The After by Donna Page (c) 13 April 2024

 The After by Donna Page (c) 13 April 2024

So this is how love feels in the After. Still so strong, still real, still there. It hasn't changed much at all, but now it comes with yearning.

The longing to rest your head on that now invisible shoulder, in that spot that was safe. That place that gave you comfort. Where his arms wrapped around you and closed out the world. Where, in those moments, absolutely nothing else matters.

The After means holding your breath, begging the tears not to fall, pretending to be strong. Showing the world what they think you should be. Strong, resilient, brave. You are actually none of these things. In the after, you play pretend. Pretending is easier than reality.

In the world outside, there is no After for everyone else. It means something different out there where the other people play. That after shows the sun has moved past the point of midday. That after is a mint in the evening. That after is when they plan to go to a movie. That after is something children set up play dates for.  Afternoon, after dinner, after school. It is nothing like your After.

In the Before, he was here. Your strength when you felt weak, your champion when you were afraid, your confidante, your everything. His was the first face you saw every morning, the last face you saw every night. He was constant. He made you feel like you could conquer anything the world threw with him at your side. The Before was wonderful. 

Your lives were entwined. You passed through each day in fluid motion, apart but together, always. Knowing that no matter what that day brought, there was no challenge you could not face. Because you and he were We, Us. One heart, separated only by the distance of kilometres. Knowing that his voice was on the other end of a telephone call, his fingertips waiting on the other end of the keyboard. Loving, caring, nurturing. You were One.

Then suddenly, there was the After, his heart torn away from yours, those bonds stolen, never to return. The After shattered your heart into a million pieces. Pieces that are impossible to pick up, nothing in the After is strong enough to hold them together. People try, but he is the only one who can weave his spell around your heart and hold it in place. 

But he was stolen, ripped away from your grasp, taken from your sight forever. In the After he is only in your mind, in your heart, in your memories. His face is in the photos that surround you. Photos in which you can see his face, trace his smile, and stare at his eyes. But he can not respond. In the After, his life is gone forever. He lives on in your heart, in your memories, in your love. In the After, you can no longer hear him say I love you, you got this, we've got this. In the After, you have to listen to what is inside of you. To find those words lying among those shattered pieces that now live where your heart once did. You close your eyes and move them around. Listening for the sound of his voice. Listening to hear those words that mean so much. Begging the universe for just one more. I love you.

The After is dark, it is cold, it is scary. The After has flashes of light, ones gifted to you by the people who stayed by your side when the lights went off in your world. Not many of those in your Before stay for your After. The After is a place that scares people; it is hard to be a light in its darkness. You must be brave to walk beside someone living in the After. For they need you but need him more, and you can not give them that gift. All you can give is a port when the storm is too strong, and the shattered pieces are falling deeper into their spirit. You have to be willing to hold them together when they can no longer go on, to gently and slowly guide them towards that dull light that exists in the After. The only light they can hold on to and hope that their grip doesn't falter again, at least for a while.

Life in the After is sad, but it has light moments, which are a true gift. If you can make light in someone's After, do everything you can to keep it shining for as long as possible. Even though you know each moment of light will give way to the darkness eventually. Those moments make the After easier to bear.  

A Soldier Alone by Donna Page (c) 26 May 2022

 Please note this is an unedited draft that was butchered down from this to become an assessment piece. I acknowledge that it has grammar and punctuation errors. 

A SOLDIER ALONE

The sun was rising after the darkest of nights. Dreams of the war haunted his slumber, he alone in his bed, but in his head, his mates were by his side. Shoulder to shoulder, covered in dirt, lice and some things you just did not want to think about. If you were going to smoke you made sure the spark from each drag on the cigarette was hidden from view, only took one stray spark to alert the men in the opposite line to exactly where someone was standing. You never shared a match, to light your mate’s cigarette could put a bullet in his head at night. 

He never imagined that 75 years later he would be alone. He had somehow managed to outlive all of this mates that made it home. Not that there was a lot of them. He could remember every name of the men he served with, most especially the ones that stayed in Tobruk, they couldn’t bring them home; there was not enough pieces to tell who they were any more. 

His memory briefly flew to his Corporal, Jack, he should have come home, he was his best mate. He should be sitting beside him in that ANZAC day parade jeep. Instead, he was the bravest of them all, ultimately giving his life saving an officer in their unit. This memory ran deep in his soul. They had shared a love of football as children, had plans of to be the next Jim Davies, their favourite football player.

Taking his memories to breakfast, he sat alone at the table, thinking about the days of footy and fun before the war changed his life forever. The sun was now up, he could hear the neighbourhood waking up, next doors dog barking at mysterious things. It made him smile, he knew the part that he had paid in making this country a safe place to live. Although that fight was always tinged with sadness.

His injuries coming home from World War Two left him with a permanent limp, he was able to get back to his work as a framer, he worked for the company since he was 14 years old, he had learned the craft of making frames from scratch, carving them out of beautiful oak and cedar. But that too was gone now. People around her did not spend money on hand made beauty, they went to the local discount store and bought fames for their photographs now. He looked up at the photograph of his late wife on the wall. He had made the frame for that picture of her in the wedding gown.

They had married very quickly before he was shipped out. She did not actually get to where that dress at their wedding, so when he came back, they got dressed up and had the photos taken at the local photographers. He made sure that this photo was taken of her. She looked stunning that day. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid his eyes on. He was so proud that she chose him. They had a daughter together. She was grown and lived far away now. She had given them a grandson who visited occasionally. But most of the time he was alone with his memories. 

After retiring at 65 years of age, trips were planned, a new life for them, travelling in their caravan, seeing Australia, then suddenly she was taken from him too. He was alone again. 30 years had been a very long time to be alone. He felt lost without her. His mates grew old with him, but they had families, and they too passed with time. He had been the youngest in his unit. Now he sat alone. On ANZAC Day, he was surrounding by people, but he did not know them. They were veterans, but not from his war, not from his unit, they did not see Tobruk. They talked about their stories, shared memories, but none of them were his. 

His memories were wrapped up in Tobruk, his unit, his childhood. Not one person shared that. Not anymore. The young people that marched to represent their schools, their families, honoured the memories of those lost but they did not know them. Some of the kids were the grandchildren of his friends, but they did not know him. He was simply a forgotten soldier. The life of a soldier coming home, was applauded, and thanked. They were given accolades and parades. The returning soldiers were given medals. But what they were not given was a guide to how to get through his nightmares, through his memories, and now through his loneliness. What can you do with a retired soldier, with no family at home? No one who shares your memories, no one interested in knowing what you know.

He was always proud to have served his country, he felt oddly about how his service was now thought of. ANZAC Day and Remembrance Day, he was seen and honoured by the people surrounding him. Yet every other day of the year, his service forgotten, no one seemed to care. He could not understand why children had their faces stuck in phones, or on computers. He knew that once a year they got someone to come to school and tell them about the war. He used to get asked to do the presentation, but after Afghanistan and Iraq he was no longer relevant. His war was very different to modern warfare. The children did not want to know about barbed wire and trenches, they wanted to know about guided missiles, and technology. 

He washed his breakfast bowl and finished his coffee. Time for his day to begin, just like yesterday. He showered and put on his clothes, cream-coloured trousers, his singlet, and a white shirt today. He was stiff this morning, so found some difficulty in putting on his socks and shoes. He thought about that gadget he had seen on the television. The one that helped you put on your socks. He decided he was not that decrepit yet. He was sure the day would come. 

Putting on his Akubra he headed outside, his faithful walking stick in his hand, to get his newspaper and empty the mail, he had heard the postman stop already. One letter and Junk again. He put his newspaper under his arm and headed to the lounger. The weather was getting cooler, so he would soon need to move it around to the sunny spot in front of his window. He dusted off his lounger, junk mail comes in handy sometimes. As he turned, he looked at his walking stick for a moment. He had made that in the workshop after he came back from the war. He did not like the one the army had given him. He had carved the symbols of his unit into the handle and the initials of his mates into the stick. They were still supporting him almost a century later. He smiled as he sat.

The front-page headlines were about Russia and Ukraine, it was terrible to read these things still happening in the world. He shook his head at the thought of the lives being lost of totally innocent people. Exactly like he had experienced. The reason he fought for our safety was to hope that this would never happen again. War, why was it the choice of men of power, this was something he had never understood. 

As he continued to read his newspaper, checking every page for something interesting, he mused over the fact that his grandson had given him an electronic device, a Tablet, for Christmas. Apparently, you could read the news on it anytime you liked. A tablet, as far as he was concerned was something he took every morning and night for his blood pressure. This device was not for reading on that was for sure. He had learned to use it to get emails, the only way his daughter communicated with him. She did not have time to visit. It had too jobs, email and to keep photographs she sent him and the photos of his grandson playing guitar in different shows, and in concerts and university. 

Looking at his watch he realised it was almost time for lunch. He folded up his newspaper, put his shoes back on, he had taken them off to lay back on the lounger, sometimes he wondered why he just did not wear his slippers. He stood up and looked around his garden, picked up the hose and briefly watered his two big pot plants. He wondered what was going to be for lunch today.

He did not have to wait long to find out, his lunches came from Meals on Wheels, and the car was just pulling up. He smiled as he knew the two men getting out of the car. They would sit with him while he ate his meal. They would ask about the photos on the walls, his old job, his service. He always enjoyed their visit; it was the one time of the week he was not alone. When he could actually have a conversation with someone other than the cat, who of course came running as soon as she heard the containers for his lunch open. She always joined him for lunch, leaving her post on the top of his wife’s dresser that she had claimed as her own. 

He was a soldier alone, but her realised as he sat enjoying a hot roast lunch that he was not completely alone. He was grateful for the small things he had in this world. The things he knew that he was lucky to have. The things that many did not have. When he thought about it, alone was not great, but at least in his loneliness he got moments of joy, of friendship, and a cat, that would play zoomies at 5pm every day just to make him laugh. 

The Veil by Donna Page © 18/06/2022

Sitting on the ground in the hidden garden her back against his chest, his arms holding tight around her waist. she rested her head back upon his shoulder, enveloped in love. The sun was starting to peek over the horizon, and she knew it was time.

They sat in this garden together every night. Always in the same spot. He would be waiting with that smile, those sparkling eyes. He had so much news to tell her, as she did him.   But that first embrace was the most important. To be held tightly and to feel the love they had always had. The love that the years had given them since he was a teenager. Even at 56 Giselle still felt the very same shiver through her body from the first time he wrapped his arms around her to today, and probably for every more

The garden was a recent edition, she had built it to feel safe from the outside world. She had always meant to build it before, but as a garden artist, she was very busy doing these safe and special places for other people.   Like a painter never paints his own house, a gardener never finishes her own garden. She had the final push to do so a few months ago when she needed to find her safe place again.

As they sat and discussed their moments, she lay against him, feeling his warmth against her body, knowing that warmth for so long. It always brought her comfort. She could tell him anything. He would listen to her vent, complain about the silly customer at work, about the big bosses asking for the impossible. He didn't offer her advice, not unless she asked. He would always just listen.   Let her get what she needed to get out of her system, he knew it would make her tomorrow a bit better. 

Then he would talk, telling her about the wonderful things in his world, that he had seen. About things that she could only imagine.   She didn't understand all the stuff about nebula and twin planets, but she loved listening.   Pluto, his favourite subject often came up.   He needed to know the latest information on what the scientist was deciding.   What was the pulsing about? He had been so upset when they said it wasn't a planet anymore.   He would argue black and blue that it did not matter that it was smaller than our moon, it rotated around our sun, so it was a planet. No argument could be entered into. 

She would read all the latest news articles on the subject, so she could share them with him.   Anything about Astronomy, he loved. All the new discoveries.   He wished that he could be here when his great, great, great-grandchildren would know all that was needed about space travel, and it was going to be just a regular thing. But in 2022 he simply had to know what was written.   Dirk had always wanted to be an astronomer but there was too much math in the subject apparently, and he hated math.

Then they would just stop and be.   Nothing could come between them. Not the hustle and bustle of the outside world, not the reality of tomorrow, just nothing. The moments, they had had for more than 30 years.

As she lay her head back against his shoulder, loving the warmth of him, she knew. The sky had fewer stars now. She closed her eyes and lay back devouring the moment in her heart. She had built this garden for them. The momentary haven from reality. As the sun started to rise above the horizon, she could feel her back getting cooler, it was time. As the sun began to raise higher in the sky, she embraced his hands against her stomach, in hers. Their warmth was gone, and suddenly so were they.

 

Just Listen 2/6/2022 (c)

 

Just Listen 

by Donna Page

Jennifer could hear it, she was sure, but Mummy kept on saying no. She was hearing things. She sat patiently on the chair, listening, she did not believe her mother. 

In the distance she could hear the noise, she knew what she could hear. Mummy was old, at least 40, so she must be going deaf for sure. The washing machine was going, so was the radio and she had the kettle on, how could she hear anything with all that noise. Besides, she wasn’t listening. 

Listening is very different to hearing after all. If you listen, you can hear so much more. Hearing just means you recognise the sounds around you, it doesn’t mean you are actually listening to them. 

Kind of like when Daddy hears Mummy tell him to take the rubbish out, but he doesn’t actually listen so doesn’t do it. Then he gets into trouble when Mummy realises just before the garbage man comes. Its funny really, because Mummy always hears the garbage truck, just in case Daddy hasn’t done his job again. Daddy has two jobs, take out the rubbish and mow the lawn. He doesn’t listen to Mummy when she tells him to do them. There it was again, 

“Can I Mummy, please” she begged. 

Mummy still couldn’t hear anything, but she said yes anyway. Jennifer raced out the door, carefully down the stairs. She made it to the gate, just in time to high five the postman as he delivered the mail. 

She knew she was right because she was listening.

The Reality by Donna Page 30/03/2022

 The reality of my grief.

Sure there is a lot of crying. A lot of denial. A lot of questions. But that is the big part.

The little parts, the ones you don’t see coming, they are the worst. Rolling over in bed, half asleep and he is there, only to put your hand out and touch his empty side of the bed.

The loss of laughing at silly things you do. You don’t anymore because he isn’t there to share that laughter. Now silly has turned to stupid.

The verbalising, have you seen my left shoe, my phone, my glasses, there is no smart alec answer to come so you don’t say it anymore. There is no point.

The conversations about all sorts of things. The intelligent ones, the silly ones, the lotto dream ones. They are all gone.

The loneliness, surrounded by people you love dearly but always feeling alone.

The fear, of the future you planned together changing, of how that future is going to look.

The sadness, of not standing beside him at sunset, not showing him the beautiful photo you took, of hearing the songs you loved together and the songs he loved.

The despair, of the thought that there is a grandchild coming and not having a photo of the baby and Fafa. Of holding your grandchild and not seeing that proud smile on his face.

The guilt, of laughing and smiling about something he would have enjoyed, and the heartbreak that reignites.

Hearing the words, time, how are you, I am so sorry. The truth is I don’t want to hear them. I don’t want people telling me it will be okay. Because it isn’t, and it never will again. Nothing is okay with out him.

The reality of this grief is something that I hope you never have to fathom. We all go through grief at some point, but losing your partner, or your child, is a grief like no other. It opens up a black hole within you that everything gets sucked into. You hold on to the edges of this hole with your fingertips every single day. Some days it is all of them holding on. Other days it is just one fingertip and you just pray that it can keep its grip. And honestly, you only want it to hold on so others don’t have to suffer what you are going through.

You can feel the darkness enveloping you, you can’t stop it, you can only hope that part of you can create a big enough hole so you can breathe and some light can get in.

The reality of my grief is that my heart and soul have been shattered into millions of tiny shards, each one stabbing me at a different moment in time. Hoping that there will be less shards today than yesterday but knowing they will be just different ones. Stabbing into different parts of the never ending emptiness you feel, to remind you painfully that he is gone. Forever!

Trouble down the Stairs ©20/12/2021

Trouble Down the Stairs by Donna Page ©20/12/2021

 Ding, dong, ding, dong, ding, ding, ding, ding, dong.

Suddenly I was awake, surely that music was in my head. What was I dreaming about?

Ding, ding, dong, dong, ding, dong, ding, ding, ding, ding, dong.

No, I was awake and there was definitely music. Who plays music at 3 am Christmas morning? I sat up in my bed. Where was it coming from?

Was it coming from downstairs, in my house? I reached across in the dark to check that my husband was beside me.  Unless that lump was a bear, there he was. Snoring as usual, and definitely not dreaming of sugar plums, more likely mountain bikes or basketball.

One of the kids must have decided to arrive early for Christmas lunch, was not expecting anyone till about 10am but you never know in this family. He was going to cop it when I got down there, waking me up at 3 in the morning. Stumbling around in the dark wasn’t my favourite thing to do.  The music continued whilst I searched blindly for my slippers. Why were they not in their normal place?

As quietly as I could, I walked out of my room, no one wants to wake a bear. I was going to sneak up behind him. He woke me up, I was going to frighten him in return. 

Tiptoeing down the stairs, I thought it was odd that there was no light on. The only sign of light was coming from the Christmas tree. Beautifully twinkling in the darkness. I swore I had turned them off before bed.  I loved our tree, seven foot tall, plush and green, the best tree we have ever owned.

The music was getting louder, I could even hear voices now, tiny shrill voices. What had he been drinking? There was giggling too, as I rounded the bottom of the stairs. I could see the couch clearly.  No one was on it. He must be in the recliner.  

Creeping along the hallway, I could hear paper rustling, and what sounded like sticky tape coming off the roll. He must have been wrapping up Christmas presents. A bit late but at least they will be wrapped.

Steeling myself for the surprise, he was going to jump through the ceiling. I rounded the corner and stopped in my tracks. The look on my face changed from glee to shock.

There was no son in the lounge room. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Elves, tiny little people dressed in red and green. They danced around the tree, they laughed and rolled. Some were wrapping and taping. Others were putting on ribbons and bows. There were extra presents under the tree. Not just the ones I had put there.

What a truly amazing sight, I blinked, I pinched myself to make sure I was actually awake. But most of all I just watched.  There was pure joy surrounding my Christmas tree, dancing, singing, laughing. 

The lifelong belief I had held in my heart about the magic of Christmas would be cemented there forever now. As I turned to creep back up my stairs, a smile on my face, I heard another sound.

“Ho ho ho, Merry Christmas.”

Surrounded by the Nothing by Donna Page c 01/01/2022

 The rain appears fine, yet heavy.  Looking more like a morning mist enveloping the sunrise than pouring rain. The distance is hidden in the grey.

The blinds in ICU let in what light there is. The lights are off in the room. The ceiling lights that is. The lights on the monitors blink constantly. Reminding me that he isn’t doing this on his own.  

Each breath registers on the screen. The oxygen increased as he struggles more for that pressure air we take for granted. His heart rate blinks rapidly. You can see that fourth sound. The mystery that young interns get to discover for themselves. The look on their faces is general astonishment. The sound we hear but can not see. 

He is a mystery. They are asking why. How could the cancer treatment go so well, yet he sits in ICU. Two weeks after he should be at home. Nothing is coming back.  Why does the corner number read 38.7?  Surely someone has an answer. Why will his body not let them know?

Antibiotics seem to stop the temperature going higher. They are certainly not beating it down. They are limiting the fight of what ever it is ravaging his body but they are not defeating it. 

The tube carrying that priceless oxygen to his nose gently rocks with each breath. His head tilted to the side. He can no longer lay down. He needs to be propped up so that the fluid doesn’t win. The fluid wants to take over his lungs. 

He is not inclined to eat, but can be won over with ice cream or the occasional treat. His weight loss clearly visible now. Small treats make him smile. But they fill him.  He doesn’t want the salad with the dry meat. The sandwich without butter.  

He sleeps now. You can see his dreams. His fingers talking, his lips moving silently. His body twitches. He wakes briefly and looks at me, 

“We got this, Baby” 

and then dozes again. The sleep of a restless spirit.

I long to hold him in my arms. To wrap him in the safety of our embrace. I can only gently hold his shoulders. His head in my neck.  Mostly I sit. The chair hard underneath me. Watching him sleep.  Watching him battle to win yet another conflict in this war his body is waging. 

I take a lap around his small room. When it is empty it appears quite large. The equipment overshadows everything. The row of pumps behind him, ready to administer all the medications through the line in his arm. 

Progress is a word we hear. But then  set back follows that. His temperature spikes. More tests. His oxygen lowers, more tests. His blood pressure goes up, drugs to bring it down. Blood pressure plummets. Different drugs. 

His body wants to win this war they tell me.  A fever means a fight. He will overcome this, we will walk away triumphant again. When? I can not answer that. I so wish I could. It seems no one can.