Love: thoughts I scribbled two years ago.

I happened upon a piece of writing today; something I wrote when I was staying in Melbourne, two years ago, by myself at a conference.

I had scribbled it onto some paper which I found, by chance, tucked inside a book. It captured, like a photo, myself on that night; how I felt. A part of my soul, maybe. I think words and ideas are a window to our soul. And when we feel life the most intently - happy or sad or lonely - we tap deeper into ourselves.

I thought I'd put my words into a little blog. Like a photo - a 'word picture', as I call them - although, this time not of a holiday or a scene, but of feeling and ideas ... two years ago on a lonely Saturday night in a hotel room at a conference.

My words (thoughts) - winter 2015:

'It's Saturday night in Melbourne and I'm at a conference.

I miss David. I wish he was here. To chat with as we do every night before we go to sleep. To discuss the universe, history, podcasts, evolution ... and all the things we never tire of discussing.

David is my husband of 26 years and my partner of almost 30 years. And I love him more than anything else in the world. Still.

I recall the last time I was in Melbourne, aged 22. David was then my boyfriend of about a year. This visit, now, is the first time I've been back to Melbourne without him. Back then, I was doing a medical placement in O&G. David and I holidayed in his home-state of Tasmania before my seven week placement here. I took a photo of him, while we were in Tassie; he was sitting on some rocks, looking off into the distance. That photo then stayed with me in the hospital student-dormitory, where  I was living for the placement.

Now, almost 30 years later, it is like I'm stepping back into that dorm and I can see David's picture so clearly. I recall walking to the window, back then, and looking down at the Fitzroy Gardens, in Melbourne's CBD, and across at the silhouette of the city skyline. It is so different now; so many new buildings.

Every Friday, David and I arranged to talk on the telephone. (This was long before mobile phones became ubiquitous). It was like being a child and waiting for Christmas, to hear his voice for 30 minutes. That would tide me over until the next Friday.

David arranged to meet me here. We booked accommodation away from the student dorm. I skipped the medical wards for the week. No-one noticed I was gone. This was an easy student time; before my intern year and all the tough years that followed in medicine.

I waited for David at the airport. I had my car, so I could drive to pick him up. He walked into the terminal carrying a suit-bag, in one hand, and travel bag, in the other, slung over his shoulder. Six-foot tall. Dark hair. Olive skin. Green eyes. Twenty-five years old. Handsome. So handsome.

I was at the Spencer street train-station today, on the corner of Spencer street and Collins street. It reminded me of when I drove David to the station, when he left to return home to Adelaide, at the end of his six-day visit. I recall how I felt: As I watched him leave on the train, it was like a part of me was being ripped away. In the carriage - alone with him in that small carriage - was the other part of myself.

I know that I'm a better person, when I'm with David. I am the best version of myself; we become better - and we grow - when we are together.

He joked, like he always does, and walked across the carriage, as the train moved out of the station; so it looked like he stood still in front of me and the carriage was moving off without him.

I laughed.

Time slowed down. I wanted my other half - him - to stay with me.

As I left the station and walked back to my car, I felt so empty. Alone. Melbourne was colder, paler, a shadow ... without David.

Now, I'm here again. Alone.

Almost three decades later. Everywhere I walk -  Everything I admire - I want David here to share it with.

I have a patient, 95 years old, whose wife died last year. She was 91. They had been married for 70 years. I met them both ten years ago, when I diagnosed a stage 1 melanoma on him - which saved his life. Typical of melanomas, he didn't see it.

He told me, as we chatted about his sweet wife, soon after she died, that she had wanted to 'go' first; she couldn't imagine, and didn't want, life without him. Interestingly, she had been the one to bring him to my clinic; and it was that first skin check which had saved his life, and given her another nine years with her lovely husband.

I know how she felt. I love David more with time - not less. I know that I am lucky to have married my best friend and soul mate. Even a weekend here without him, I miss him. I want to return home to him. I will leave the conference, when it finishes, and rush home on the same night ... to be with him.

I met a man on the plane coming over. He was about my age, tall, and built like a football player; a large man. I felt small squashed into the seat beside him. He said he was a consultant in something or other; very high up in business. We got chatting and he showed me photos of himself, on his phone, with the Prime Minister and he told me about his travels around the world and how he meets world leaders. He knows them personally. He showed me pictures, on his phone, of himself with some of them: Ex-PM Tony Abbott, Foreign minister Julie Bishop, others ... He was smart and interesting.

He then told me that six months ago he lost his life-partner to cancer. She was only in her early forties. He quit his job to nurse her in the final months. Now he works as a consultant. He was, on this trip, traveling to meet his 21 year old son in Melbourne for his son's birthday on Saturday. His words reinforced my own thoughts: Fame, money, status, world travel, meeting famous people - are all very nice, however, the most important thing in life is love. The people we love.

What is life if it cannot be shared with the people we love? What is life without love?'


My thoughts are as they they were two years ago - so I have saved them on this blog.