Tag: Mark

Endings, beginnings …

A few months ago, I was driving to see a client, and as I always do when I’m on the Inner City Bypass, I quickly looked to my left where the Royal Children’s Hospital is. Or I should say, was. When I’d finished my shift, I drove back to the Royal, parked my car and got as close as I could to the site. I cried big, ugly tears, and had to take some deep breaths to ground myself. I took some photos and spoke to one of the traffic guys about my time in there.

Going back was not about burying my suffering. It was about bearing witness to the destruction of what had been my second home. That might sound hyperbolic, but it’s where I did half my growing up. It’s hard for people to grasp that I spent nearly half my life in hospital before I had my transplant. It’s about being there, grounding myself in the suffering that is still with me – the suffering that will always be a part of me, and when it comes to that suffering I’m not broken or stronger for it. I just am.

I don’t live in the past. I AM my past. It’s like that saying, ‘you don’t have a soul. You have a body. You are a soul.’ 

Just when you think you’ve released all the guilt, there’s a dark corner of me that feels I need to be there to pay penance for having survived when most of my friends did not. Sound stupid? Try living it.

This place is sacred ground for me and so many others. There were so many first and final moments on that land. I fell in love for the first time there and I never believed the time would come when such a place was torn apart piece by piece. The state government made that decision years ago when Anna Bligh decided to entertain her vanity project of a children’s hospital in South Brisbane because Brisbane had a perfectly good hospital and infrastructure at Herston because: politics. I can see the new children’s hospital from the place I’ve left (it’s revolting, just in case you were wondering), and I remember the uproar in the medical fraternity when the idea was initially tabled, both with doctors and patients.

Back in the 90s, I was in hospital for much of the construction of the ‘new’ hospital (the one that’s been demolished), and I also happened to be an inpatient when the Deen Brothers demolished the old hospital. If you live in Brisbane, you’ll know that the Deen Brothers were the go to guys who knocked down iconic landmarks such as Cloudland and the Bellevue Hotel under our despotic Joh Bjeilke-Peterson dictatorship. Under Joh, they demolished much of Brisbane’s beautiful heritage buildings from the 1970s and beyond, often under the cloak of darkness and surprise.

And so the Deen Brothers were given the job to demo the old red brick hospital buildings in 1993, and I was a fierce sixteen year old who took shit from no one so it was nothing for me to jimmy open a window so I could yell at the Deen Brothers ‘you heretic c*nts!’. I’d shout until I was literally blue, my face covered in the dust of my past, present and future. I’d do this as many times as I could during the day when I wasn’t studying or having treatment. I would rage and cry, and punch the glass separating me from so many years of pain and suffering. I would wait until they met my eye (because they would) and I’d rage and cry, and give them the finger. They must have thought I was a mad little girl, but they  were just doing a job. Maybe I was doing mine, and the job of so many souls who had gone before me in those buildings.

The one image that brought me to my knees was when the kitchen being ripped out – the timber splitting like kindling, and the terrazzo floors being smashed. I wanted to throw myself on the ruins of that building and die with it. I was sixteen and I was in a constant state of grief. Heavy, sodden grief.

I’ve often said that I don’t live with regrets, and that I live with lessons instead. But I do have one regret. I wish I’d got some bolt cutters to break into the old Adelaide Billing ward before it was levelled. I feel that regret in my marrow, and I have a recurring dream where I can’t get into the ward. But there’s another dream happening where I’m right there, seeing myself not being able to get into the ward. Sometimes I get in without the bolt cutters. The double doors open up slowly, and I can feel the cool, polished terrazzo under my feet.

I still have nightmares about its old lift that shake me awake, and leave me unable to get back to sleep. They’re cyclical, and after a watched the hospital being torn down, I had more recurrent dreams about trying to get into the old Adelaide Billing doors.

But with every ending, there’s always a beginning. The day before Christmas, I moved into my new house, and I’m beyond besotted. I can see the stars every night, there are trees as far as the eye can see, the birds sing to me every morning, and I think I have an owl after finding a feather from a Powerful Owl, which is curious because I asked for an owl to look over me at the beginning of the year. Sometimes life is funny like that.

And so, I’ll cast my attention to this new beginning with fairy dens, banana palms, owls, native hibiscus and old, thickly rooted jasmine. And yes, my new place has terrazzo floors …

Happy Birthday, M

For M.E.B


We became another death

(the fulfilment of my internship).

Like a false syncope,

my grief would not let me claim you.



You came to me with bleeding gums and a dent in your jaw,

your broken gait like a barber cutting through

walls of plasticine with blunt scissors.

Bruised pride; your face a field of stubble I so loved jiving on my skin.

But first …



you were an uncertain algorithm of desire –

because you were never going to want me the way I wanted you.

Except, on a summer’s day, under umlauts of clouds, close to the border,

we pushed a kiss right through our chests like a bullet.

I was yours and you were mine and before we came up for air,

the earth had spun off its axis.



Purling into webs of light –

the softness of your cupped hands under my sunburned chin as we

tasted each other for the first time.

As salt danced across our skin, I ploughed my fingers through your hair

as clouds climbed behind us, then sunk with the sun like sabbath.



We cut our teeth on summer.

Sticky and wet like puppets of nature.

A curtain of devotion and great folly –

I grew attached to your shadow.

I’d fall off our bed of sin as you made me come to Bach,

and you would tell me stories of how you skulked up and down Cavill mall,

devout in your pilgrimage to find me on that first night at Schoolies.

You told me you would cry as you watched me sleep;

my childishly freckled cheek hemmed in by swathes of blonde hair.

You would wash your hands with such care in the darkness

(I liked to watch your panoptic palms somersault under tendrils of water)



You would drive along the rivers reach looking for me.

Once, I saw you.

I ran as fast as my body could with bleeding lungs,

but you never saw me.

I was jealous of the wind with its fingers in your hair.



Climbing lovingly into winter bones,

we knitted our bodies into an impenetrable pod where no one could touch us.

We shunned the world with aching hips and salty flesh

stuffing our mouths full, speaking a language only we knew –

believing ‘there is nothing else worth living for other than this’. You.



But I heard church bells pealing from promises that would bleed;

fistulas of memory fractured a fall and I began barking time;

howling spoonfuls of dirt into your mouth

your perfect fucking mouth

always open for mine;

a receptacle of love and all that was good in our world.

You tried.

You were unmoving in arresting us in that space as I jettisoned the indifference,

but we rolled away from each other as old mountains do,

and I began to not love us.



I garrotted you,

throwing you from your skin;

bones akimbo to the wind,

leaving a frayed man like a barometer of truth.

Fall in, fall out.

With the biting sick that bored into my body,

you were gone.



You never got to hear my new voice

or sweep the pads of your fingers over my new scars.

I can’t sing anymore, but my hair is long just as it was that first night you saw me

shuffling across blue linoleum in dimmed hospital corridors.

(I go out walking, after midnight, in the moonlight, just like we used to do.

I’m always walking after midnight, searching for you) 



Seeking out the ground with eyes I put to bed so many years ago,

I would give you my grace (or cleave the moon in two)

but you will not let me.

So I press my fingers into the rivulets of my palms

knowing we will meet when the streets glow in their silence.

Throbbing asphalt still hot from the burning day –

just like our first days of warm hands and cold feet.



Like a splintered shard of shrapnel that will always itch under my skin,

I will always be that woman who loves you.


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‘think of me when you sleep,

warm heart, cold feet.

In your dreams we will meet, 

together soft and deep.

Wish I could be there with you now,

all my love and desire. 

I think of you in despair

oh, when will I meet you there?

Not long, one more sleep,

think of me – warm heart, cold feet.’

– M.E.B 1995

This.