What day is it?
Eleven weeks later. Nearly three months back home. Other than my belongings allocated to their rightful place nothing is the same. Six months ago I considered that fast paced Melbourne no longer felt like home. Little did I know that it would be Melbourne redefined, not my choice of country to call home.
Three weeks to put the silverware, crockery and crystal in draws and cupboards, the few remaining books back on shelves, clothes on hangers. Boy I had been ruthless in my culling 18 months earlier. I now have loads of storage space and very few clothes. Melbourne restrictions relaxed, I was spared the dystopian experience of empty streets and bare shop shelves. Instead the local shopping mall, Chadstone, was buzzing. Very little social distancing was evident and few seemed inclined to avail of the proffered hand sanitiser. While online shopping had delivered treats to my door — a sound bar (in lieu of a new TV, my current one would more than suffice); a slow/pressure cooker (it would use less energy), office furniture from Officeworks (for the new job), I needed clothes. Online clothes shopping just not for me, a visit to a physical store was in store. I picked up new bed linen as well, for my magically high new bed. I’d ordered a base with draws, storage always at a premium in my small home and now I have a cloud like mattress floating above a large base, necessitating a slight hop each night when I head to bed — an amusing sight, as I fondly think of poor Simba who in his last weeks struggled to jump up onto my old bed. After numerous trips to Chadstone, stocking up the pantry, purchases at Bunnings to get the garden in shape, actively living the concept of abundance the bank balance was heading south quite rapidly. I’d registered with the ATO, the Australian Tax Office, for job keeper — as a sole trader and my reduction in private practice income meeting criteria, I was bemused to receive a text message from the ATO encouraging me to complete the process, wanting to give away money. That was a first. Wondering if in fact I was ineligible, about to start a full-time job, the presumption being the tax office was overburdened, I waited patiently for an outcome.
Induction via zoom. Taking on the new job, clinical lead setting up the speech pathology component for a national disability private provider, played to my strengths and my ego. I thrive on setting services up and am inspired to contribute to the next generation of speech pathologists. I had a few niggles prior to starting — initial negotiations over salary, at ‘restraint’ clause regarding future private practice and on day one had a few more. No welcome from senior management. The sense of the culture not readily eveident. The bulk of the induction pre recorded videos (very efficient — god forbid in the human centred area of allied health and disability spend person time on unnecessary things like orientation of new staff). The disquiet built over the first week. New jobs take adjusting don’t they, I told myself. I’ll give in 6 months. I have a job to return to then if I want, the thoughts deafening me to my bellowing intuition.
Monday of the second week. Deceptions from the on boarding process prevalent — promised renumeration for office equipment in fact ‘claim it on your tax’, the number of allocated ‘billable hours’ which were to be minimal were heavy. OK I’ll give it till Wednesday I thought. An honest and frank conversation with the MD Tuesday evening seduced me. Her passion and vision were contagious. Only later that night did I reconsider the staff hadn’t caught it! They had a job where KPIs and billable hours were targets to be met. Not the place for me. Emailing my resignation to the MD at lunchtime on Wednesday, awaiting a call back, within 1/2 hour I found myself locked out of their systems. Boy had I made the right call. The bucket of National Disability Insurance Scheme money has given rise to a plethora of corporate disability companies. I had hoped this company, established by an occupational therapist, might have had a more person centred approach. But with a staff of 150 and growing, it was a big enterprise, driven by her vision and dollars. Despite the anxiety it had caused in such a short time I did learn about the NDIS and earned some money, so all in all an ok 8 days. On day 9 I followed up with the ATO where the very kind gentleman said that ‘because you’ve admitted you did something wrong, I can override the cut off date’. So a nice sum of ‘backpay’ would find its way into my account and I had very clear instructions on how to complete coming month’s application.
Private practice now the way to go, bugger — what had been my play room was now an ‘office’. As the NDIS funds covers home visits I decided that was the way forward. Every day an enquiry came my way and within a few weeks I was quite busy and wanting to shift to include more adolescents and young adults with neuro -developmental disorders, I found that coming my way too.
This corona virus was still hanging in the air and stage 2 restrictions inspired a quiet life. A walk and coffee with Sandra and her beautiful baby girl Liliana, take away at my place over a few glasses of wine with Cath, a mail delivery (socially distanced) from Martha and Hubert, cooking for friends where we held back on the desire to hug hello after a six month absence. And a few weekends away booked in to visit friends out of Melbourne. Life was OK. I got the quiet Melbourne life I wanted.
A tickle in my throat, the same one that had come and gone over the previous 3 months in relative isolation aka Stratford living, some sneezing, almost certainly hay fever. As I was catching up with a friend who was pregnant I thought, ‘I better check’. Three hours in the drive-through queue, a nasal swab far less intrusive than anticipated, then self isolation until the results came in. As three housing commission tower blocks had just gone into locked down I anticipated a lengthy wait, giving up my daily walk for the greater good! In less than 30 hours later I was cleared. But within 2 days Victoria’s ‘COVID numbers’ reached a new crescendo and Stage 3 was declared.
Days took on a new rhythm. Never an early riser, my day began somewhere between 8 and 9 am. A leisurely breakfast, too much screen time reviewing fb and Insta, then dependant upon clients, a walk ranging from 4 to 8kms in the brisk winter air either am or pm. My frequent route through Hedgeley Dene, around Central Park and back through a salubrious neighbourhood the other side of Burke Road needed an alternative. The legality of walking in other neighbourhoods was dubious but Caulfield Park was a half way point between Maddy and I, close to Leora, and a decent walk there and back for me. I rediscovered the Gardiners Creek path, a peaceful reprieve from city life. East headed past ovals and through a golf course, west into some Aussie bush. One saucy day the bark of a eucalypt caught my eye — smooth streaks of silver, mustard, caramel and grey, and another rough, sinewy chocolate brown. I passed a paperbark, its skin a dress elegantly draped off the shoulders. Other trees stood as if their armour had fallen, leaving the fragile skin of a newborn, exposed. I looked up. Clouds hovered like space craft, cotton wool, or brushed the sky in water colour shades reflecting the sun’s light. This was OK.
A luxurious home brewed coffee, snack of cashews and sultanas mixed with Lint dark chocolate or Mersey Valley vintage cheese, reading my book atop my floating bed with the sun streaming in — the stokes on the canvas of my late afternoons. Yoga with Adrienne accompanied by Nala, my new house mate. Cooking with my new toy, the pressure cooker. And the days stretched. Walking and zoom dates along with home visits to clients filled my social needs as I bathed in the quiet and solitude.
Nala. Grateful for small blessings I scan my home, my rejuvenating garden and look over to Nala. What a gift. Maddy, my eldest niece, is a resourceful researcher and networker. After one false start (I do wonder how poor Jojo of St Albans is doing — he certainly was not the cat for me), Maddy and I drove to South Melbourne to meet a six month old kitten. Maddy and Ally had named Simba decades ago. Maddy proffered Nala as a name. Wasn’t that a bit twee? Forgette in SA considered my choices ‘Chena (white in Shona) or Nala (which actually means ‘be happy’ in Swahili). The vote was in, Nala it was. Initially Nala didn’t feel like mine, she was not Simba. I found myself comparing. A year ago at various Airbnb’s (oh remember when they were a part of daily life) as the resident cat greeted me, a pang in my heart told me I was not ready to replace Simba. My abrupt return to Australia and ‘normal’ life, a cat would be a necessary crutch. Stunning pale blue eyes, grey mask, light grey ears, snow white chest, the cream of her mane transforming slowly down her back, tinges of cinnamon and grey to subtly defined stripes over her hind land legs, and the dark grey black and white tiger stripes of her tail. She seemed so tiny, with a squeaky kitten meow, baby kitten teeth nipping me in play, and the purr of a motor boat. Her long legs gave hint to the possibility of a tall, long slender body. My expensive carpet, damaged by tenants, took more abuse from Nala. An outdoor kitten being transformed into an inside cat, it was a few days before she adjust to kitty litter. A few more days before she discovered my bed as a warm cosy place to hang out over night! Skittish, it was weeks before she stopped running away in fright when I bent to pick her up. Being a cat, she came to me on her terms of course. Not yet a lap cat, Nala has ascertained her rightful pride of place on top of my legs when laying on the couch. As weeks pass, at different angles, Nala still looks small. Light and playful, her antics bring out my hearty laugh. Her quizzical look as I sing out loud or dance around the room ensure I do not feel alone. With Spring tempting us between arctic blasts, the garden and slight warmth has drawn me out to the courtyard more often. She looks forlornly from the glass so I have splurged on a portable cat enclosure. Other than suffering her first season on ‘heat’ (quite an experience I must say, soon to be rectified by the vet) Nala has become family, my essential mental health worker in lock down, the reason to say “I love you” ( I do wonder if she gets sick of hearing that).
The numbers kept rising. Over 700. Masks became mandatory and walking was transformed — the masked sucked in as I talk on the phone. As I adapted to the mask frequent readjustment required though I’m not supposed to touch it? Hmm, there is a smell — do I have bad breath? Post COVID someone please promise to tell me if I do. And my smile — does it reach my eyes? Cath said she now does the old person nod as she passes people. I raise my hand slightly. But as the days pass I notice do this less. Is it water bottle and phone fill hands, or the collective mood? My joy is now hidden from the world.
Within a few weeks Stage 4 was announced. Another 6 weeks minimum loomed. And now a curfew. Such an alien concept. Initially I thought it was the first ever in Australia but there have been others, for aboriginals, for youth after race riots in NSW. This is the first blanket curfew. Then the announcement of a permit system. In stage 3, as an essential worker I offered some face to face sessions. Stage 4 — f2f (I learn that acronym on a speech path fb site) is now not permitted. I cannot justify my sessions providing ‘services that prevent a significant change/deterioration in functional independence necessitating escalation of care (e.g. a requirement for specialist input/review, an increase in care needs and/or alternate accommodation, avoiding a hospital admission or emergency department presentation)’. Shopping within a 5 km radius of home, one person per household, once per day. Walking within 5 kms radius of your home. 1 hour once per day. Fines pretty hefty.
Hold on, what day is it?
Stage 3 had little impact but stage 4 feels very very different. With only a few clients willing to utilise telehealth, I male a conscious decision to relax into less work, grateful that I have some, grateful for the government support, and confident post lockdown work will build again. But work is so m ugh more than money. It gives focus and punctuates the week. Of most significance in stage 3 is that work was social and an opportunity to be ‘in service’, giving me a dose of ‘light’. Stage 4 has taken that aspect away, though the smiles across the internet from my few clients is a truly valued part of my week. I keep walking, doing yoga, cooking tasty nutritious meals, scones or cakes that I now have to eat rather than share. I listen to enlightening and awakening YouTube videos, develop a mediation routine and talk to friends, my pragmatic friends, religious friends, psychologically minded friends and my sensitive, esoteric spiritual family. We touch base and support each other through these changing times, with equal measures of excitement and disquiet at what is unfolding. Life will never be the same. As our elders experienced war and depression, we face the existential battle of our time. We choose to go inward, dig deep and remain in the light.
COVID 19. Every household has its own challenges. The lone person household of a single person seeking to connect. (Interestingly if a relationship that person can connect with a partner, can’t the single people nominate a friend to be in their bubble?). Families working and supervising ‘remote learning’, craving ‘me’ time and space. The elderly in nursing homes or their own home, fearful and isolated from the people most precious to them. Then there are the unsafe homes.
‘The numbers’. I saw a Department of Health summary that puts the numbers into rational perspective. Of course not relevant to those who have experienced the horrible illness nor those who have lost loved ones. My GP and I chat. We chat about the other numbers, the mental health tsunami, the suicide rate, the comorbidity of those who have died that distort the numbers. The media feeding us fear.
I reflect on how often I have said ‘this is hard’ in the past few weeks, observing my mood lowering, as is the collective mood here in Melbourne. Although an ambivert, my inner introvert thriving on ‘me’ time, my extrovert has not been fed. Relentless tiredness, a sense of ‘ground hog day’, keeping to my routine with effort, having to make a conscious choice each day to think positively, feeling teary. None of that is ‘me’. So I ask for a mental health plan — to have a place to chat if I need.
Half way through stage 4 I feel a shift. My mood has bounced back, despite days of rain. I hope it sticks.
Initially there was the focus of our impact on others, on the earth. People were eager to ‘get back’ to normal. The planet has been made to stop, a gentler version of what world war would’ve brought. We now have time to reflect and ‘go forward’ to a new normal. A better, light filled one. But that has come with curfew, permits, lack of choice, restriction of freedom. When a friend commented on fb the measures were a scary reminder of her homeland Yugoslavia decades ago, I reflect on the slippery slope. How willingly the majority have obliged — a community working together to care for the health of the vulnerable and our front line workers. I am mindful as this virus has unleashed a degree of institutional control foreign to many of us.
I miss the choice to go to the beach, to smell waves crashing on the shore. I miss smiles, seeing them but more so, feeling them. I miss laughter. I miss hugs. I can’t wait to get one of Martha’s hugs. Her hug is like a vise grip, where the tight bonds of friendship envelop and imbue you. I miss joy. But I choose to find some each day. I choose to have gratitude each day.
I give thanks for friends and family. COVID 19 has brought changes to my life I would not have chosen. I am glad to be here, near you in Australia. But I do hope to see those across the seas again one day.
