I Knew You'd Have Brown Eyes (7 page)

‘Does anyone else think that moving the patients’ beds around has been a disaster?’

Some people nodded, but no-one spoke. I was daring to oppose Sister Thomson and the other nurses were afraid of her.

‘I think it’s unfair to these people when they’re already confused and clearly not adjusting to the new situation.’ More nods.

‘Obviously we can’t change them back while Sister Thomson is on leave but, if I have some support, I’m willing to bring it up with her at our next meeting.’

Some of the nurses agreed to support me.

On the day of the meeting I nervously raised my hand indicating I had something to say.

‘Go ahead,’ Sister Thomson said.

‘Some of us here are concerned about the new arrangement of beds, Sister Thomson. It’s causing confusion in the ward and many patients are distressed.’

‘Is that so, Sister Capra!’ She was standing at the head of the table, glaring at me.

‘And who here agrees with Sister Capra’s assessment?’

Not one person raised their hand.

She had humiliated me again, but I wasn’t about to give in. I wrote to the director of nursing, expressing my concerns for our patients. One evening, soon after I had taken my letter to her office, I was on late shift, and the director appeared on the ward. I thought she was coming to chastise me.

‘Can you take me on a round, Sister Capra?’

‘Certainly.’ Once we were out of earshot of the other nurses she said, ‘Can you explain to me what your concerns are?’

I didn’t have to say much. It was obvious that our patients were distressed. When I told her my thoughts about the new configuration she listened, thanked me and left.

Days went by and I heard nothing, then one day I was transferred to the main hospital to work in the post-operative ward for patients recovering from complicated cardiac surgery. I knew my transfer was probably because of my letter but I didn’t know if I was being punished, rewarded or just moved sideways to avoid conflict with Sister Thomson. I was elated and nervous at the same time.

On my final morning shift on the ward, before my transfer had taken effect, I was alone in the nurses’ change rooms. Sister Thomson walked in, crying.

‘You think you’re so smart don’t you?’ she said. ‘I knew you were trouble when I first met you.’

‘Look, if you’re talking about the patients, I felt strongly that you’d made a mistake, moving them around like that, they’re confused and it’s our job to make them comfortable, not confuse them more.’

‘You’re a little upstart. You’ll learn.’ With that, she stormed out of the change room. I didn’t know what to expect when I entered the ward. It was going to be a rough day. Sister Thomson remained in her office all morning and it was only when I was on my lunch break and far away from the ward that another nurse told me Sister Thomson had been asked to leave. I felt terrible. It was harsh punishment, but it was my job to be the patient’s advocate.

Though I may have appeared to be a fierce warrior at work, my personal life was another matter. I was twenty-one and many of my school friends were getting married. I was continually asking for Saturday afternoons off to attend weddings and it was getting me down. The invitations always asked for ‘Mary and Friend’, but I had no friend. Sometimes I’d be seated at the wedding reception with other single male invitees. I was shy in their company and I also felt I was used goods. Who would want to know a girl who’d had a baby? Even if we hit it off and started dating, how and when could I tell my story? It was best to remain alone, but I still wanted love.

I worked for a year in the cardiothoracic ward. The charge nurse, Sister Regan, was the best I had ever encountered. She treated her patients with compassion and all her staff as valuable members of the team – no matter their status. Her energy was infectious. On arrival for morning shift at 7 am she would help us shower all the patients – or give bed baths, according to their mobility – and make the beds. We worked quickly and efficiently. After the heavy work was done, all the nurses shared morning coffee together. I would have stayed in that ward longer if events hadn’t intervened.

Around this time I met a male nurse who was involved with a Catholic youth group in Brisbane. His family had a dairy farm a few hours west of Brisbane and he invited a group of us to come up one weekend. I fell in love with the farm, his family and with him. Unfortunately, he did not feel the same way and this rejection fed my self-doubt. I was stuck in unrequited love and could see no way out.

I moved into a house on the outskirts of Brisbane, near Caboolture, in a small hamlet called Roxburg. My housemates, two couples, were a warm, stabilising influence on me. They taught me about relationships based on respect and love. I relaxed in their company and enjoyed the peace and quiet of the bush setting.

One Sunday afternoon I invited my parents to come for lunch and I prepared a picnic. I wanted to show them that I was getting on with my life and was not a failure.

‘I made some salads. Let’s take a picnic blanket and sit under the trees,’ I suggested.

‘Why can’t we eat here?’ Mum said. She hated the heat.

‘It’s cool under the tree.’

We walked to a clearing, under two huge gum trees that threw their shade, making a lovely cool place to lay the blanket. I had two chairs and placed them near the blanket for my parents. The nearby creek tumbled over stones and birds tweeted in the trees. There was a soft breeze.

As soon as we had eaten, Mum stood up.

‘Let’s go home, Tim. I can’t stand the heat.’

‘Why don’t you come back to the house? I can make a pot of tea and we can sit on the verandah.’

‘No, I’d rather go home and have tea there, thanks.’ She shrugged her shoulders, indicating her distaste for the outing.

Why couldn’t I ever get it right?

Soon after this, I had a little breakdown. My life seemed to be drifting. I was lost and lonely. I spent a whole day crying. Tony, one of my housemates, held me for a long time and I told him everything. He was kind, understanding and non-judgemental. This was the first of many such events that I had in the coming years.

Coupled with my personal self-doubt, I was experiencing a crisis of doubt about conventional medicine. Though I loved my ward, I was becoming more and more traumatised by invasive medical practices and the use of strong drugs and their damaging side effects. During my nursing training I had gone to a seminar by Doctor Elizabeth Kübler-Ross, a psychiatrist who worked with terminally ill patients and had written a book called
Death and Dying
. I was strongly influenced by her work, particularly her writings on the stages of dying. I was not afraid of death. I thought it would be peaceful. I recall sitting one day with a lung cancer patient in my ward, an elderly man.

‘Don’t worry,’ I told him, holding his hand. ‘It will soon be over and you’ll be in a much better place. Don’t be afraid.’

Most patients on the ward who had lung cancer were smokers, or had been. But one man in his mid-forties was the father of two young children and had never smoked. The method of diagnosis for lung cancer was to insert a needle into the pleural cavity and take some fluid for analysis. I assisted in this procedure, and it had a profound effect on me. I was shocked by the intrusion of the needle, the pain he suffered. I couldn’t see the purpose of it. We already knew he was dying.

I began to rile against modern medicine. I resigned from my position and went travelling.

9

The papers here are full of the cold war … Cruise missiles are going to be placed on English soil … People say it’s not a matter of if, but when, World War Three will happen
…

I’ve been accepted into an Accident and Emergency course at a London hospital, but I’m conflicted because there is a course in herbal medicine in the south of England and I think that’s the direction I want to take
…

My letters home were those of a young person searching for direction in a chaotic world. My eyes were being opened. I’d come from a small town in the Antipodes and here I was in this huge city of diverse opinions and opportunities. I worked at St Thomas’ Hospital where in 1859 Florence Nightingale opened the world’s first nursing school.

Each day on my walk to work I passed Westminster Abbey, Big Ben, and crossed Westminster Bridge. I loved living in London but on my nurse’s wages I could barely afford to pay rent and buy food. I wanted to take the opportunity of further study in England. I wasn’t satisfied with my one nursing qualification and decided to apply for something more.

I turned down a place at a London hospital to do a certificate in Accident and Emergency. My experience in the cardiothoracic ward with patients suffering through chemotherapy influenced me and, when I heard about a course in herbal medicine, it seemed a better option. Western medicine was invasive and toxic, I reasoned. I moved to southeast England and the village of Tunbridge Wells, in Kent, and became a student.

With the benefit of hindsight it was the wrong decision. I was too idealistic. The skills I would have learned in the Accident and Emergency course would have been invaluable in the work I would end up doing. But I threw myself into the course and the study, fully expecting to come back to Australia and set up a clinic as a qualified herbalist.

On the days I wasn’t studying I found plenty of work. Tunbridge Wells was a town where wealthy people retired, and they could afford a private nurse. The money I earned wasn’t great but it was adequate. I worked for the British Nursing Agency in a mixture of hospital relief and private nursing. I loved studying and excelled in all my subjects. I enjoyed my nursing work too.

But once again, in spite of my external successes and the accolades I was receiving in my studies and nursing work, I had another meltdown. One day I couldn’t get out of bed. I didn’t want to see anyone or go anywhere. I stayed alone in my room for three days. I felt my life wasn’t worth living. I had no direction. I began to regret my decision to adopt Christopher and chastised myself for my stupidity in giving him away. Surely I could have found a way, I told myself. Instead, I had ruined my life as well as my son’s and I would suffer forever for my misdemeanour. It was as though I needed to punish myself. My letters home became wistful and longing.

I feel like I must work hard at everything I do so that I can become a better person, and yet I’m not sure how to do that
.

Around this time in an effort to save money on transport, though at great financial cost, I bought a Peugeot bike. The decision was made on a whim, but soon my cheeks were flushed with the crisp English air. As I flew along the country lanes of Kent, my spirits lifted.

That time in England had other happy memories. One memorable nursing job I had was on a small dairy farm out of town, where I looked after an old lady. Her daughter wanted to keep her at home, not in an aged-care facility.

Lush green pastures surrounded the farm, and the journey there on my bike took me across some of England’s most beautiful countryside. It was about a twenty-kilometre trip each way. I worked from 10 am to 6 pm. Each day I arrived in time to bathe the lady and help her with meals. Afterwards I’d read to her from one of her favourite books. Her daughter was busy with the farm and taking the children to and from school, but on their return from school the children would rush in to greet their grandmother and tell her about their day. This was a loving family and it touched me deeply.

At around 4 pm they would all gather around a long table in the kitchen and have a meal, to which I was invited. It was winter; the food was warm and the fire cosy. It was hard to leave after my shift. Sitting at that table I thought that if I ever had a family, this is the atmosphere I would want to create.

One Sunday the woman’s extended family came to visit. I bathed and dressed her in her best and put a little lipstick on. The family stayed for lunch and once again I was invited to join them. When I left that evening, she was at peace.

The next day at school I received a call from the agency telling me that she had died that night. Her daughter sent me a beautiful card, thanking me for looking after her mother, especially on the Sunday that she’d died because she’d had such a lovely day.

One morning after a night shift at the hospital in Pembury I heard what I thought was the twitter of birds coming down the corridor towards the nurse’s office. I poked my head out to see what the commotion was. The day staff were arriving for their shift.

‘What’s going on?’ I asked.

‘Have you looked outside?’ one of the nurses replied.

I opened the blind in the office to a bright sunny day. If you’ve ever lived in England, you will know what a rare event that is. When I mounted my bike that morning I didn’t go straight home to sleep. Instead I went for a ride through the village. There were people everywhere, sitting outside cafés, sunbaking in bikinis on the common – that brought a smile to my face – riding bikes and chatting animatedly. No wonder the English are so depressed, I thought. This is a normal spring day where I come from. It dawned on me that I too was feeling the effects of living under a grey sky. I missed home.

During the twenty months I had been away from Australia, I’d rarely had enough money to ring home – phone calls were expensive – but Mum sometimes called. One of those calls was on my twenty-third birthday. She gave me a running commentary on all the members of our family. Teresa had just delivered her third child – a girl, Naomi – and Jill was pregnant with her first. Brisbane and my family seemed a long way away. I hung up and decided to save enough money to go home for a holiday on my next semester break.

But two days later I received another call from my brother-in-law, Frank.

‘Teresa’s unwell,’ he said. ‘Would you come home to look after the children?’

It wasn’t exactly how I had planned things, but I immediately said yes. Dad sent me the money for my airfare and soon I was winging my way home to Australia, leaving herbal medicine behind me. My only regret was that I also had to leave my beautiful Peugeot bike behind.