Ellie's Minions

28th July 2016

I was reading this article on Inner Speech the other day (or week, I can’t remember) and my sister, Ellie, peered over my shoulder and told me that what I was reading was boring. Fair enough, really. There weren’t witty cartoons to go with the article. But I still think Inner Speech is important.

I mean it’s telling us how to live our lives. Our Inner Speech is like a little Monarch and our actions are like little civilians fulfilling the Monarch’s commands. And these civilians will influence how other little Monarchs will instruct their own little civilians. And thus we have a society. Profound, hey? Okay, maybe not. But still.

If there’s any confusion as to what is meant by Inner Speech: it’s the voice in your head that says, “GIRL, I COULD EAT YOU RIGHT UP,” when you smear on some red lipstick. (I should really wear lipstick more often.) It’s also the voice that calls you a “dipshit” when you forget to lock the cubicle door in a public rest room. (Sometimes the need to wee is stronger than the urge to lock, okay?) But Inner Speech is not the voice you hear when nobody else is around. If you hear that voice, or voices, I would strongly recommend getting a referral from the GP to see a psychiatrist.

Anyway, after Ellie told me that the article was boring, I asked her what her Inner Speech sounded like. She responded with:

“It sounds like me most of the time. But sometimes, if I’ve been watching a TV show, it’ll sound like a character from a TV show. Like the other day I was watching Friends, and then it sounded like Rachel from Friends.”

And then she went on with something pretty great:

“But when I’m having a meltdown, all of the Minions throw paper everywhere and a big alarm goes off.”

You know the yellow things in overalls from the "Despicable Me" movies? They’re what Ellie means when she says, “… the Minions…”

Lots of Minions, in a big multileveled office with industrial staircases, run her mind. They sit in wheelie chairs at trestle tables organising different aspects of her life. And whenever something becomes irrelevant, the Minion will pack up his stuff and that subject goes on hiatus; like her studies whenever she’s on holiday. And if something becomes so irrelevant that she doesn’t need it anymore, all of the files go down and out a rubbish shoot. So if you’re mean to Ellie she’ll probably throw everything about you in the bin. And then at the end of the day a Head Minion will march around telling the others to pack up and go to bed while he shuts the blinds and Ellie goes to sleep.

Ellie is one of the most imaginatively clever people I know, and the way she knows her own head is something I aspire to. She’s inspired me so much that I’m currently working on a mental workspace of my own. So far there’s a big round table with lots of coffee. I haven’t employed anyone yet. But I do think it’s so important to figure out the nooks and crannies of our minds: to discover how we function and what files go where, and to identify who’s running the show so we know where to go when something goes wrong. What, I think, is even more important is that we develop a friendship with whoever’s in charge. Because Monarch/Minion/whoever is going to be talking in your head for a very long time, and you need someone who you can trust: someone who will tell you how pretty you are, someone who will remind you to lock the cubicle door.

Personally, I have a lot of trust issues with my own Head-Honcho because she’s told me to do some pretty messed up shit in the past. But we’re working on our relationship; some Monarchs just need a little more patience and attention than others.   

George

13th July 2016

Waking up with the sun on a Saturday was always the way for Riley and her Dad. This Saturday was no different. Both father and daughter out of bed to eavesdrop on the chattering early birds; and to see the blue skies warming up for the day ahead. One hundred charming farm acres and the promise of fresh, poached eggs on buttered toast is sure to entice even the laziest out of a Saturday sleep-in.

“Morning, darling girl,” said Dad as he gathered the necessary saucepan and white vinegar. The thick slices of white bread waited to be toasted; the coffee was brewing in the plunger; and Riley was eager to break her fast. She knew the routine. Get three eggs out the fridge with care so not to drop them: two eggs for Dad in her right hand, and one egg for herself in the left. One time Riley tried carrying two in her left hand, and one in her right: the floor enjoyed those eggs more than them. They ate cornflakes that day.

“Don’t forget the butter,” Dad reminded. Riley pulled the fridge door open and stood on her wooden stool to reach the top shelf. She grabbed the butter and sat it on the kitchen bench. That was done. Now, the eggs… Where were the eggs?

“Dad, where are the eggs?” Riley asked, scanning the top shelf, and then the middle shelf, and then the bottom. She even checked the fruit and veg draw, but still no eggs.

“Oh, I forgot to collect them yesterday,” he replied. “Would you mind getting them, chook?”

Would Riley mind getting them? She didn’t know. She knew that being a whole seven years old meant she was grown-up enough to collect the eggs by herself. She also knew that her tummy wanted those gooey eggs, really very badly. But the thing was. Well, not so much a thing, more of a cockerel. A cockerel called George.

George is a rooster. He’s also a menace. He’s also orange, fluffy, and a little over half a foot tall. Riley wasn’t sure what happened to George as a chick but she’s convinced it must have been traumatic: traumatic enough for him to not like anybody or anything. At Riley’s sixth birthday party, George rounded up three of Riley’s friends and held them hostage in the far corner of the house yard. There was this other time when Riley saw George attacking a tree. Now, either the tree said something very offensive, or George is insane. Riley is also convinced of the latter.

“Okay,” Riley peeped to Dad.

She was so looking forward to a quiet Saturday after a tremendous week at school. Instead she’d enlisted in the arduous task of battling a rooster with little man syndrome. But if her Dad had taught her anything; it was how to take responsibility, and honour her commitments. She’d committed to collecting the eggs, so collecting the eggs she must.

The beauty of the day was such an ironic setting for such a trialing mission. Riley made her way to the back sliding door and slipped on her pink, muddy crocs. Not the most protective footwear, but they had to do. Dad had already started boiling the water on the stove; and Riley’s, more durable, gumboots were at the front door. No time to get them.

“Come on, Ralph,” Riley summoned her faithful doggy sidekick, and the two determinedly marched their way towards the battleground: the chicken coop. Unlike Riley’s morale, which refused to break, sticks and leaves crunched under her feet. Riley and Ralph edged closer and closer to the hen home. A hand-painted sign hung over the chicken mesh. ”Cluckingham Palace” was what Riley’s Granddad had dubbed the coop. You’d think George would show a little more respect to the humans who, so lovingly, crafted a roof over his head. But no. Riley and Ralph stood at the door; boldly terrified of him and what he may do. The smell of chicken poo and the faint sense of dread wafted through the air.

“Say a quick prayer with me, Ralph?” Riley asked of the retriever. He sat down and murmured in agreement. “Dear Jesus, as we walk through the valley of Cluckingham, may we fear no George. Please carry us safely through the fight, and, God willing, help us to get those eggs safely home.” They stood there. Breath baited. Riley preemptively raised her hand to the latch and twisted it loose. “Amen.”

The door opened and she staggered back. Pyoo! Feathers and chicken stench blasted at their faces. The warriors clenched their eyes tight and pinched their noses in defense. Three long seconds passed and, through watery eyeballs, they adapted to their hostile surroundings. The initial assault was over.

Riley took a step into enemy territory and, as soon as she did, a Silky charged towards her head. There were Bantams, Hamburgs and Isa Browns. There were Pekins, Rhode Island Reds and Croads. There was even a Khaki Campbell duck. The capons flapped, they cackled, they squawked. By the racket, you’d think they were all egg-bound and underfed. Excited by the calamity, Ralph went crazy and barked like mad. He looked at Riley as if to say: “I’ve got this.” And with that, he chased the chickens, and one duck, down to the back paddock. Woofing, wailing and snapping at tail feathers, he galloped after the defeated army of fowls.

Alone Riley stood in the quiet and the smelly. She crept towards the nesting boxes. But where was George? Was he with the rest of the flock? Had Ralph successfully fended him away? He must have because there was no visible, or audible, sign of him. Closer, and closer she crawled.

And there they were.

The eggs.

Riley salivated like a hungry goanna. There they were; right in front of her. She formed a pouch with her pajama shirt and, with no sign of a rooster, very gently tucked the eggs away. This was much easier than she’d anticipated. Where was the high-speed chase? Where was the dramatic orchestrated, war appropriate soundtrack? Where was the part where she could heroically call out “Go on without me!” to Ralph? The anticlimax left her a little deflated; but she was proud nonetheless. With the eggs safely hidden, she carefully exited the coop and made towards the house.

And there he squarely stood. Making his presence known. Right between Riley and the house, George threateningly stared her dead in the eyes.

Riley’s eyes nervously darted around looking for Ralph; but he was long gone in pursuit of the other chickens. George puffed out his breast and clawed at the ground. It was a Mexican standoff and there was only one thing that could be done. Riley clutched her pouch full of eggs. Gulped. And ran.

He crowed like a bugle and George was on Riley’s case. He dashed towards her and jumped up at her legs. Riley’s little athletics training had prepared her for this exact moment. She dodged and she sprinted; all the while George striking out at her legs with downy spurs. And in a moment of perfect persecution, he pierced Riley’s bare calf. My word, it hurt! She kicked him off which resulted in George doing a backwards somersault mid air. Driven by pure testosterone, George launched back at Riley, grabbed hold of her crocs and clung on. He pecked at Riley’s ankles until they were raw. Riley screamed and jumped up and down trying to rid herself of the little cockhead. But George was relentless. He would not let go, which left Riley with only one option. She would have to drop an egg bomb. She’d collected five eggs and figured she could only spare two; otherwise her efforts would be pointless, and she’d be eating soggy cornflakes. She picked an egg from her pajama pouch, and kissed it for luck. Just as she did, George jumped up at her shorts and startled Riley into dropping the egg.

“Damn it, George!” That was it. That was the last straw. And you could tell because Riley never ever said ‘damn’. She picked out another egg, aimed, and flung it right at George’s face. The egg exploded; George was blinded in a sulfurous haze; he, consequently, lost his grip; and tumbled to the ground. “Rooster down!” cried Riley, and she ran like hell towards the back sliding door.

Her ankles were red, her pajama shorts yolky, and her leg was dripping with blood. These wounds left Riley with a beaming esteem and the knowledge that she was, indeed, a champion rooster wrangler. Not bothering to kick off her pink, muddy crocs, Riley bolted into the kitchen and bestowed the final three perfect eggs upon her Dad.

“I did it,” Riley panted.

My Mum's a Nurse

2nd July 2016

In February 2016, my Mum, Lindsay Lucas, spent two weeks on the Greek Island of Lesvos; donating her time, money, and nursing skills to assist the Syrian Refugees making deadly journeys across the Aegean Sea to the EU in hope of finding a better life. I thought her experience should be shared; so, I asked her some questions, she very kindly answered, and here you have them!

How long have you been nursing?

“I’ve worked in the operating theatres as an anaesthetic/post anaesthetic care nurse for most of my nursing life. Apart from general nursing I have trained as a midwife. Since leaving the operating theatres I have worked as a practise nurse with a GP. I currently work in public health providing vaccinations, and vision screenings for four-year-olds before they start school. I have been nursing for thirty-nine years. Yikes, that’s a long time!”

What is The Moria Health Point Project and where is it situated?

“A UK doctor called Hadia Aslam began the Health Point (now Health Point Foundation) in a refugee camp in Calais, France. It is known as ‘The Jungle.’”

Why is it known as 'The Jungle'?

“I don’t know, I guess people think it’s just wild. But really they’re just people trying to survive. The Health Point provides medical and dental care to refugees. Dr Aslam then saw the need for care on the Greek Island of Lesvos; where thousands of refugees are continuing to make the treacherous crossing over the Aegean Sea from Turkey. These people have nothing. Many have pre-existing medical conditions while others have medical conditions as a result of their journey. These people are literally escaping death.”

What triggered your decision to travel to Lesvos and volunteer at the camp?

“I initially felt compelled to volunteer four years ago when I saw what was happening to the Syrians in their own country. I eventually came across Health Point Project, which allowed me to volunteer as a nurse in a time frame that was suitable. Most organisations require a commitment of at least three months: not suitable when you have children and work commitments.”

How have people responded to your choice to volunteer?

“Most people’s responses have been very positive. I am  also aware that there will be people who won’t see it in a positive light. I am yet to meet the latter.”

What were the conditions like at the camp?

“The conditions in the camp were okay. There were tents for accommodation; the refugees’ food tent; the volunteers’ food tent; a clothing tent; and the medical tent. There was also a designated children’s tent and a sort of playground. Performers and clowns entertained the children. There were portable toilets, and no showering facilities. When I arrived, there was no hot water. However, this was overcome with the building of a compost heating system. A water pipe is run through a compost heap and the compost produces heat that warms the water. I hear they now have running water in the medical tent too. Sheer luxury! And when it rained there was mud everywhere.”

Did it rain often?

“It was winter, so some days. It got a bit wild though. Windy. The accommodation tents weren’t heated and there were families with young babies. At Christmas a baby died from hypothermia. There was also a solar run power station for charging mobile phones in the middle of the camp, so the refugees could contact their families.”

And how did your nursing skills come to play?

“I had no idea what to expect when I volunteered. My general basic nursing skills came into play. So, observations: temperature, pulse, blood pressure and urinalysis, and antenatal care of the pregnant women. I helped children and adults with severe frostbite, which is something I have never seen or experienced in my entire nursing career. We entertained the children, provided warmth, comfort and sustenance. And, above all, we provided these two very basic, yet vital, needs: water and rest.”

Who did you meet?

“Where do I start? The volunteers I met and worked with were amazing. I believe I have made friendships that will last a lifetime (albeit on the other side of the world). Volunteers included: translators, nurses, doctors, paramedics, student doctors, entertainers, university students, and travellers. People from all walks of life, from all over the world that, with no agenda, wanted to help. The decency and power of humanity was palpable. The refugees, oh my, what can I say without welling? I met gracious, humble, and traumatised men, women, children and babies. I have been kissed, blessed, and hugged by total strangers. People, like you and I, escaping torture, rape, bombings, and all of the atrocities associated with war. All they want is freedom. Freedom to live a life without fear.”

What was the most touching story that you heard?

“One day, we had a group of pregnant women come in: they wanted reassurance that their babies were all right. There was one particular, exhausted, young mother whose story affects me: this woman, her husband, her girlfriend and her husband were running for their lives; escaping ISIS and Assad’s army. At one point, they were hiding in a valley with Assad’s army on the one side and ISIS on the other. These two friends were about the same gestation in their pregnancies. Unfortunately, her friend lost her baby. When they arrived at the medical tent, this pregnant woman had lower abdominal pain and was fearful that she, too, might lose her baby. We checked the baby and we could hear a healthy foetal heartbeat. She was relieved, I think, but she was so exhausted it was hard to gauge her emotions. I asked her a question; one that you would probably ask any pregnant woman: ‘Do you have a name for your baby?’ Her reply, via the translator, was that she hadn’t been able to think about this because all she was trying to do was survive. We will never know or understand what these people have endured. I ended up talking to a beautiful paediatrician. Such a gentle man. Both he and I cried.”

How can we help?

“This is such a catastrophic man-made disaster. Where do you begin? You can volunteer: it doesn’t have to be medical; you can distribute clothes and food, and help terrified people out of the inflatable boats. You can drive the volunteers to and from camp, or the refugees to the hospital. You can source equipment to help refugees: for instance, a stroller for a family who have carried their handicapped child all the way from Syria. You can donate money; you can petition governments to stop the bombings in Syria; and you can support the countries where there is a huge influx of refugees: Greece, Lebanon, Jordan and Southern Italy. And pray. Pray for the EU to find a solution. Pray for all of the unaccompanied minors. Pray that the refugees can return home and rebuild their countries. Pray for acceptance and tolerance from people in other countries around the world. I really don’t know how to answer this question. I guess at the end of the day it is up to the individual and what they feel is right for them.”

For more information about the Health Point Foundation, you can visit their website.