j. The best laid plans.

When I was young, in my teens and twenties, I had one major priority in my life which eclipsed everything else: Academia.

My identity, which developed during my mid-teens, consisted almost exclusively of achieving academic goals: High grades in high-school; graduation from Medical School; post-grad study to become a specialist ... and from there my future goals carried on endlessly to more academic goals - Professor; Department Head; author of numerous academic publications in medical journals … and so it went on and on … into some hazy distant place which was never clear. I couldn’t picture an ‘end-point’ to my study and work. I had no idea when I would be able to tell myself: ‘That’s enough!’

Thinking about my future was exhausting. It was entirely composed of work.  Where did fun and happiness fit in? No-where. But still, my ‘goals’ seemed so important.

I decided that I would push myself whether I liked it or not. Nothing else mattered. If I got married and had children, well, those things would be fitted in around my academic path. The major theme of my life would always be academia and career.

So, I passed each one of my early goals:  I graduated top of my high-school; then I graduated from medical school; then I began post-grad training in paediatrics. It was all going to plan.

Along the way I met a nice man, David - a fellow-doctor - and we got married when I was 24. Although, I very nearly missed out on marrying him because initially I thought that dating would ‘get in the way’ of my more important academic goals. It was my best friend, Jenny, who convinced me to create some ‘balance’ in my life and make a bit of time for David. Thankfully, I listened to her. Previously, I’d assumed that I would only date after I’d achieved all of my study and career goals. However, Jenny told me that ‘life’ doesn’t necessarily follow the script that I write. It happens … when it does … and opportunities, once lost, may never come along again. No matter how I think that I can ‘plan’ my life. So, if I loved being with David, she said, make him a priority and give him some time now.
 
David and I had a simple wedding. An elaborate ceremony was never a goal of mine. I just arranged our wedding over four weeks while I was at work completing my intern year: I booked the bridal car after admitting a patient from Casualty. I ordered the flower bouquets after a morning ward-round. And, on a Saturday afternoon a week before our ‘big day,’ I dropped into a dress shop - on my way home from work - and bought a long champagne-colour dress I saw hanging on a rack outside. It was an evening dress rather than a wedding dress. But, I thought: ‘That’ll do! It looks close enough to a bridal gown.’ It only cost around $100 and I didn’t have time to keep shopping.

The night before my wedding, I worked a late shift at the hospital until almost midnight; and, on the Monday, after my Saturday wedding, I was back at work at 8am. David and I had no time for a honeymoon. But that was never a goal of mine either.

A few years later, during my mid-late 20’s - while working 60 - 70 hour each week as a Paediatric registrar, and studying every hour at home when I wasn’t sleeping - I became increasingly aware of how unhappy I was. I began to hear a voice in my head repeatedly saying: ‘I’m dying inside.’ The same words - over and over - presumably from my subconscious … trying to get my attention.

I ignored it.

Gradually, the voice in my head grew louder repeating the phrase, ‘I’m dying inside,’ more forcefully and more frequently until I found myself voicing the words aloud sometimes. I’d be walking along the hospital corridors, or up a stairwell, and I’d find myself saying softly, ‘I’m dying inside.’

Still, I ignored it.

My misery must have shown on my face, however. I thought that I was hiding it so well: I smiled and diligently went about my hectic life so conscientiously. Yet, in hindsight, the only person that I was fooling was myself because even strangers could see my unhappiness: They regularly approached me, in the hospital corridors or on the wards, and said: ‘Don’t worry. It might never happen.’

I ignored all of it.

Maybe the universe was trying to get my attention. I know that my subconscious was! But, I wouldn’t listen. I refused to listen because I knew that I had to finish the academic path I had planned for myself. I just had to!

I thought that if I tried harder - worked harder - passed my specialty exams … and all the other milestones on the path I’d planned … then I would be happy and content and feel ‘good enough’.

However, when I was 28 years old - one year before I sat my specialty exams - two strange things happened which marked the beginning of an entirely new path for my future:

Firstly, I developed an intense ‘desire’ to become a mother. It happened almost overnight. I’d never thought about babies or becoming a mother when I was younger. I’d always thought what a nuisance it would be to my academic goals. I planned to put off having babies - if I ever had them - for as long as possible. (Actually, to be honest, I never gave the idea of motherhood much thought at all; the way you don’t give much thought to what life will be like when you’re 80. You hope that you’ll get to that point in your life one day - but it’s nothing you consider in detail now.)

Even as a child I’d never been particularly ‘motherly’ in my nature. I've been told that I was kind to other people, and I was generous with my possessions. But, I never played with dolls. My mother told me that one Christmas she bought me an expensive baby-doll with beautifully detailed clothes and all the baby paraphernalia (bottles, crib, stroller, and so on). I was four at the time and, when she got up on Christmas morning, I had a face like thunder and I was dragging the doll around the house by the hair grumbling: ‘Look what he “brung” me!’ I was close to tears and I never played with the doll. Instead, I climbed trees, rode my skateboard and my bike, and I played a lot of sport. I just never liked the ‘girl-y’ things like dolls and ‘baby stuff’. 

But now, at 28 years of age, the desire to be a mum hit me all of a sudden, like a powerful wave pushing me forward to motherhood whether it ‘fitted’ my career plans or not. Although, I still desperately wanted to continue along my academic and high-status career path. So, I was torn. The two paths conflicted and a choice on priorities had to be made: Which was the more important?


The second thing that happened around this time was that I began to have the same two recurring nightmares. They were very upsetting and I would wake from them confused and shaken. You see, in the dreams I was either trying to ‘murder’ someone or someone else was trying to murder me.

Let me explain:

The first recurring bad dream involved me standing on a river bank under shady willow trees. The scene is tranquil with a gently flowing river, fields of green surround me, and I’m standing on a grassy bank throwing apples into the water. I wear an apron around my waist and I’ve scooped up the hem on it to create a pouch in which I hold the apples. Then, one by one, I throw the apples into the water and I watch them drift away.

Suddenly, in my dream, a young woman runs towards me and tries to push me off a nearby bottomless ravine. I begin to fall, but just before I disappear into oblivion I grab her ankle and I call out: ‘If I go … you go too!’

I then wake - upset and confused.

The second recurring bad dream is set in a sunny holiday resort. I’m having so much fun playing volleyball in a pool with lots of other young people. We’re laughing and it’s colourful and warm and I’m so happy. Then I notice a studious young woman wearing glasses and black clothes; she’s walking across the plaza carrying a pile of text books en route to study somewhere in the resort. I get out of the pool and follow her. I know that I must kill her. I have a syringe filled with poison and, once I’m alone with her in an elevator, I try to inject her arm with it. However, I can’t kill her. She won’t die. I’m upset and shocked by the fact that I would want to ‘kill’ anyone!

Then, again, I wake - upset and confused.

The dreams both recurred for many months until I discovered what they meant. Once I understood them and I found a solution to the dilemma they presented me … I never had either of them again.

The way I worked out what they meant was by asking my husband, David.  He loves psychology and he’s read many books on ‘dream symbolism’.

David told me that in dreams we rarely use dialogue. Instead we understand issues and situations by either just ‘knowing’ them (the idea or message just comes into our head without words) or the message is delivered via symbols. The symbols tend to be the same for all of us and this is how dream dictionaries can help you ‘interpret’ the meanings behind your dreams. Often our dreams are a link to our subconscious which may be trying to sort out a dilemma in our lives or help us to solve problems we have - whether we are consciously aware of the problems or not.

Also, in relation to this, psychological studies have shown that the subconscious mind is unable to make 'plans'.  Plans can only be formulated in the conscious mind.

So the subconscious mind - when it knows that we have a dilemma or problem in our lives which needs sorting out - nags us with recurring thoughts about it, or recurrent dreams - until we make a definite 'plan' for what we'll do about it with specifics like time, place, and opportunity. 

Once the plan is formed, the subconscious mind stops reminding the conscious mind. So, the recurrent dreams and nagging thoughts about the 'issue' stop.

In my situation with my recurrent bad dreams, David explained them to me in this way (mainly from the symbolism):

Firstly, he reassured me that I’m not actually a homicidal psychopath. That was a relief. I had me worried! The ‘killing’ in my dreams represented my subconscious desire to ‘rid’ myself of my ‘shadow’.

When you dream about a ‘same-sex’ person about the same age as yourself - that often represents your ‘shadow’ self: the less dominant part of your own personality. So, if someone is mostly quiet and shy in their waking life - their ‘shadow self’ might be more out-going and wish to sing karaoke or become an actor. The ‘shadow’ part of their personality may present to them in their dreams. Understanding this aspect of themselves might help the person find some way to fulfill that other part of themselves: they could take singing lessons or act in small local drama productions.

For me, at that time, I was living a very academic, career-driven life.  However, my ‘shadow’ self was quite maternal and just wanted to have fun, muck about a little, and enjoy life; so in one of my bad dreams that part of my self - my ‘shadow’ - wanted to ‘kill’ the academic part of me. 

In the second recurring dream, my academic self - throwing apples into the river (fruit in dreams is symbolic of off-spring and, interestingly, mine were held in an apron over my waist - like babies in a womb; and a ‘river’ is symbolic of ‘time passing’) was symbolically ‘throwing away’ the option in my life of choosing to have a child. Time was moving by and I was throwing away the option of motherhood.  My ‘maternal self’ wanted to throw my ‘academic self’ off a cliff. Although, my words as I fell - ‘If I go, you go too’ - is now obvious.  My shadow (maternal self) is a part of me, just as my then dominant self (academic self) is the other part. So I can never completely ‘kill off’ either part of myself. They are joined. I am both of them - although, one part always ‘dominates’ the other at any period of time during my life.

Once I understood my nightmares, I knew that my subconscious was trying to resolve the conflict between my two desires: ‘academia and a high-flying career’ vs ‘motherhood’ which would preclude such a time-consuming academic life (unless I hired a nanny and allowed someone else to do more of the ‘mothering’ for me. This is always an option for some women, of course).

I considered my two options - the two different paths - and I made a plan to resolve my dilemma:

I would sit my Paediatric exams only once. (The pass rate for specialty exams is very low and some people try over and over again for many years before they pass; and some never pass).  If I didn’t pass the specialty exams after one single attempt - then I would give up, become a General Practitioner, and try to start my family immediately.  If, however, I passed my written exam, then I would delay motherhood for a further six months, while I studied for the clinical part to the paediatric exams (the final part of my specialty examinations) and then I would try to start a family. 

Either way, my two solutions to my dilemma would only delay motherhood for less than a year. I had decided not to delay motherhood until I finished all of my specialty training (which would include a further three years of ‘advanced training’ after the exams) because in another four years I would be in my mid-30’s and fertility might be an issue. Also, I really wanted to have children soon.



So, as it happened earlier in my life, I passed each one of my new goals:

I passed my specialty exams - written and clinical.  I then had my first baby before continuing on to complete the ‘advanced’ specialty training.

And, that where all my ‘good’ plans unravelled again, which reminds me of a joke I heard once:

Q. ‘How do you make God laugh?’
A. ‘Tell him your plans!’
 
Well, God must have been laughing at me.  All those detailed plans I had made for myself when I was young - which all seemed so terribly important - academia and becoming a specialist - they would never happen for me. Almost nothing I planned for my life, when I was young, happened the way I thought it should.

Instead, ‘real life’ stepped in and changed me along with all of my priorities.  Maybe that is an example of ‘destiny’ (if you believe in destiny).  Some things happen the way they’re meant to happen.  We have some choices - but other things just happen as they are going to - whether we like it or not.

I had my first baby at 30. And, from the moment when I first held her ... my head stopped dictating my life path ... and ever since then I have allowed my heart to guide me.

Becoming a mother has brought me so many wonderful things.  Some things I’ve discussed in previous blogs and other things I’ll discuss in future blogs.  But, basically, motherhood brought into clear focus an ‘end point'. A destination where I could be happy - which had never been clear in the plans I made when I was young.  My final 'goal' had always been unclear. Maybe, my subconscious knew that the path I was planning - back then - was wrong for me.

‘Happiness’, for me, always meant that I’d find love, self-acceptance, a positive self esteem, and I’d feel ‘good enough.’ That’s what I thought the lofty academic achievements and the high status job would bring me. I thought they were necessary for my success because when I made my early plans the only positive quality I had identified in myself was intelligence. I saw, back then, little else of any value in myself.

However, with my new path - which life pushed me along - my children and my husband, David, have taught me that I was always ‘good enough’.  Like Dorothy in the story The Wizard of Oz, I always had the power to find happiness, because the path to happiness was an 'internal' journal:  One of 'self discovery'. And no academic titles, awards, or accolades would have ever led me to true happiness and contentment. 

Academia is fun and I’ll always love to learn and study and work as a doctor - but my ‘dominant self’, I now realise - is living in my role as a mother.
 
Now that I think about it - in my dreams it was always my maternal ‘shadow self’ that wanted to get rid of the then ‘dominant academic self’. The mother in me finally won. I'm glad.

These days I never hear a voice in my head repeating the phrase: ‘I’m dying inside.’ And no-one ever approaches me anymore and says, ‘Don’t worry! It might never happen.’

My family and my friends helped me to find my path and my destiny and my authentic self. Oh, and my dreams helped as well - once I learned what they meant.


                                      *         *          *

i. My grandmother’s journal (non-fiction) - Pt 9

The world became a cold and miserable place for Hilda after she received the telegram on Wednesday 10th January, 1945. The words typed on the neatly folded paper extinguished the sunshine in her life and left her to languish in a deep pit of darkness and despair:

Ronny, her only son, aged just 20, was missing; presumed dead. 

His plane had not returned from night operations on Monday 8th January, 1945. He had been flying, in his role as navigator with the Royal Air force, off the coast of Britain in the final months of World War II, and it was thought that his plane had ditched into the sea. His body, and those of the rest of the air-crew on board, had been lost with the plane.

After she received the news, Hilda suffered a mild stroke. She collapsed to the ground, still holding the telegram, as she stood on the front-porch. She regained consciousness a short time later and a local doctor, summoned to assess her, diagnosed the stroke - her first at only 48 years of age - and advised her to rest in bed for the remainder of the week.

Hilda’s husband, Fred, took time off work to look after her. No-one else was available to do it. Her eldest child, Dorothy, 23 years of age, was away nursing in Melbourne; and her youngest child, Anne, was away at an aunt’s house spending time, during the summer holidays, with her cousins. Anne was also just 11 years of age - too young to take care of her sick mother.

Hilda had no other family or friends who could care for her.  Her beloved father, Nils, had died a few years earlier. Her cold and distant mother was now frail and elderly and living in the country town of Bow Hill - a distance requiring many hours of travel by train. Hilda also knew that she could never rely on her mother for anything. Her twin brother, Walter, also lived in Bow Hill yet, while he remained very close to her and he visited frequently when he came to the city, he had a family to support and he couldn’t leave his post as a country police sergeant. Finally, her older sister, Annie, lived in Wellington, New Zealand, and Hilda would never ask her to travel to all the way to Australia to look after her. Annie also had little money, working as a high-school teacher with her teacher-husband, and Hilda didn’t want to upset her.

Fred, however, rose to the challenge as he always did in a crisis. Over the years he and Hilda had developed a mutual respect for each other and some degree of friendship and fondness. Hilda knew that if she ever needed help, Fred would always be there for her. She had seen this quality in him from the beginning, when they had first met almost 25 years earlier. And since then he had demonstrated his reliability time and again.

So it was that every morning, in the days that followed, Fred brought Hilda breakfast in bed: a cup of tea, a plate of buttered toast with jam, and a vase of freshly picked summer flowers all presently neatly on a breakfast tray. He also cooked all the meals and did all the housework - including scrubbing the clothes in the wash-shed and ironing them.

Furthermore, in spite of his own grief, Fred tried very hard to cheer Hilda with conversation. Hilda appreciated his efforts. She knew that discussing anything other than the most necessary and practical of topics was difficult for him. Normally he kept to himself and remained silent: reading the newspaper alone; going to the football on Saturdays alone; and generally mixing with the rest of the family as little as possible. But now he was trying to chat to her about general topics: stories he’d heard on the radio, events happening in the neighbourhood, and even novels he’d read or ideas about gardening. And with all of his efforts to help her, Hilda felt her heart soften towards him.

A couple of days later, when Hilda was feeling a little better and the daily home-visits by the doctor confirmed improvement in her medical condition, Fred took a morning train to his sister Flo’s house to bring Anne home.

Hilda and Fred had discussed how and when they would let the rest of the family know about Ronny. They had decided that Anne should be told as soon as possible - before she heard from anyone else. That way they could tell her in their own way and as gently as possible.

So, Anne returned home with her father in the early afternoon on Friday of the same week. Hilda had managed to dress herself and walk to the kitchen where she could welcome her daughter without raising suspicion about her ill health. As she sat waiting she struggled to decide what she would say to Anne.

Hilda knew that Anne was completely devoted to her older brother. She wrote to him every week, and he to her. They had been unusually close even before Ronny went away to fight. Anne would follow after him everywhere and - partly related to the fact that her own father hardly spoke to her and never took her on any outings - her brother, nine years her senior, filled the role of both brother and, to some extent, father as well.

Every evening, after Ronny came home from work, Anne would wait for him at the bus stop. Together they would then walk home, talking and laughing all the way. And then, after Ronny left to join the RAF in Britain, they had written to each other every week and sent love for each other in Hilda’s letters as well. 

Hilda knew that whatever explanation she gave to Anne, she could never leave her languishing in the agony of uncertainty in which she was left to suffer: Ronny was ‘missing’. The situation of her son ‘missing’ left her in an emotional no-man’s land - somewhere between hope and grief until either he returned or his body was found. She would never inflict such a torment on her daughter. 

Sitting at the kitchen table with her cup of tea, Hilda heard the back door slam shut and Anne skip into the passage the way she used to when she came home with Ronny in the past.

‘Mum! I’m home!’ Anne’s cheerful voice echoed through the still dark house.  Hilda had closed the blinds.  The sunshine was too bright and she couldn’t bare to look out at the street and her neighbours. She tried desperately to stop her tears and sound cheerful.

‘I’m in the kitchen, darling.’

Anne ran to her mother and hugged her. ‘I’m so glad I’m home, Mum. It was so boring at Aunty Flo’s. My cousins wouldn’t play with me. They ran away and hid. I sat behind the shed half the time and I missed you so much! I’m so glad you got me early!’

Hilda wrapped her arms around her daughter’s slim frame. Her left arm felt heavy and stiff after the stroke, but she used all of her strength to hide the awkwardness of her movements. She squeezed her lids tightly to stop the tears; yet they ran freely down her cheeks. ‘I missed you too, darling,’ she said as she turned her face so Anne couldn’t see her tears. She stood up and walked to the stove, as if to put on the kettle, discretely wiping her face with her handkerchief while she faced the wall.

‘Have you got a letter from Ronny, Mum? I wrote to him. I wrote him a new letter everyday at Aunty Flo’s. I was just … so … bored! Do you think I should post them all together or - ‘

Hilda took a breath and spoke the words she’d practised over and over during the course of the morning:

‘Darling, I have some news.’ Hilda returned to the table and sat down. ‘Sit down and I’ll explain.’ Anne pulled out a kitchen chair and sat next to her mother. She looked into her mother’s face and her expression changed to one of concern. Hilda continued, ‘Ronny is on a secret mission, dear, and he can’t write to us for a while … and we can’t write to him either.’

‘What kind of secret mission?!’

‘We don’t know much about it because it’s secret, dear. But it’s for the war effort … I got a telegram on Wednesday explaining it to us. Your brother is being very brave to volunteer for the mission. But … although he loves us and he misses us … he can’t write to us for a while. Not until the mission is over.’

‘How long will he be on the mission, Mum?’ Anne appeared near to tears.  Hilda took her hands and held them firmly.

‘We don’t know yet dear. It might be a long time. Many months, maybe. And we can’t tell anyone about the mission, Anne. Because it’s secret. It’s very secret. You can’t tell anyone about this and I think we shouldn’t even talk about Ronny any more. Not to other people … and not even at home. I think we shouldn’t say his name any more.’ Hilda released her daughter’s hands and turned away. The tears were flowing freely down her cheeks and dripping from her jaw. She got up from the table and walked back to the stove.

‘Why? Why can’t we talk about him at home?!’ Anne voice was shrill. ‘That doesn’t even make sense, Mum! What difference to his mission does talking about him at home make?! Why can’t we - ‘

‘We just can’t, Anne!’ Hilda wiped her face with her palms and took a deep breath. She turned and walked back to her daughter who was now glaring at her. She put her arm around her shoulders and added gently, ‘You mustn’t argue with me about this, dear. I know it’s hard. We love him so much. We miss him … I know.’

Hilda suddenly felt very tired. She thought her legs might give out from under her and her head began to ache. She knew that she could say no more without crying uncontrollably - so she kissed her daughter’s forehead then walked slowly from the room and back to her bedroom where she closed the door and locked it.

The room was dark. Like all the rooms in the house since the telegram came she’d kept the blinds drawn day and night. The bed remained unmade. She walked across the room and lay down, her face buried in the pillow, and she cried. As quietly as she could, she cried until sleep finally brought her some relief from her pain. 

Anne knocked on the bedroom door during the afternoon and called out to her … but Hilda couldn’t answer. She wished that she could sleep and never have to wake up.


                                                *

 

The months passed by and Fred returned to his routine at work in the factory and in the pie-cart two nights each week; Anne returned to school after the summer holidays finished; and Dorothy returned to Adelaide, after completing her midwifery course in Melbourne. Dorothy stayed at the nurses’ home, in Ayers House, near to the Royal Adelaide Hospital on North Terrace but came home each weekend to visit her family.

Hilda returned to her own routine of cooking, cleaning, washing … and existing. She lived for news about her son, although no news came. The postman would come and go each day with no letters of any importance.

She tried - but couldn’t - reconcile the concept of ‘missing’.

Intellectually, she knew that to be ‘missing’ was not an uncommon situation for airmen when their planes failed to return or when their planes were know to have crashed.

But emotionally ...

Coming to terms with the situation emotionally … is where Hilda was having such difficulty. She wondered every day how likely it was that Ronny was still alive. Would it be wrong to lose hope and grieve his death? And, if she couldn’t grieve, then was it realistic to hope that he was still alive? Maybe she should neither grieve nor hope. But, if neither … then what?!

The thoughts went around and around in her head. She could find no answer.  There was none.

The faint hope that her son was still alive haunted her every hour of every day. If he was alive, she wondered, then where was he? Had he been taken prisoner? Was he being treated badly? Had he been injured? Did he have brain damage and, maybe … amnesia? Maybe if he had amnesia … he couldn’t remember who he was or who to contact to come home … and maybe someone was taking care of him.

Hilda knew that there had been stories reported where missing airmen had returned.  They might have been the only ones to escape their plane-crash. Sometimes it took them months to return home because they had great distances to travel. Or they were stranded behind enemy lines, or taken prisoner of war. It was all possible.

But the uncertainty was agonising. It was a slow torture. Her grief was of a pathological kind where she could never reach a conclusion of ‘acceptance’. Instead, she remained stuck in the intermediate stages of grief: sadness, denial, anger and bargaining.

Hilda bargained with God on the many afternoons when she would lock herself in the darkness of her bedroom crying: she begged God to take her life and let her son live. She begged God to let her die to be with her son again - if he was dead. Mostly she begged God to bring her son home again.

She felt like she was going mad.

At other times she allowed herself to remember Ronny as he was before he had left to fight: His smiling green eyes; his intelligence and sense of humour; his fair skin and auburn hair. He looked so much like his father, Fred - tall with an athletic frame - but he was so much like her dear father, Nils, in his ways: warm, funny, clever, and kind. She recalled the many afternoons and evenings when she and Ronny would chat in the kitchen over a cup of tea, or by the fireside in the evenings - discussing such a vast array of wonderfully interesting and amusing topics. Just as she had done so many years before with her father.  Now both were gone.  The two men she loved most in the world - Ronny and her father, Nils … gone.

The seasons passed and the grief weighed down on Hilda like a great heavy shroud. She could only see darkness in the world and she felt so guilty to be alive when her son - and so many others - had lost their lives in the war. She felt guilty for letting herself remain depressed. She knew it was selfish and cowardly and weak … but she had no idea how to recover.

Doctors were only just beginning to understand some vague notion of ‘psychiatry’ at this time - but they had no idea how to treat mental illnesses like depression. Hilda had visited her doctor and simply been reassured that she’d recover ‘with time’. She knew that her doctor would help her if he could. He just didn’t know how any more than she did. She didn’t need to be put in a Mental asylum. She’d read that some doctors were performing procedures to help depressed patients - such a brain-lobotomies and electro-convulsive therapy.  Dorothy had told her about the latest treatments for depression. But they all seemed too drastic and dangerous for Hilda. Unfortunatley, there were no medicines available yet which could relieve the symptoms of depression and, Hilda thought, her depression was reactive.  The reason for her depression - the fact Ronny was missing and his death was uncertain - could not be ‘fixed’ with any medicine or surgery. Until Ronny’s body was found or he returned, she knew that nothing could make her pain go away. 

So she continued to exist in her life - working in a cold dark fog relieved - at intervals - only by sleep.

Eventually, on Tuesday May 8th 1945, news came through on the radio and in the newspapers that the Allies had defeated Germany in Europe. After five years and eight months of war, the fighting in Europe was over. The Germans had signed an unconditional surrender and the day was proclaimed to be Victory In Europe Day or VE Day. 

Hilda smiled as she heard the excitement and celebrations in London broadcast on the radio. The celebrations in Australia were more subdued as most Australian soldiers were still fighting the Japanese in the Pacific and, for Australians, the most serious and threatening theatre of war was against the Japanese in the Pacific.  That war was not yet over.

However, a few months later, on Thursday August 16th 1945, the news that Australia and the rest of the world had been waiting for finally came:  The Japanese had unconditionally surrendered and the war in the Pacific was also over.  The day was proclaimed Victory in the Pacific Day, or VP Day.

The Second World War was finally over. The Allies had won and the world could finally begin to focus on recovery, rebuilding, and peace.

Finally, in November 1945, more important news arrived. This time the news was not reported in the newspapers or on the radio.  This time the news was of a more personal nature and it came in a small white envelope which Hilda found amongst other mail in the letterbox.

It was the news Hilda had been waiting for since the awful summer day, almost a year earlier, when the telegram had come and destroyed her life.

Hilda looked down at the envelope. It was typed and marked: RAAF. Her hands shook and she began to cry as she carried it into the house and placed it on the kitchen table. She stood back and looked it lying there. It terrified her.

Finally, after a few minutes, she sat down at the table and wiped her tears with the palms of her hands. Taking a deep breath she ripped the envelope open and extracted the single white sheet of paper.  She unfolded it and forced herself to read the neatly typed words:

The Secretary, Casualty Section, Department of Air, Australia.

Dear Madam
It is with deep regret that I inform you that the death of your son, Flying officer Ronald Walter Mitchell, has now been presumed for official purposes to have occurred on the 8th January, 1945 …

Hilda threw the letter to the floor. She slumped onto the table, her arms supporting her forehead, and she cried. The grey fog which had shrouded her world over the past 10 months closed in around her and like a shadowy dagger it dug deep into her heart. She felt a part of her soul die. Yet still - the letter didn’t confirm her son’s death as his body had not been found. It probably never would be found - and there remained the uncertainty and the anguish.

The months following the end of the war turned to years. Anne finished primary school and started high school. Dorothy continued with her nursing and her many nursing certificates. Fred mostly kept to himself with work, his books, and his solitary trips to the football. Hilda did the housework, prepared the meals … and felt like a ghost in her own life. She felt closer to the dead than the living. She felt numb to experiences. She had become lost in her life; missing like her son.

Then, on a Thursday morning in the first week of June, 1947, something unexpected happened which drastically changed Hilda’s life forever.

It began when Anne woke up with a low grade fever, a cough, and a runny nose. This was not unusual for Anne. Since she developed bronchiectasis as a baby, she was always more prone to chest infections. Her health had greatly improved after the lung lobectomy, when she was five, but Hilda was always very careful with her colds. And she caught more colds than most people: five or six each year while most people suffer with only two or three.

Hilda suggested that Anne should take the day off school. Often Anne needed a week or two at home to recover from each of her colds. Hilda also increased Anne’s postural drainage chest physiotherapy from daily to twice daily, tucked Anne into bed, and she made her a lovely pot of vegetable broth.

Yet, Anne never got to eat the broth. Hilda checked on her every hour during the morning and she was concerned to see that Anne’s condition was rapidly deteriorated. By lunch time Anne had begun to vomit and her breathing had become laboured. Hilda took her temperature and found that it was 104 Fahrenheit.

Hilda had worked as a nurse with Dr Violet Plummer in her younger years, before she got married, and she suspected that Anne might have developed pneumonia. Although, she’d never seen anyone deteriorate so quickly.

At midday, Hilda ran to her neighbours house to use the telephone.  She phoned for an ambulance to take Anne to the Adelaide Children’s Hospital. Then she ran home again and wrote a note to her husband, Fred, to let him know where she and Anne were so he could meet them at the hospital after work.

Anne was assessed by the doctors in the casualty department on her arrival.   A diagnosis of bilateral lobar pneumonia with septicemia was made and Anne was transferred to the wards.

Hilda was ushered out while the doctors gathered around Anne’s bed and began to insert intravenous lines and put up bags of saline and otherwise administer treatments and investigative apparatus.

‘You may as well get a cup of tea, Mrs Mitchell,’ one of the nurses suggested as she walked with Hilda to the corridor. ‘You know the way. Anne’s been here at the hospital many times before. We’ll take good care of her while you’re gone. You brought her in quickly and that should make all the difference now.’

Hilda was unable to speak.  She had no idea what would happen next.  She’d never seen Anne become so ill or deteriorate so quickly.

‘Give us an hour and then come back,’ the nurse continued. ‘If you could come back at around 2 o’clock we should have finished getting things sorted for her. You can sit with her then. You can stay as long as you like. The usual visiting hours don’t apply when children are very ill.’

The nurse patted Hilda on the arm and smiled at her weakly. She then turned and walked back to Anne’s bed where the doctors and nurses were busy working.

Hilda returned exactly one hour later. She sat next to Anne on the only available chair. Anne had tubes in her arms connected to bags of liquid hanging from metal stands. She was sleeping with an oxygen mask over her face and she was gasping for breath at regular intervals. Hilda put her hand through the bed railing and gently held her daughter’s hand. It was hot and clammy,  with a weak racing pulse. Hilda dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief.

Anne had been placed in a single room off from the main ward.  Hilda assumed this was because she was infective. The room was white and drab with a single window looking out onto the street below. A clock above Anne’s bed ticked away the seconds to an uncertain future.

‘Mrs Mitchell!’ A male voice interrupted Hilda’s thoughts.

Hilda looked up to see a middle aged man wearing a white coat with a stethascope around his neck. The name badge on his coat indicated that he was a paediatric consultant. ‘Doctor, how is she?’ Hilda asked abruptly. ‘Will she be OK?’

The paediatrician stood at the end of the bed and picked up the medical chart lying on a table beside him. He looked at it for a moment before speaking again.

‘I’ll be frank with you, Mrs Mitchell. Your daughter is very ill. She has a particularly aggressive form of bacterial pneumonia with septicemia. It was lucky that you brought her in so quickly.’

He put the chart down and continued. ‘If this was two years ago … then she would have had virtually no chance of surviving this illness. But now … we have a new medicine which was developed during the war by a team at Oxford University in England. The team leader, Howard Florey, is actually from Adelaide. The medicine is an ‘antibiotic’ called penicillin. You may have read about it in the newspapers.  It was used on soldiers with severe infections during the war and it’s extremely effective.

‘So, she’ll be OK then?’ Hilda asked nervously.

‘Her only hope is the antibiotic and the fact that she’s a real fighter. She’s proven that already with all she’s been through with the bronchiectasis. But … right now … she is very seriously ill. Things are not looking good.’ Hilda gasped. Her hands were shaking and she clenched them together nervously. ‘If she makes it through the night then she will almost certainly survive. But … I won’t give you false hope Mrs Mitchell. The chance that your daughter will survive the night … well from her chart and how she’s so far responded to the antibiotics …’ The doctor paused and cleared his throat. He seemed to be thinking. He took a deep breath and continued, ‘Well, I think her chance of surviving the night are … less than 50 percent.’

He walked around the bed and gently placed his arm on Hilda’s shoulder. ‘You can sit here beside her for as long as you like. You can sleep in this chair if you wish. Or you could go home and if you leave a contact telephone number with us - even a neighbour’s telephone number if you don’t have a telephone … we’ll call if there are any changes.’

‘I’ll stay thank you doctor,’ Hilda quickly replied. ‘If you don’t mind, I’ll stay.’
                     
Anne’s condition remained critical all through the night: She struggled for breath; her temperature spiked to above 104 F; and when she woke for short periods of time she was delirious.  Hilda sat beside her watching her and holding her hand. During the evening, Fred visited with Dorothy and they both stayed for a few hours sitting silently beside Anne’s bed. Fred  brought Hilda’s warm coat for her as well as a ham sandwich and a flask of tea.

The hours dragged along measured by the incessant ticking of the clock on the wall. Hilda walked to the window, at intervals, to stretch her legs and to stay awake. She looked out into the darkness. As she stood gazing at the quiet dark street, she remembered similar nights during the war and the blackout when she would sit on the front verandar, in her dressing gown, holding Ronny’s most recent letter. She recalled looking up into the starry sky and wondering what her son was doing at that moment on the other side of the world: Was he flying? Was he enjoying some leisure time with friends? Was he safe?

Suddenly, as her thoughts were focused on her son, she became absolutely sure of something: He was dead. He had died the night his plane never returned. She knew it. She was absolutely sure. All the uncertainty was gone and - more than that - she knew that her son was standing with her beside his sister Anne.  Just like so many years earlier when they had all waited at this very hospital in the waiting room while Anne had her lung lobectomy surgery. Ronny had been so reassuring for her. So comforting: Running to the cafeteria to bring her cups of tea. Giving her hugs and comforting words. It was the same now. She felt his love and she knew he was with her. He wanted to support Anne and her.  He was here to help them both.

Hilda wiped the tears from her cheeks with her hands. She walked back to Anne’s bed and sat beside her.  She reached for her daughter’s hot, limp hand and she cradled it in both of her own cool hands. She then prayed. ‘Please God, let Anne live. Please God … I will focus on Anne and I will change … I will smile again and live again if you could help Anne through this night. I’ve lost Ronny. I know he’s gone. I will let him go, although I will love him forever. But, please God don’t take both of my children. Please let Anne live.’

Hilda closed her eyes and rested her head on the blankets of Anne’s bed still holding her daughter's hand. She had made a solemn promise to herself and to God. Exhausted she fell asleep.

Hilda woke to find sunlight streaming through the window.  She lifted her head off the bed and suddenly she remembered where she was and the terrible situation with Anne.

She sat upright and the first thing she noticed was Anne smiling back at her. ‘Mum, you woke up! I was waiting for you.’

Hilda reached for her daughter’s hand; it was cool and her pulse was slow and strong. She stood up and wrapped her arms tightly around Anne’s shoulders and kissed her forehead.

                                            *

Anne’s condition rapidly improved over the next few days and she was able to go home a week later.

Hilda remained true to her word. She had grieved her lost son for long enough.  She would never stop loving him but she knew that he was dead.  She had to move on with her life and be the mother Anne and Dorothy needed. She made a decision to be grateful for the time she got to be with her beautiful son, instead of bitter and sad about the time she lost with him. She would focus of her wonderful memories of him and carry her love for him in her heart forever. 

The war had taken the life of her son, Ronny, but medical advances developed during the war had saved the life of her daughter, Anne. It seemed that with or without the war she would have lost one of her children.

Hilda had almost forgotten to be grateful for all of the wonderful things she still had in her life: Her two living daughters; her husband who showed that he loved her with his constancy and his kindness and support whenever she needed his help; and all the lovely little things to be noticed and appreciated in every day.

My mother, Anne, always told me that my grandmother often remarked;  happiness can be found in the little things.
 
                                                 *
                                       
* I saw a professional photo of my grandmother once, taken in a studio in 1946.  She looked happy and pretty and sweet, although she was dressed all in black.  One thing that was very obvious was the brooch she wore over her heart: it was a pin-brooch of a navigator half-wing. Ronny had sent it to his mother as a gift.

These silver or gold brooches were known as ‘sweetheart brooches’ as they were often given by soldiers to their wives or girlfriends. They depicted the badges of the units of the servicemen and they would be worn as a token of love and pride in the loved one serving away. Ronny was only a teenager and he didn't yet have either a wife or a girlfriend - but he wanted to give his mother a present to to remind her how much he loved her.

* Finally, my mother, Anne, told me many times that it was very sad for her when her mother became depressed after the death of Ronny.  My mother was an intelligent child and she says she worked out that her brother must have died as soon as she returned from her Aunt’s house:  Her mother was wearing black, her mother was in tears; all of her brother’s photos had been put away; she was told that she couldn’t write to him any more and she received no more letters from him. She also experienced some sort of ‘connection’ with her beloved brother at around the time he died when she imagined herself in a dark confined space spinning with the overwhelming thought that she would never see her family again. My mother told me that the night she almost died is the night her mother recovered from her depression and learned to live again.

Life is hard - but bad times don’t last forever. I’ve learned that in my own life. Sometimes drastic things happen to help us move on to where we need to be.

                                                   *

I will continue with another excerpt from my grandmother’s journal - written for her youngest child (my mother) Anne between the years 1948 - 1963.


HILDA’S JOURNAL

Sunday  September 7th 1952

I am having a rest in bed, felt not well since yesterday. It is the sultry weather that upset me I think. I will feel better for the rest. I have just had some nice tomato sandwiches which you made me. I can hear you tidying up the house.

This writing is awful. I am writing lying down. I will get up later on and make some scones for tea and cool some mashed potatoes to have with cold meat and salad.

Since I wrote last you went to the Electricity Trust ball. The greatest thrill of which was showing off your handsome escort, Colin, who was also your escort at the Vac-oil dance and social.

We had a bit of a “do” here before the ball and twelve of the party of sixteen met here before going on to the ball.

You looked charming in blue satin; Alison in floral,tan and white satin; Dorothy Miller in green broderie anglaise; Barbara in rose taffeta; Elaine white net. I forgot the rest.

The next evening you were at a concert - minstrel show, and a party afterwards at Alison’s.  Colin happened to be there and escorted you home in a nice car.  A lovely time. 

You went to a wedding last night with Val Ramsy.  One of the girls (Naomi) from work got married.  You looked lovely in your green costume and black accessories.  Afterward you and Val went to see “A Place in the Sun”. A number of the girls from the Electricity Trust went to see the wedding. All were very smart You bought a lovely black shoulder strap bag yesterday, and a week ago you bought a spring hat - a pretty little thing that rests on the back of the head covered with blue leaves and it has a little veiling. It will be very smart with your blue linen costume.

Uncle Bill was here Friday, he was in a hurry.


Wednesday  November 12th 1952

The weather is keeping cold, we still have fires. There are a few sultry days occasionally, enough to make one feel out of sorts and warm enough to do without a fire on the odd night or two.

I have pretty pink clarkia blooming, and it is in my big green glass jar with that silvery grass that grows around the almond tree in the corner, and pink iceland poppies with it.

I have a little vase of it on the side board too. I would not call it beautiful but clarkia is the essence of prettiness.

Mrs Thamme is at Northfield hospital failing fast. The sister and Alison are living in her house, both finding it lovely.

Christmas will soon be here. John Martins (a department store) Christmas pageant was last Saturday. Our Christmas cards have gone to England and you have bought the first Christmas present: a lovely little statuette of a foal lying down. It is for Val.

You wore your green costume with the yellow georgette scarf today. You looked lovely. Alison dowdy in 3/4 coat green summer dress.


Friday  February 27th 1953

I usually make a note in this diary of the date I had my hair permed. I didn’t do it last time which was about three weeks ago.

January and February have lived up to their reputations this year, only a bit worse. Usually one of the months is rather cool but but this year both have been hot. 102 degrees yesterday. The first century of the summer.

You wore your smart pale green summer coat with white material rose at the neck today - very nice. You and I are going to kangaroo Island for a holiday next month.

Since before Christmas you have been going out with a very nice air pilot called Lionel.


Friday June 5th 1953

Having an appointment to have my hair permed next Monday has made me think of this diary. You had a perm last Saturday, it looks lovely.

Dorothy is in hospital having treatment for thyroid, and Edna is there too as the result of a serious accident.

You are still going out with the nice air pilot I mentioned in my last entry.

The evenings are nice and easy now with fires every night, that is the best part of the day.

You started your writing course last winter but decided to put it off for a while as it is a years course and you have four years to do it in, so can afford to let it wait. However, I want to get this down in case you read it in years to come. If nothing comes of this writing course during the next few years don’t give up the idea of writing altogether even if it is twenty years from now. You have talent in writing and if you do not succeed when you are young you might when you are older because by then you will have learnt more about life.
Love Mum xxxx


                                     *          *           *

I will continue the next instalment of this 11 blog series around my grandmother’s life and her journal next week.  I will also add more about the history after WW2 for Australia - but it’s late and I work tomorrow.

PS:  My mother, Anne, never did do her writing course. Although she went to university and became a social worker in child protection.  Her reports were always so well written that the cases often ‘settled’ out of court.

However, strangely, I developed a love of writing in my 40’s and my grandmother is right that I have more knowledge now and life experience to write about.  The writing of my grandmother let me hear her voice and let me know her.  I have no actual memories of her other than after all her strokes when she could no longer walk or talk. She died when I was five.