counter-experience

When I was ten years old I had a long summer holiday while both my parents worked,with no siblings and no neighbourhood friends. Long days at our suburban pool were idyllic at first but soon monotonous,although I can still recall clearly lying on a damp towel(just an ordinary towel - no beach towels for our family,and no interstate vacations in those days),my cheek resting on the backs of my hands millimetres from the radiant heat of the concrete and the now poignant odour of steaming chlorine.Carefree but aimless,I gradually developed a yearning for stimulation.In due course I found my way to the local library,by which I mean my mother told me to stop complaining of boredom and go and read some books.
I hung around the library,marvelling at the number of books and their scientific-looking numbers.I took part in chess competitions and other activities independent of school or family for the first time.And I read books.I decided that I would read the most impressive grown-up book I could think of:-David Copperfield,since I had heard of Charles Dickens and it seemed to be a story about a young boy.Surprisingly I read nearly all of the seven hundred and twenty one pages,including characters such as Peggotty the faithful maid,Mr Micawber the eternal optimist and the oily Uriah Heep,though there was no one who wanted to talk about it with me.In fact I couldn't find anyone who had actually read the novel from beginning to end.Eventually,like a marathon runner who has hit the wall ,and discouraged by the hero's  now  less interesting adult life, I stopped and started then ran out of enthusiasm at around page seven hundred,metaphorically within sight of the finish line,not literally but literarily falling at the the last hurdle.I still don't know anyone who has read the whole book,even though it is said to have been the favourite novel of both Tolstoy and Freud and widely admired.Though memorable it cured me of any desire to read further novels of Dickens,or indeed any long-winded authors of turgid historical writing styles.So I looked for something more suitable for a ten year old boy.
In those days there seemed to be very little written for an intellectually adventurous child,although I eventually discovered the exciting possibilities of science fiction through John Wyndham.  There was a tiny section of books designated as Adolescent Fiction,but sadly most books were more interesting to girls,such as Anne of Green Gables and similar stories.At last I found a book in that category which I could read ,apparently translated from the writings of a dutchman called Erasmus Desiderius.
I didn't know he was a famous Renaissance humanist and theologian,great friend of Sir Thomas More,inspiration and adversary of Martin Luther and satirical critic of corruption in the established Catholic Church in the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries.He was funny and witty, and used literary irony which was previously unknown to me.
I read a little more of his writings at each visit to the library,wishing that there were other similar authors.Later,I worked my way through P.G.Wodehouse and Seventeenth Century English Poetry. The only poems I liked were those of John Donne,although Andrew Marvell was ok I thought.
On my way home from work today I caught an interview with Kevin Hart,a theologian and poet,who brought those days to mind again through his link between theology and poetry which seems interesting,related as it is to his exploration of counter-experience and the limits of language in expressing concepts of revelation and the sublime.I get the idea although I think much poetry is almost by definition an exploration of the capacity of words to communicate the mysterious nature of human experience so he's not really alone there.However he really needs to take a good hard look at his prose.Here is an example, admittedly removed from its context,taken from a broad review of systematic texts of theology:-"Sure enough, his attempt to save reflective philosophy from becoming idealism by leaguing it with hermeneutics is broadly indebted to Heidegger's reflections on the onto-theiological constitution of metaphysics."This type of writing  makes me think fondly of another writer I discovered in that library - he wrote this:-                                        

The Red Wheelbarrow
                         
                            so much depends
                            upon

                             the red wheel
                             barrow

                             beside the white
                             chickens

William Carlos Williams.He expressed the sublime in simple words.
           

gap

An unexpected lull in clinic.Not sure how to spend this modest windfall of time.
Look up the list of internationally recognized days of observance.Tomorrow used to be World Brain Tumour Day but is now World Ocean Day.
Don't know what to think about that.
Back to work.

sun-day

Woke gradually to the delicate touch of the soft pads of one cat's paw stretched out so as to to stay in contact with my arm even while asleep.
I felt refreshed.Outside it was a sunny winter morning,the variegated roofs[pronounced "rooves" by many] of our neighbouring town bright and seeming closer across the green fields from our elevated position. Our five month old cat had taken my wife's side of the bed while she was in the city for the weekend.He is orange-brown and white above and pure white beneath,a Manx with just the stub of a tail.Very companionable,he followed me into our bathroom while I shaved and showered,catching the low angled winter sunlight on his fur against the tiles: unusually vivid in the early morning illumination.It seemed as though I was part of an artistic tableau:Man and Cat at their Toilette.
I felt  a yearning for art - original painting with nature and light - and I knew where to find it.For the last few weeks I have been looking at works by local artists, wanting to buy but balking at the price.Now I was willing to pay to capture a little of that elusive moment of rapture.
After dressing I drove directly to to the art and craft tourist town of our district .I bought all three paintings that I had been dithering over and returned home to find the best position for each one ,enlisting the only other occupant of the house - my thirteen year old daughter - to assist.
The smallest most intimate picture,a tinted etching, was placed where it could be closely appreciated - I hope the artist wouldn't be offended that it is in the bathroom.Next,a swirling tree of gold leaf and autumn colours is now found above the head of our bed.The last, largest and brightest painting consists of thickly layered oil on canvas.It is a riot of grass stems,brilliantly coloured wildflowers and stalks of grain viewed close up from ground level against a backdrop of blue sky and white clouds.Perhaps it is a little glib but it is sunny and warm and now adorns the kitchen wall.
Later the weather is cold ,wet, windy and dark but now we carry three new sparks of joy inside our house to kindle our spirits.

a dignified life

Haven't been able to write for two days .Every time I try I start to fall asleep.There is no reserve of strength ,no possibility of an extra effort.Life is a constant ordeal:headache,sinus pain like squeezing my face,hard to swallow,an insane aching in all my upper teeth as though the only relief would be to pull them all out, a ringing in my ears denoting an imminent faint from simply standing up.At its worst I could easily contemplate my mortality. I had just one night off to recover.So I drove into the city to spend it with my first born child.
She is a rat girl.
That is to say,she has pet rats.Or perhaps rat companion animals.Or life partners.
It is true love,and one of her best friends is dying.George.He has helped her complete her studies,commence her first professional employment,move into her own apartment,  then consoled her during the trials of establishing a relationship with a human male.He has never been critical or judgmental,and if he has stolen the odd biscuit or nibbled an occasional blanket ,handbag or piece of furniture then there was no malice.When confronted he was contrite but ready to move ahead with the friendship.He did not find it demeaning to be held in both hands and deeply inhaled like fresh laundry,although it is fair to say that he did not personally appreciate being the laundry when given a wash.
He has dealt with the loss of his closest comrade, Matt, and is now succumbing to the same debilitating chronic respiratory illness without complaint.He has had to restrict his explorations and stay closer to home since he can no longer walk without tipping over.This is undignified for a proud rattus norvegicus.The end is approaching.
We walked to a fashionable but cheap local restaurant,leaving George sitting in his favourite blanket in front of the television.The food was appetizing,creative and well cooked,while the service was cheerfully efficient, but my daughter could hardly bear to be away from George who would so soon be leaving her forever.We returned to her flat at the earliest opportunity to find George in the same position as before.Soon he was covered with kisses and the odd stray tear which he bore stoically as he does more and more lately.
George has a last appointment soon with the vet .His last day has been booked like a restaurant or the dentist with arrangement also for the necessary emotional support.She will be with him when he goes.
Next day ,mid-afternoon in clinic,I swallow and it is finally less painful.Shortly after, I can breathe a little through one nostril. I know that my recovery is emerging,but I am still in contact with the feeling that it is possible that I might be so ill that I could just accept my fate.I know I can die but I have never before felt that I could acquiesce willingly.Perhaps it is because I can see the end in sight.The first of my children is grown up,living in the cruel world with courage and love.I wouldn't mind if she arranged to be with me when it is my time to go with dignity.I know I would be surrounded by love.
Vale George.

flu

Ok ,this is influenza.I just want to stay in bed but I can't find time to see my patients within the next four months so I have to spread my disease to innocent people.
Can I stop working yet?

work

Finished clinic without a break by six pm.My throat is more sore and I now resemble a caricature of a person with a cold.Or coryza as we say in our arcane medical language.Known to the general public as  "the flu" although it is not usually influenza as implied.In any case,my nose is red and running, my eyes are red(or" erythematous") and watery, and I am sneezing all the time .
 The pathologist confirms that my patient does have cancer:"a poorly differentiated invasive squamous cell carcinoma of the cervix." I must call the oncologist tomorrow then phone my patient to break the news and arrange transfer of her care.
The hot water tap in our bathroom is disconnected because it has not been repaired.
There is no dinner unless I make it myself.
Time to go home.

sick

Woke up and realised I was sick.Sore throat.Sore muscles and joints.My daughter told me she had this yesterday,so not completely unexpected.
I just wanted to lie in bed.Cancel my clinics.See them another day.
And the tennis,my night tennis, was on tonight.I would definitely cancel that.
I knew that I would have to be dying to cancel antenatal clinic.Babies at risk.Diabetics.So I got up,stiff and sore as an old man.Well,an older man than me,at least.
I told my secretary that I wasn't very well,and coughed a few times.I asked if she could cancel my tennis match later when there was a receptionist at the tennis centre, then started on the clinic.
My patients often ask "How are you" before the consultation begins and I often answer as though it is a genuine inquiry ,simply to break the ice,make a small joke,reduce the formality.So today I told a number of people that I was sick and wished I was home in bed.As the day progressed I became aware that  I couldn't find a replacement for the tennis in time.I would have to play while unwell.
On arrival at the courts I let my teammates and opponents know just how incapacitated I was then proceeded to win all my matches for the first time in months.It is difficult to understand because I really am ill.I suppose it is always hard to play a sick or injured opponent.In addition,I have been working hard to improve, but I feel like a fraud.
As usual it is hard to wind down after the intense exercise and competition,so here I am at nearly four am again,tired and now sick as well,with clinics all day,no time to schedule lunch,and on call for labour ward and emergencies tomorrow night as well.After tonight's tennis,it seems I perform well under duress.I certainly hope that is true.