by people outside of the family who have no idea what monsters they might be behind closed doors. 

But that is not something I dwell on.  I just don't.  I have chosen to leave the past in the past.  Distance myself from those times and start over in a happy adult life.

I have forgiven my family in the sense that I don't wish them any harm, and I don't seek vengeance, and I don't actually think about them at all - mostly.  I just wish them to remain far away from me.  Forever.  

I have  my own 'new family' now.  A family that love me and I love them:  David and our four children.  I have also been blessed with a number of lovely, kind and dear friends as well.  Friends that I have had for most of my life - decades.

It is worth acknowledging that only very rarely can abusive parents be rehabilitated.

Nor will they ever (or rarely) give their children validation for the abuse they suffered at their hands.  

And almost never will an abused adult-child receive the healthy parent-child relationship they long for.

An understanding of this will save many adult survivors of child abuse a lot of angst and a lot of wasted time trying to make their abusive parents change or understand the effects of their past behaviour.  It will save adult survivors of abuse a lot of painful disappointment to know this.

One of my patients told me a sad story recently.  She said that she had been estranged from her abusive parents for many years.  She had, however, enjoyed a happy adult life and she felt much reward doing volunteer work, in addition to her paid work, as she could help other people and give to them the love and support which she couldn't give or receive from her parents. 

She had given to herself, and to the people she helped, what her parents never could - love and acceptance.

She told me that her mother had died this year, but, before she died, her mother had asked to see my patient one last time.  

Dutifully, and hopeful of some lovely warm closure with her mother before she died, my kind patient went to see her mother.  She sat next to her dying mother's bed and she held her mothers hand.  Her mother looked into her eyes and her last words to my patient were: 'I have one regret in my life,' she whispered. 'My regret is that I ever gave birth to you!'  

Soon after this she died.  These were the last words that she ever spoke to her grieving daughter.  A final act of abuse on her sweet daughter who had trusted her mother and come to see her when she had called.  Needless to say my patient told me that she was very hurt by what her mother had said to her.  She wiped tears from her eyes as she told me this story.  

I wrapped my arm around my patient's hunched shoulders and I told her what a lovely person she was and she deserved better than that. 

Psychologists say that it is worse to return to abusive parents than it is to distance yourself - as you will always be at risk of being open to re-abuse.  Just as in a domestic violence situation - with a victim returning to a previously abusive partner.  The pathways that a parent carves in you as a child can easily be accessed by them again - because these are your weak spots.

Abraham Lincoln, the 16th president of the United States, had an abusive father.  Sadly, his mother died when he was only nine years old.  When Lincoln left home, after working on his father's dirt farm into his early 20's, he never returned again.  During his father's final illness - Lincoln ignored his father's letters.  Finally, he wrote to his step-bother: 

'Say to him that if we could meet now, it is doubtful whether it would be more pleasant than painful.'  

Lincoln didn't attend his father's funeral.

Psychologists have written that people who push survivors of abuse to reconcile with aging parents fail to take into account the potential psychological cost of reconnecting, of dredging up painful memories, and reviving destructive patterns.

Which finally brings me back to my original comments about  the 'Pandora's box' which  I opened through social media yesterday:

On a whim, yesterday morning, while 'surfing the net' - (a term my children tell me is so passe - but I'm middle aged - so I'll use it!) - it suddently occurred to me: 'What ever happened to my brother?  Why don't I just Google his name and find out  …'  

So, at that moment, as I impulsively punched away at a few keys on my laptop  - suddenly there he was!  After 15 years of not seeing him or thinking about him - there he was!  Just like that.

Then I did the same for my sister and my nephew (my sister's son). 

Recent pictures of these people popped up on my screen; recent wedding photos and details of their lives (although of course no-one speaks to me - thank God! - so I hadn't been invited to anything).  

These people from my sad past - who I had pushed away from my current happy adult life - all smiling at the camera.  Looking right at me - from these recent photos.

If not for social media -  I would never have seen these people again.  Not for the rest of my life.  Their memories would have faded away and the only pale memories that I would retain would be of my siblings and parents when we were all younger  - so many years ago. Vague dull pictures that couldn't hurt me so much.  Distant times. So far away from me now. 

Time and distance would have insulated me from the hurt and horror of that time.

Yet, with all these recent photos on social media - and the  blurbs about these people's  lives - on my screen after the push of a few keys - before I can rethink whether I want to do this  …  Suddenly, all of the horrible memories and feelings hit me like a punch in the head.  I felt overwhelmed with sadness.

I wasn't ready for the impact of all of that information about these people. Recent things.  Recent photos.  It was as if they were all suddenly standing right there in front of me.  Here.  In my new life. It was as if they had suddenly infiltrated my safe and happy world - which until that moment had felt so far away from them and protected.

My horrible memories came screaming back from the dark recesses of my mind - where they had been safely shoved away as if in a rusty old filing cabinet in a dark corner of an old attic I choose never to visit.  With a few clicks of the keyboard that world returned: in awful crystal-clear focus.   

And, as if that wasn't bad enough, they were all  bragging about their amazing lives - as people typically do on social media platforms these days.  

Apparently all of my 'old family' are incredibly brilliant managers of major companies or senior super-dooper delux-managers of incredibly important and high up government departments.  

Managers are a big thing in my family, apparently.  Lots of 'bossing people about'.  Well, actually, that's not so surprising … now that I think about it.

No-one is just a sales-man in a shop who eats a cut lunch of vegemite sandwiches and an apple everyday and takes a yearly holiday to local Victor Harbour.

My 'old family', according to their social-media narratives, dine in  posh restaurants and travel to places like South America for holidays and they lecture at universities … They can out-shine anyone - anywhere - anyplace.  So there!  Beat that!  And did I mention that they're all managers! 

Oh, and they are blissfully happy and rich as well and all of their friends think they are wonderful and incredibly smart!!?

My best friend (we've been best friends since we were 12 years old) said to me recently that a problem she found with social media - like 'facebook' - is that people brag so much on it!  

If everything these people said was true - then no-one in the world would be average. They'd all be incredibly successful, endless happy, have perfect children and perfect partners and perfect high-flying careers ... and lives. They'd never clean out the toilet, argue with teens about home-work or a messy bedroom, or worry about their weight or the budget or getting older ...

When I walk around the streets and shops and in my life as a doctor with a clinic, which I share with my husband, of 20,000 patients - I've never met anyone who in real-life has a life even remotely resembling the stuff bragged about on social media.  These supposedly perfect lives - conveniently omitting all of the negative stuff and exaggerating any good things in their lives! 

My dear friend told me that she made the mistake (the pandora's box of social media - like me) of looking up people she knew at primary school and high school.  

She laughed when she told me that at first she felt like a total failure in comparison to these 'reportedly' rich and endlessly happy and successful high fliers - when she read about all the glamorous holidays they seemed to constantly be flitting off to;  the wealth they all apparently had; the amazing and brilliant families and children and careers they all had.  A lot were also 'managers'.  

No-ones a just a 'janitor' these days.  They all now have names like 'effluent redistribution engineer-manager'??!!  

A rose by any other name ...

My dear best friend said that it was only when she actually remembered who these people actually were  and she'd seen them recently at the local supermarket - all just as average and mostly ho-hum like the rest of us - that she was able to laugh at the pretentiousness of it all. 

And then she felt better about herself - as well.  

These people were all pretty average - just like her - and me - and the rest of us all.  They had their ups and downs and work was just work - no matter what 'senior super-dooper special-agent manager' title you want to throw on it.  Social media is filled with a lot one 'one up-manship' and bragging and lying by omission.

I have read that this is another trap of social media.  

It was noted by Pauline Wiessner PhD, an anthropologist at the university of Utah who has studied social networks, that people on social media are 'always showing their best side'.  The electronic representations and 'friendships' make it easy for people to misrepresent themselves. Exaggerate.  Inflate.  List all the exciting things they have done for 2% of their time and skip over the 98% of their time doing the mundane same-old stuff we all deal with everyday: worries, work, weight, wealth(lack of), whatever... 

The stuff we all deal with in the 'real world' - but never 'share' on social media.

Without all the drudgery and problems which I know, as doctor over the last 25 years, that  everyone lives through - reading profiles put up by people on social media about themselves can make the rest of us feel completely inadequate, boring and awful.

So, yesterday after accidentally reawakening many awful memories from my past - which I had mostly been able to bury and ignore for the last 15 years - I suffered through my day and last night and some of today - feeling really really sad and upset.  

I also felt like a complete loser compared to all the wonderfully impressive senior super-dooper managers of 'global companies' and 'government departments' in my estranged family members.  And their amazing glamorous lives?!

I would have preferred that - like Cinderella's ugly step-sisters and mean step-mother, or evil kings and villains - my estranged family members who had been abusive and unkind to me - lived miserable lives filled with remorse and dull jobs and miserable stuff … well like in fairy tales.  

It took a while for my head to get around the fact that many people who abuse others just carry on in their happy lives oblivious to the hurt they have done.  They may have a very long and fun-filled life and never pay any price for their abuse.

But then I realised that these people  were not my problem.  I have so much to be thankful for in my life.  I won't dwell on them and their lives.  I have moved on.  I will not go back.  I should never have 'looked them up.'  It was a mistake.

I also now understand that  experiencing the abuse that I did in my childhood taught me a number of lessons:  

- It taught me about compassion for other people, which has helped me as a doctor to my patients.  

- It taught me to appreciate all the lovely people in my life now. I don't take them for granted. I know that I am so lucky to have them to share my life with.  

- It taught me to appreciate the  peace and safety which I enjoy in my life now.

And I couldn't really ask for more than that.

I have closed the social-media pandora's box which I opened without thinking about  consequences yesterday.

  

The bad memories are already beginning to fade away again.  

I will not ever re-open that 'social-media door' to the horrible parts of my past. I'll be less impulsive and more careful in the future.  I'll think more carefully about who I really want to let into my life now.  Even if it is only memories and photos of people I won't  meet personally.  I realise that even  images of those people and details about them and their lives can  dredge up really painful memories.

Lastly, to finish my blog this week, a lovely thought  from the classical Greek mythology:   ' … In the bottom of Pandora's box was the spirit of hope.'  

Hope in Psychology has two features.  It is the idea that bad times don't last forever.  And bad times are not pervasive - which means that even though one area of your life may be not good - other areas may be lovely.  There is usually something nice to be found in all of our lives - at any given moment.

During my abusive childhood - I can think of loving people I knew and lovely times I had - which occurred in other areas of my life - constantly.  There was never a time when the sun didn't shine on some part of my life  - even when the clouds were grey at my home then.

Hope: A lovely idea to finish on.   In any Pandora's box - there will be hope as well.

Take care - and I hope everyone has a lovely week.

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