She found herself sitting on grass in a garden. Grey mist swirled round, obscuring details of trees and flowers, although she felt safe and at peace. Suddenly, the ground turned to sand and, in a ring around her, it whipped into the air, as if caught in a violent gust of wind, and morphed into stone blocks which stacked one upon the other until they formed a wall, like a stone igloo, imprisoning her. No connection remained to the freedom ... save for a single barred window.
Michelle woke with a fright. She was in her own bed. The same nightmare had troubled her for two years, although she still had no idea what it meant. It never failed, however, to leave her upset and feeling as if something was drastically wrong with her life.
She looked at the clock on her bedside table: 6.28 am. It was still dark, apart from a pale sliver of light which crept between a gap in the curtains, casting shadows and a bluish hue over the sparsely furnished room. Even in a good light, the room was almost entirely decorated in beige, giving it the appearance of a large bowl of porridge. The single exception was a colourful poster of a tropical beach Blu-Tacked to a wall in the corner.
Michelle burrowed deep under her blankets. She would lie in, for a moment or two, and allow herself to more fully recover from the nightmare. She thought about the day ahead: Work. That was it, really. A ten hour working day, in a six to seven day working week, in a fifty-one week working year: An endless and exhausting treadmill. She suspected that many people felt as she did, that life was a difficult journey along an endless road which reached no-where but over an ever-receding horizon.
She stopped her gloomy and self-indulgent thoughts. There was no point thinking like that. No point over-analysing things: Her life. Life itself. Life, the universe, and everything! This was a weekday. Those thoughts could be indulged on … well … weekends, if she had weekends. Annual holidays, then … or, maybe, when she retired.
She decided to lie in bed, for a few more minutes, and consider all the things she enjoyed most in her life. She tried to think … Anything … There must be something … in her entire life. She struggled to think. There were … children! She smiled as she considered this. There were the sweet little darlings with whom she worked, in her job as a consultant paediatrician, at the Adelaide Children’s hospital. She loved the children! Even when they were sick and grumpy and vomiting and crying, she loved them all. They were so brave and inspiring. They were so filled with awe and curiosity about the world. They managed to find pleasure and joy so easily in their lives. And, when she was with them, she was able to feel some of it too.
With that happy thought, she threw back the bedclothes, climbed out of bed, had a quick shower, and applied her makeup: Lipstick. A dash of lipstick was all there was to her minimalist morning ‘beauty routine’. She couldn’t see any point in putting much effort into her appearance. Work was work. She wasn’t there to look glamorous.
However, before she left the bathroom, she stopped to take a second look at her reflection. She was thirty two years old today. It was her birthday. Did she really look that old? she wondered: Dark wavy hair reaching just below her shoulders, large brown eyes framed by long lashes, olive skin. She had almost no lines on her face; at least that was one advantage to being forever indoors at work. She was tall. Well, taller than average, at five foot eight inches, although people often commented that she was ‘petite’. By this, they meant slim. Which she was. She looked again at her face. Some had called her ‘pretty’. Yet, all she could see was a mask. She knew her true self was not the person she saw now. This was simply the social mask she presented to the world hoping for approval. Her true self was buried much deeper. So deep, in fact, she doubted that she would ever see her again.
Enough moping! Sure it was her birthday, but self-indulgent contemplation is permitted for no more than ten minutes on a birthday during one’s thirties, she decided. Maybe twenty minutes during one’s forties. And, with that, she marched back to her bedroom and put on her sky-blue cotton dress, a navy cardigan, stockings, and sensible flat shoes. Finally, she grabbed her briefcase and headed out the front door.
The day was cold. It was drizzling rain, and the clouds hung low and heavy. Michelle sprinted across the frosty lawn of her parent’s backyard, leaving a trail of footprints as she went. She was renting a two-room granny-flat from her parents, but she shared the kitchen of the main house with them.
Reaching the back-door, she pushed it open and entered the dim and musty room. The kitchen was shabby and had changed little in forty years since her parents first bought the place. Her mother, a slim woman in her sixties, was cooking pancakes over the stove. Michelle placed her bag on the tiled floor and began to make herself a bowl of cereal.
‘Happy birthday, Michelle’ her mother said, turning briefly. Then, in a sharper tone, she added, ‘You don't need cereal! I’ve made you pancakes! Your father's having some too,’ she pointed with her spatula in the direction of a newspaper which was completely hiding the silent figure behind it.
'I’ve got an early meeting,’ Michelle said, as she sat down at the kitchen table beside her father.
‘Well, I’m cooking you a birthday dinner tonight. Eat that, at least.’
'Mum,' Michelle fixed her gaze on her breakfast, 'we talked about this ...'
‘I know we did, but you can go out with your friends any time! Tonight is a family occasion with your father and me.'
'Last year… You said if I stayed home - '
‘Well, this is this year! Seven o’clock.’
‘We booked a restaurant -’
Her father, a bear of a man with steely blue eyes, slammed his fist into the table, causing the dishes and cutlery to jump. 'Don't answer yer Ma back!' he growled. He had come out from behind his paper and glared at his daughter. 'While yer live 'ere … yer do as yer told! I don’t care how old y’are!’
Her mother was now smiling, as she quietly resumed her work at the stove. ‘Seven o’clock, Michelle,' she said more gently. ‘And, please be on time, for once.’
Michelle didn’t answer. Her heart was racing and her limbs felt weak. She picked up her half eaten bowl of cereal, her hands trembling and her eyes cast down, and brought it to the sink. She then grabbed her briefcase and left by the back door. As she walked away, she heard a tiny voice whisper, from somewhere deep inside herself, ‘No!’
An hour later, she arrived at the conference room late for her meeting. Traffic had been heavy, but worse than that, the hospital car park was almost completely full. Cars prowled around and around, like tigers stalking prey. Frustratingly, Michelle had almost secured a number of car-parks but every time, at the last moment, a more aggressive driver would leap in front and take it first. Finally, when she realised that she was running twenty minutes late, she approached a vacant spot just as another driver attempted to snatch it from her. However, this time the voice rose up from deep within herself again - more loud and forceful now - and it said, ‘No! Not this time, mate!’ And with that, she lunged into the park and took it. She astonished herself with her own assertiveness.
Now, standing at the door, she smoothed her hair and straightened her clothes - dishevelled as they were after the long sprint across the hospital grounds and up four flights of stairs - then she turned the handle and walked in. The buzz of voices stopped immediately, as she entered the room, and the faces of the six doctors, seated around the long oak conference table, turned to look at her. Their expressions were a mix of amusement, curiosity, an annoyance. Michelle apologised for being late, then crossed the room and sat in the chair left vacant for her. She felt some relief when she saw her friend and mentor, the director of the Endocrinology department, Professor Judy Cooper, smiling at her from the head of the table.
‘Well, let’s get started, then,’ said Judy, a stout woman in her sixties. ‘We all know each other.’ Michelle smiled and nodded at the five middle-aged men dressed in white coats with stethoscopes around their necks. They were sipping coffee, shuffling papers, and glancing at their pagers, but they stopped what they were doing to smile warmly and with approval at Michelle. ‘So, Michelle,’ Judy continued, ‘you’ve been working on the unit in a relieving capacity as a paediatric endocrinologist these past six months, while we’ve been advertising for a permanent doctor to fill the vacancy.’
‘Come on, Judy,’ one of the men smiled and looked at his watch, ‘just tell her the punchline so we can all get on with rounds. Obviously, we’ve started too late for a lot of chit-chat.’
‘Yes,’ the older woman said. ‘Ok. The punch line.’ Her weary face brightened and she smiled again at Michelle. ‘You’ve done very well on the unit, Michelle. You’re a dedicated doctor and a great clinician. We want to offer the permanent position of consultant endocrinologist here at the Children’s hospital to you. We know this is your life and you will give your all to your work. Will you accept our offer?’
The men at the table had begun to pack away their cups and papers and some were beginning to get up from the table. It was assumed that Michelle’s acceptance would be a mere formality.
‘No, thank you!’ said a confident female voice.
Michelle was as shocked as everyone else in the room. Especially when she realised that the voice was her own. The mask, which she had worn for so long, was shattered. Her real self had somehow found it’s way to the surface and she felt free for the first time in so long.
*
She found herself sitting on sand on a tropical beach. Sparkling water lapped gently on the shore. Palms swayed overhead. She felt happy and relaxed. She noticed a young woman, in the distance, holding books and a clock; she was walking away and waving goodbye. A young family, playing in the surf, gestured for her to join them.
Michelle woke up. She was in her king-size bed with a beautiful view out to the islands off the coast of Townsville. The recurring nightmare, from ten years earlier, had long ago stopped. In fact, it never recurred after she boarded the plane on the night of her birthday; the birthday, that is, when she declined the hospital consultancy position, and never showed up at her mother’s birthday dinner. That was also the day she first listened to the voice in her own heart.
She looked at the clock on her bedside table: 8.20am. She would lie in. She worked part time, in general practice, and never on weekends. So, there was no rush.
Suddenly, the door burst open, and in ran her two young children followed by her darling husband, of eight years, Daniel. He was carrying the breakfast-in-bed tray, as he always did on her birthday. ‘Happy birthday!’ they all shouted. She sat up in bed and, stretching her arms out, waved them all over for a big hug. ‘It is a happy birthday my darlings!’ she cried. ‘It really is.’
