Shapes - Remembering Jean McEwan

This past week, my family said a tearful farewell to a woman who had a profound influence on our lives. Jean McEwan, my grandmother, passed away after a short illness, aged 95 years. Her funeral was less a solemn service and more a celebration of her life - a life that was full and lived well. The following is a piece my cousin and I put together over a couple of phone calls, plenty of tears and a little bit of laughter. We read this together at Nana's service.

Shapes.

by Dean Mayes and Keryn McEwan.

Square.

The squat little heater that sits on the hearth in the North Road living room. Its kerosene globe glows red, warming our bodies as the rain patters the tin roof. We watch the black and white TV; munching her homemade pasties as big as house bricks, or perhaps it was a bowl of her famous pea and ham soup. We play along with the quiz show and we marvel at her sharp mind, her worldly knowledge, as she deftly answers question after question in between the click-clack of her knitting needles - with a wink and a smile.

Cylinder.

The tall glass bottles she collects; Alpine soft drink all the colours of the rainbow. She serves them with ice blocks on warm summer days with her legendary Anzac biscuits and we sit under the liquid amber, playing with Matchbox cars at the base of the trunk, contemplating – but never conquering – a climb of that mighty tree. Her eyes were everywhere, our safety never in question when she was nearby. The empty soft drink bottles we carry to the corner shop, exchanging them for coins to then buy bags of lollies. We return to her in our sugar rush and she greets us by her rose bushes with her wink and her smile.

Triangle.

The chintzy silver Christmas tree, the only one I ever knew existed. Adorned with bright, colourful baubles that reflect the love of family gathered in the living room to exchange gifts, warm hugs and festive laughter. She sweeps into the room with platters of treats, inviting us to eat; her bell voice urging, “Come on, come on, there’s more to come.” The tiny kitchen has been prepared, a banquet of her finest cooking. Christmas ham, vegetables, her handmade Christmas puddings and cakes. She stands at the head of the table, ready to receive her diners, always with her wink and her smile.

Teardrop.

Her beloved fuschias; her pride and joy. Little fingers always found their way to those fat, pink teardrops to squeeze and delight in the pop of the buds – not appreciating it was too early for them to bloom. There’s not much that makes her wild, but a popped fuschia always does. The fallen leaves of the liquid amber to, so easy to kick through, spread far and wide across the hillside lawn. She chases us with the handle of the rake as she scurries to banish the leaves into neat piles. Or our feats of daring involving that clothesline. The run-up was perfect. Our leaps superhuman. Our giggles merciless. No wink or smile from her then.

Circle.

She was at the centre of all of us. Mum, Nana, Little Aunty Jean. As we branched out, embraced our callings and created circles of our own, she gave a little bit of herself to ours, ensuring that she would live on in many lifetimes. We are the chef, the hairdresser, the nurse, the businesswoman, the professionals, the servicemen and women. She has seen us achieve and has reveled in our success – always with that wink and that smile.

A friend of mine recently wrote, “I don’t believe in life after death or even in a moment that stays on beyond itself...What I do believe in is momentum – that one thought leads to another; that people leave shapes in other people, and those shapes carry forward.”

Nana has left shapes in all of us.

DFA.

State Of Play.

So it's been six weeks.

Six weeks since the surgery that turned my life sideways. I was going to say upside down, but that sorta seems overly dramatic and not altogether justified. 

Or maybe it's just me being uncomfortable with the significance of all of this. 

So where am I at?

I still can't talk with any decent quality. I'm good for a few rasping sentences but I'm stuffed after about an hour a day and then I just can't make it work. Which presents a problem because, before all of this surgery, I committed to an author talk at a suburban library here in Adelaide later this month. I still want to do it so I've been resting my voice as much as is humanly possible and I've been working on my exercises three and four times a day in order to stretch the muscles in my throat because I really want to do it. I feel as though I need to do it. 

(Week 3. Would you wanna kiss this??)

My throat hurts like a mother f***er - all the time. 

I saw my surgeon earlier this week and he passed his camera down into the area where he operated. While it's healing, it's become inflamed and hyper sensitive due to some reflux I've developed. I'm now popping Somac daily (a protein pump inhibitor) to address the reflux and I'm swallowing Gaviscon four times a day. The Gaviscon is a thick cement like liquid - that tastes awful - which coats my throat and protects it against acids my natural desire to actually fucking speak.

It's ironic that the exercises I'm supposed to be doing are actually contributing to all of this. 

Oh - and I think I'm addicted to coedine.

I'm popping Panadiene like a junkie - well it feels that way - even though I'm actually sticking to the requisite recommended dosing of 6 hourly. The pain has localized itself to my throat, in the vicinity of my voice box - what's left of it and it feels like razor blades everytime I so much as swallow my own saliva. You would be amazed just how active the tissues and muscles of the throat are, even when you aren't doing anything. It's nigh on impossible to get any respite from it. And, of course, as all knowledgeable persons would know, Panadiene plays havoc with one's bowels. I am so constipated that I've added several classifications to the Bristol Stool Scale. Our toilet has become the equivalent of a missile testing range when I'm in there. It's hazardous.

I hate eating. 

I don't enjoy food at all right now. Between the pain from my still healing palate and my throat, meals are just a chore. It all tastes like metal and flesh. I approach the act of swallowing solid food with dread so much so that I'm starting to avoid them altogether. 

But it has done wonders for my waist line. I've dropped 5kgs in the past month and I'm still shedding.

Suck on that Michelle Bridges!!

I'm back at work. 

Because I do night duty, I can avoid talking for the most part outside of handover and introductions to my patients. They have been very understanding and have kinda dug having a largely mute ICU Nurse caring for them. My colleagues have been hugely supportive and somehow make it work so that I can work. 

(Walhalla - where I want to set my new novel.)

But I'm sinking into a state of functioning depression. 

I want my life back. Beyond waking and doing what I have to do to make it through each day, I'm not motivated. I am trying to write. I've largely mapped out a new novel but it all feels like a chore right now and I don't enjoy it and that's dangerous for a writer. I don't get out much. I clock watch a lot, waiting for the next time where I can pop some pills or drink some cement to ease my dysfunctional throat. It all weighs heavily on my mental well being. At the moment, life consists of just getting through and I want to do more than just fucking get through...

You know...?

DFA.

New Release by Dean Mayes - Feast.

I'm pleased to officially release, in digital format, a new short fiction piece called "Feast" that I showcased in part on the blog here a couple of weeks ago. 

At the end of your life, will you just fade away to nothing or will you burn the candle just one more time? 

Australian author Dean Mayes (Gifts of the Peramangk, The Hambledown Dream, The Regenesis Cluster) poses a thought provoking essay "Feast" that will leave you emotionally moved and your mind crackling with possibilities.

To purchase, simply select your desired format from the drop down menu in the left hand side bar and finalize your payment via Paypal. You will then receive your copy of Feast via email.

DFA.

These Are The Days - My Christmas Message.

This will be my last post for 2011. A couple of weeks ago I managed to catch the second part of a documentary about the legendary rock band Queen called "These Are The Days". One of the most poignant images/footage from this doco was some rare video footage shot of Freddie Mercury during the music video recording of the song "These Are The Days Of Our Lives". By early 1991 Mercury was critically ill as the result of the AIDS virus and rarely had he been seen publicly.

In what I regard as one of the most courageous performances committed to camera, Mercury pulled himself out of bed and shot the video for the song against fairly incredible odds and the result is perhaps one of the most emotional I can think of that I've seen - perhaps ever.

I struggle with Christmas. I don't enjoy it and I usually find that it is a time of considerable stress - mainly due to the nature of my work, which tends to quieten down this time of year. But Christmas to me, was long ago hijacked by commercial interests hell bent on shoving it's - actually their - meaning down our throats. So much so that the real meaning has been lost. I find little to like about Christmas to be honest.

Recently however, I have resolved to observe Christmas more through the eyes of my children and both I and my serioso have constructed a Christmas that is less about the rampant consumerism and vapid commercialism and instead have focused more upon the importance of us as a family unit. We've observed the Christmas story as per the Bible because that's what the core of Christmas is - but it is the importance of love, of remembering the times in your life in which love shone through and nourished you and imparting that love onto your children that is, in my mind the most essential ingredient. 

I have to say that, I am more at peace this Christmas than I have been in the past. 

But it's to the words of "These Are The Days Of Our Lives" that I have drawn the most meaning in the past couple of weeks and I have found the most comfort in those. The song talks of life and love on their most basic terms and with Mercury's impassioned delivery in his dying days - they say more about what should be at the heart of times like these than any other message could. 

Watch the music video below (you may get a message asking you to click through to youtube itself - sorry about that) and just allow yourself to accept the simple message contained therein. It is delivered with an honesty and a full heart and I challenge you not to be moved. 

To all of you, I wish you a safe and happy Christmas among those you love the most and I hope the new year brings you serendipity and peace. And, in the words of Dave Allen - 

"May your God go with you".

DFA.

Swirling Inside The Mind

Midnight is the worst time to be awake. Especially when you have been awake the whole preceding day and you know it's going to be at least eight or nine hours before you are going to be able to sleep again. Such is job that I do, working nights in the ICU of a pediatric hospital.

During these dead hours your mind becomes a kind of vortex of thought processes that refuse to stop swirling around inside the mind and they can get at you after a time. Sleep deprivation is a killer because it amplifies everything - especially your worries, your stresses and your fears. 

I'm worried right now. I need to talk about it - here - where I can do as loudly as I like knowing that it's in complete silence. 

Lucy & Me, waiting to board a flight - my umpteenth, her first.

My daughter Lucy is 8 months old now and she is beautiful. Of course I am biased - no secrets there - but that's just the way she is. Lucy has developed swimmingly. She is getting the hang of semi solid foods, is interacting and is very playful, she is almost crawling now. She can get herself into position to initiate crawling but she hasn't quite worked out the final launch phase. She ends up dropping into a commando crawl position and drags herself along the ground as though she were ducking enemy fire. When I pick her up, she grabs both sides of beard and buries her face in my cheek, giving me the sloppiest kisses. Salubrious affection I think I'll call it. My 4 year old son, Xavy, adores her, dotes on her - always wants to look after her and talk to her. 

But there is one thing that Lucy is doing that is causing me and my serioso great concern. Lucy's head is drooping to one side - as though it is too big for her to hold in a normal position. Her neck is very stiff and whenever we try to straighten her head it is clear that it causes her pain - a lot of pain. 

And it's getting serious. 

We began to notice it a couple months ago and we made an appointment with the Pediatrician. She actually stopped doing it for a while and we took her along to the Pediatrician who examined her and deemed it to be nothing serious - BUT - if it were to come back again, we were to make a follow up appointment with him immediately so he could investigate it further. Which we have now done - so we are left to wait a few days now before we can get her seen to. 

This is the pointy end of being a parent. 

I could be worrying myself silly over nothing and it could just be a simple nerve entrapment or muscle strain that she has inflicted upon herself but - and this is where my mind starts working over time - I fear that it could be something more sinister.

When I was 15 I was diagnosed with a rare form of spinal cord tumor - a schwannoma - which was then diagnosed as being Type 2 Neurofibromatosis. NF is a rare condition where tumors, usually benign ones, grow out of the brain and spinal cord and in some cases the cranial nerves. There's a lot of information out there on the condition so I won't bore you with the details (besides, I'm freaking myself out while I am writing this). Suffice to say there is evidence to suggest that the condition is genetic (ie. it can be passed from one generation to the next). It is too premature to start hypothesizing anything right now until we can have the Pediatrician's input - whose clinical knowledge is far greater than mine could ever be. But at 1AM in the morning when sleep deprivation is at it's worst, these are the thought processes that my sub par mind begins to toss around - the evil little shit (my mind I mean).

As I said earlier, in all other respects, Lucy is a perfect infant and I am probably fretting over nothing. 

Our dog Simon, who is getting kinda grumpy in his older years - he turns 14 on the 26th of this month - he adores Lucy in a way I've not seen him behave around other children. He is very serene and calm around her - inquisitive and he sniffs her face in a protective way (only when I am holding her however - I am well aware that he is a dog after all). But, you know what I mean...Simon is unique in that way. And I trust him. I often find myself wondering if he can sense anything amiss about her neck. I've heard and read about those dogs who can detect cancers in people - I saw a documentary somewhere on them, once - while I was researching for the novel.

I work in an environment where children and their parents live through peril every day. I take a private comfort in knowing that it's not me that's living their experience, that at the end of my shift I can go home and switch off. 

I don't want to be one of them. 

DFA.

Dreams Of A Love Indestructable (Part Two).

'How could it have come to this?'

The gurney rolled like a freight train down a dimly lit corridor, shepherded along by a medical emergency team of five individuals dressed in green scrubs, one of whom - a man with a salt pepper beard and gold rimmed glasses - rode on top of the gurney, straddling a limp figure beneath him. He was shouting desperately at his colleagues as he pumped the chest of the young man who lay lifeless on the gurney. The young man's skin was a pasty white. His clothing was dirty and damp. Everyone was damp. One mother of a storm was brewing outside and the team had barely made it indoors before being thoroughly soaked. Stringy, greasy, vomit stained hair covered the young man's face and chest. There was blood spatters everywhere but no-one had determined yet where the blood was coming from. Nor had anyone had a chance to work out who he was. At this point, all they knew was that he was about 25 years old, was found unconscious at some sort of rave party in the north of the City and that drugs were involved.

Yet another dead shit drug addict.

A non-re breathing mask concealed his mouth and nose as a nurse named Selwyn forced air into his lungs. A doctor named Kost opposite Selwyn struggled to secure a newly inserted intravenous cannula in the man's ragged arm – to replace one that had failed in transit. A transparent bag of fluid hung from a pole and as Kost checked a small chamber below it he saw, with great relief, a rapid, steady drip, drip, drip inside it. The infusion was working.

The medical team fairly burst through a set of double doors and into a fully equipped trauma room. Lightning flashed through a window somewhere nearby. Already, additional staff were ready and waiting with emergency equipment set to go. The doctor astride the patient glared decisively at a young woman - a nurse named Ruddiger - who was holding two familiar looking paddles. He instantly leapt from the gurney, nearly losing his glasses, as myriad hands went to work, applying lines to the young man's chest and abdomen. Another intravenous cannula was quickly stabbed into the young man's opposite arm. In the overt brightness of the trauma room the nurse jabbing at the arm noted, curiously, an inscription tattooed there.

Ancora Imparo.

Satisfied the line was secure, a second flask of intravenous fluid was hastily commenced, the flow rate thrown wide open. Large pads were slapped down onto the man's chest and for a moment all eyes in the room turned towards a monitor above the victims head. An erratic green line squiggled it's way across the screen accompanied by several other, different colored lines that were equally chaotic.

Lifting his glasses so that they were perched just above his brow the doctor grabbed the defibrillator paddles from Ruddiger beside him and shoved his dog tags, identifying him as Ellis, down the inside of his scrubs. Nodding to Selwyn, still manning the non-re breathing mask, then to Ruddiger beside him he adjusted his grip on the paddles and approached the young man on the gurney. Another crackle of lightning flashed nearby, seemingly closer this time.

Ruddiger turned a dial on the defibrillator and listened to a high pitched whine emanate from within. Her eyes met Ellis and she nodded. Everyone stepped back from the gurney on Ellis' command and he positioned the paddles on the chest of the young victim before him. As he did so an shrill alarm sounded from the monitor. Flatline!

Though he had done this hundreds of times before Ellis felt the same gout of nausea ripple through him every time he shocked a patient. Forcing the sensation from his mind Ellis thumbed the triggers on the pads sending electrical current streaming into the patient before him. The young man bucked sickeningly on the gurney, his muscles spasming and holding their tetany for a moment before he slumped back on the hard surface of the gurney again. Everyone in the room looked back to the monitor again.

Moments ticked by...

The green line remained stubbornly flat.

As if reading Ellis' thoughts, Ruddiger immediately dialed up a higher charge on the defibrillator and nodded to him again. Ellis pressed down on the paddles and pressed the triggers again. The victim bucked wildly on the gurney lifting a full three or four inches into the air...

Electricity crackled through his darkened mind, briefly filling his consciousness with a blinding white light. The light dissipated and, or a moment, there was nothing again. He was gripped by sudden panic. He tried desperately to move his arms and legs but couldn't. Wherever he was he was totally and utterly trapped.

'How could it have come to this?'

Beams of light then stabbed through the darkness, somewhere nearby, yet not close enough for him to grab their attention. Steady beams of a torchlight. Were they searching for him? He tried to scream but he couldn't fill his lungs. No air!! Panic again!!

But it didn't last. The panic melted away suddenly and was replaced by an enveloping peace. The beams of light continued to work their way closer to him. He was floating now...

The green line on the monitor failed to budge. Ellis spat an expletive so loud his saliva stippled the patient. Ruddiger dialed up the defibrillator once more. It was all or nothing now. Ellis slapped the paddles down and discharged them immediately. Kost, beside him shuddered, nauseous.

Blinding white light again. Where was it coming from? He became aware of a taste in his mouth now. What was it? He wondered. No, it wasn't a taste at all. It was a smell. He let it fill his nostrils - he had accepted now that he couldn't breathe in.

Mint perhaps? Yes that's what it was. Mint. Yet there was something else. Something he couldn't quite put his finger on. A plant of some sort. A herb. His grandmother used to use it in her cooking. Goddamn, what was that!? An oven door opens. Roasted meat, lamb. She had sprinkled some sprigs on it. Rosemary sprigs!!

Rosemary and mint...

Why would I remember that?

The oppressive blackness parted now, slowly but surely, replaced by shades of gray. There was movement and shadow, texture and something else...What was it? The texture was incredibly soft. Skin perhaps? Soft skin, a cheek bone, the cheek of a woman. A familiar woman? He couldn't be sure. A single tear trickled down, over the cheek and down. A single tear, perfect...

'This is not over'

Ellis and Selwyn barely leapt back in time as the patient suddenly vomited a thick stream and began thrashing wildly on the gurney.

"WE GOT HIM!"

Selwyn tossed the mask assembly aside and grabbed a suction catheter as the victim was quickly rolled onto his side to prevent him from choking.

Ellis leaned in close stifling his sense of smell against the odor of vomit, alcohol and blood coming from the kid.

"We got you! We got you! You're alright! You're safe!'

The young man coughed and spluttered and wretched over and over while Selwyn sucked out the offensive detritus from his oral cavity. Kost came in with another mask and positioned it near to his mouth and nose. He tried to resist but Ellis held him firmly.

"Just relax. Relax. Let the air wash over you"

Ellis expected the kid to continue thrashing but strangely, a calm came over him and he let his body go limp.

"What's your name son? I need to know your name!"

My name? What's my name? I can't remember?!

Through a phlegm filled throat came a single utterance.

"Andy..."

'Andy!? What the...?'

"Andy, my name is Doctor Ellis! You're in the hospital. You were brought here in an ambulance!"

'Ambulance?? What's with the weird accents?'

"Can you hear me Andy?"

Andy attempted to nod against the hand that was holding his head down and succeeded - somewhat. Ellis nodded to the other team members who were holding him. They relaxed their grip and stood back. Satisfied they had him under control Ellis began issuing orders to all present. Bloods, chest film, CT, ECG, IV antibiotics, catheter.

'Catheter!?!? Not again!'

'What???'

An hospital orderly entered through the double doors holding a small, clear plastic bag. One of the trauma room staff took it from him and casually inspected it. Wallet, keys, cell phone, a couple of what looked like guitar plectrums, a pack of cigarettes. Some foil wrapped objects the size of a nickel. She alerted Ellis who took the bag and rifled through it, plucking the foil objects out. He tossed the bag on a nearby bench and hastily unwrapped one of the foil objects. Inside was a single white pill. He flicked it over with his finger and saw a small, vicious looking skull imprinted in purple on it's surface. He eyeballed Kost beside him and handed it over. They shared a knowing glance at one another.

The kid was coming to more and more now. He remained calm and submitted to their care without protest. He was, potentially, in a lot of trouble and he should know it, Ellis thought. These addicts were cast from the same mold. It was as though he knew he was defeated and no longer cared. His eyes turned upwards towards the ceiling and fixed on a spot there. They appeared glazed but in truth they were fixed hard and fast.

Ellis knew it and it unsettled him...

Copyright © 2009 Dean Mayes

Dreams Of A Love Indestructable (Part One).

How could it have come to this?

He had the world at his feet, a life that was the envy of all those around him. He was handsome, athletic, he was warm and funny. He had a loving and proud family. He had many friends. He was young and, seemingly, indestructible. Approaching the end of his university degree he had a bright future to look forward to and could put his name to just about any architectural firm he wanted. It was said that he had wanted to draw buildings since he was six years old.

For this was his great love...

He loved complex problems, raw ideas that could be assessed and developed and turned into a real thing - a building, a tower, a house, a home...

He was in love with a beautiful woman who was his kindred spirit. He had secretly held a desire to ask her to marry him once they had graduated. Well...it wasn't so much a secret between Denny and Soneya than something that they wanted to wait for, once their respective degrees were out of the way and they could celebrate with their families. They had fallen in love through the guitar. He played for her, the most beautiful pieces - classical pieces, lyrical pieces, soulful pieces.

For this was Denny's passion...

He played for her songs of love, of travelling, of life, of living. Denny had the most exquisite fingers which were able to dance across the guitar as though they were floating on air. Soneya had once joked that Denny had cast a spell on her for his music was the most exquisite she had ever heard. It had hypnotized her.

Their conversation was truly synchronous. They had similar values, beliefs and viewpoints yet each of these differed just enough so that they challenged one another. Also, Soneya was studying law so Denny knew very early in their relationship that in order to be a good lawyer, Soneya had better be able to deliver a damned good argument. Denny and Soneya's debates were the stuff of legend amongst their friends but they all knew what it was all about.

For Soneya was Denny's life...

They dreamed of travelling around the world together. Of visiting obscure galleries in Prague. Of making love in a villa on the shores of Lake Como. Of skinny dipping in the Mediterranean Sea near Valetta, Malta. Of growing old together in the house they hadn't even bought yet on a hillside overlooking a quiet valley.

Now it was all about to be lost.

Denny lay in the bed now - a mere shadow of what he had once been. The life, that vibrancy that had so drawn others in had gone from his sunken eyes. His once strong and proud and face was skeletal, the skin bruised and pasty. His beautiful hair was almost gone now; a few faded tufts were all that remained. Those fingers which had once danced across the guitar, which had translated onto the page complex algorithms and intricate equations, which had held the fingers of Soneya's own hands. They are limp now, cold and barely useful. A warm feminine hand is entwined in them but he can but feel them. He no longer has the strength to even lift one digit.

It had taken mere months. A few days of feeling unwell, swollen glands in his neck. Denny had passed it off as the flu. Even though he had gotten better the lump in his neck had refused to go away. Still he ignored it for a time until it began to bother him. In what seemed like a matter of moments it had become all too serious.

Lymphoma.

Normally treatable with a good chance at cure, this however was a particularly aggressive one that had already metastasized before Denny had seen the Doctor. Lymph nodes, liver, one kidney, four ribs on the left side and most cruelly of all his brain. He was doomed from the start. Treatment was a stalling intervention only and not a very good one. All it really did was halt the spread of his dementia and rob him of his hair. Denny was 25.

The room was nice. As far as hospice rooms go. There was a pretty rose garden through the single window. Denny had looked through there sometimes but hadn't been able to venture out to appreciate them. Today, the sky was dark and brooding. A thunderstorm threatened.

A Simon Marty guitar stood on its stand in a corner of the room where Denny could see it. A gift from his parents on his 21st birthday. Just having it there was soothing. In his fractured mind he could hear his favorite pieces and it helped him to block out the pain. Now the only thing that helped was the morphine that slowly dripped into his body from a pump via a needle in his arm. At the end of the bed lay his puppy, a black and white cross breed called Simon. Curled up and fast asleep. Denny's lovely nurse had allowed Simon to be here.

Soneya sat beside him; her head lay on the bed near his arm. He could smell her lustrous auburn hair, freshly washed. Rosemary and mint. He could hear her soft breathing, even and steady. He could feel the warmth of her skin, the touch of her fingers. Soneya had been there for days...or what had seemed like days. Denny was no longer sure of time anymore. All he was sure of was that she was still there. Occasionally she would stir, lift her head and gaze at him through those wondrous eyes. Though their world was falling apart her face kept him anchored. She kept everyone anchored. Throughout their ordeal Soneya had never fallen apart. She tended to Denny's needs unfailingly. When others were losing their emotions she was there for them too with an arm around a shoulder, a hand in a hand, a loving, comforting hug.

Now, in these final hours they were all here. Denny's mother, father and younger sister, Soneya's mother and older brother. All sitting quietly, waiting...

Denny flinched suddenly causing everyone else in the room to do the same. He grimaced and attempted to move himself but was prevented from doing so. His abdomen was so distended from fluid collecting inside that it made simple movements impossible. The catheter which drained urine from his bladder frequently caused him intense pain and it had done so now.

Soneya squeezed his hand and slid hers up his right forearm, her gentle touch soothing him. Her fingers passed over a faded tattoo on the inside of his forearm - an inscription in a cursive font - Ancora Imparo.

'How could it have come to this?'

The single lucid thought punctured through his narcotic haze. The pain in his penis settled and he blinked, looking up at his family who were all gathered around his bed.

His mother and father, eyes reddened and tear filled. His sister, all teen angst and stony faced 'trying to hold it together'. Denny knew this must be ripping her apart. Soneya's mother, her brother - his best mate, similarly wooden with barely contained grief. Soneya...

Denny turned his head slightly towards her. Soneya met his eyes with hers and held them. She stroked his brow gently and smiled warmly. Oh how he wished to kiss those lips...

His breath caught in his throat, suddenly and his eyes rolled upward towards the ceiling. The room began to spin and Denny's heart thumped noisily in his ears. He was overwhelmed by a sense of panic and with a great effort he grasped Soneya's hand as firmly as he could. When he looked back to her Soneya's had swollen with tears and a single drop trickled down over her porcelain cheek. In that moment Denny knew.

It was time...

He focused on that single tear and was reminded of a line from his most favorite film of all time, Bladerunner.

'All those moments will be lost...in time...like tears...in...rain'

The tears fell freely from his eyes now and his emotions overcame him. Fear, anger, sadness and, curiously, happiness, love, peace and finally determination.

As another line from that most favorite of films entered his head Denny turned his head towards Soneya.

'Time to die...'

In that last terrible moment, when all else was spinning out of control, as lightning crackled ominously outside the window, Denny gazed firmly and deeply into his beloved's eyes. When he spoke, his voice had never sounded more clear.

"This is not over..."

And with an abrupt finality the eyes fluttered closed, the body sank back, the life dissipated. Denny was dead. Simon the puppy let out a grief stricken yelp, leapt from the bed and disappeared down the hall outside the room.

Soneya sat there stunned, the grip of his hand relaxed in hers. The warmth disappeared quickly. As their family gathered around her and held her collectively she let go of her crumbling stoic facade and sobbed uncontrollably.

Everything seemed to stop. Time, space, air, life. And nothing would ever be the same again...

Copyright © 2009 Dean Mayes

My Serioso

In recent times, otherwise known as -since I got into internet radio - I have happened cross a number of turns of phrase which I have adopted into my own lexicon. I like the way they sound. Phrases such as 'back in the day', 'excuse me', 'just sayin' and 'Do You Understand' are just a few examples of biting yet satirical quips that I can be sometimes heard saying now...

...Admittedly I'll kinda drop the volume on my voice because few times that I have uttered them, people have looked at me like I'm a 'douche'.

Of all the phrases that I have encountered, on my Alistair Cooke-like exploration of Americana via the interweb, the term 'serioso' I have come to regard with the most affection. I first heard this term on an episode of my perennial favorite podcast 'Keith & the Girl' (www.keithandthegirl.com) when the Girl (a.k.a. Chemda) used it to describe her boyfriend of something like seven years, Keith.

When I first heard it I had been my own relationship but a short time after being tossed out of a 7 year marriage and I was not quite sure how I was to refer to my own 'serioso'. I find the term partner rather sterile. There's not a great deal of warmth in it.

Partner...

Partner in what? Imagine that, at a dinner party, making introductions. 'This is my partner in co-habitating...this is my monogamous sexual partner...we engage in consensual intercourse...occasionally'

Likewise the terms 'girlfriend' and 'boyfriend' doesn't cut it for me either. I'm 33 for Christ’s sake! Imagine me, making introductions like Skippy Handelman from Family Ties to a group of adults. 'This is my girlfriend guys! Later on we're gonna go make out over in the corner and maybe she'll wanna touch mah ding dong!'

One word...Douche!

To me, the term 'serioso' has an urbane affection about it, a kind of 30 something appropriateness that isn't stupidly child-like nor is it as a bland as a cardboard soufflé.

It's a kind of hip, warm New York-ism, (kudos to Chemda), that I find appealing...I love New York. Of course down here in backwards-conservative Adelaide, Australia dropping the phrase among friends doesn't get me very far. I get those same looks of derision...

'Douche'

Here however, on this page, I have the freedom to describe my wonderful serioso on my terms and I couldn't give a toss who it puts off...except maybe my small but very important readership.

So - my serioso...

I love her.

It's as simple as that. She is the single most important person in my life, my best friend, my muse, my confidant.

Our relationship has been a tumultuous one - the result of a lot of things happening around the time we started seeing one another. But the tumult has faded and I find myself in a rather happy place in terms of our relationship.

My serioso has an romantic, old world way about her - the product of several generations of farming women who lived hard, raised family in tough circumstances and had to be self reliant a lot of time. These women were principled women of a proud Germanic/Scottish heritage who often put their family, their children before themselves.

I often refer to her as my Barossa lady. The Barossa Valley in South Australia is where she grew up. The Barossa Valley is lush and green, a wonderful melting pot of Eastern European influences that prides itself on its wine, it's food and it's country living. My serioso is the product of that heritage. Women knew how to cook then - really cook. Recipes have been passed down through generations as sort of sacrosanct treasures; however they have been quite bettered by the newer generations.

My serioso once told me that her grandmother used to make a German tea cake like no other Barossa lady on Earth. We've had some in a café or two up there and it's been good...something special even. But it never has stacked up to the one my serioso's grandmother used to make.

My brother once described my serioso as looking a little bit like Joan Jett from back in the day, say around the time of that movie 'Light of Day' she did with Michael J. Fox, though I think my serioso looks way hotter. Besides, Joan Jett is kinda old now. My serioso is tall, stately, with long legs, equally long hands. She has a wondrous smile that can light up a room.

My serioso never appears more sexier to me than when she is standing in front of the mirror in the bathroom applying her make-up or doing her hair. She performs this unconscious pout when she's checking out her application of the lip stick, her handiwork with the heating wand or how a new blouse, dress, scarf or item of jewelry and it does look hot. She hates me looking at her when she's in fashionista mode. However if I fail to give her a 250 word appraisal on how a particular item looks, when she wants it, I hear about it - alot 

Bless her f@#^ing heart...

Like the older Osbourne sister, who declined to be filmed for the reality television series 'The Osbournes' my serioso - similarly - won't allow me to post pictures here or anywhere else on the interweb. And I can understand her point.

She, like a lot of people, doesn't trust the internet, its whole invasion of privacy thing. Given my recent, shitty experience with iTunes - again - she has a point.

But that is not to say that she doesn't completely discount the internet’s attraction. I often get home, late at night after an afternoon shift at the hospital to find my laptop lying on the couch - battery completely discharged (smile through clenched teeth). When I plug it back in and boot it up to make sure that it hasn't crashed out completely (because bloody Vista SP1 still has a tendency to do that!!), I find internet windows still open for online cosmetics stores, IKEA, Laura Ashley, Janesce, curtains, drapery, clothing...

It seems that the whole invasion of privacy thing doesn't extend to online shopping.

But there is no doubting her sense of style and grace when it comes to decorating a space. We have similar tastes and that is gold dust given the challenges we encountered merging our respective collections of furniture. I have invested in a number of items of antique furniture that are of a mixed Victorian/early 1920's persuasion while she, my serioso has gravitated towards some French provincial chic. Somehow they work together. We're furnishing our home with new curtains presently. And these are not cheap fabrics we're looking at either. Though it may cost a frigging fortune, however, I can be confident that the final result with nothing short of stunning.

As a mother, my serioso is exquisite. She has a firm but gentle way with my son which - most of the time - stops him short if he's out of control. She is tender in an almost ethereal way and can bring calm to the house that exudes warmth and love.

As a woman she is passionate...in more ways than one...

My serioso is a woman in the truest and bestest sense of the world. She possesses an old world femininity and loves to be a lady whilst being fiercely independent and self sufficient. I don't mind saying that she, often times, leaves me for dead. She has the ability to bring clarity to a situation where I have lost mine. She is inherently logical and can see her way through a problem much better than I can. And she is a fascinating conversationalist - something I don't appreciate nearly as much as I should. She has an emotional strength that can sometimes come across as being a little unforgiving, but she also has a vulnerability that lends itself to much emotion.

In the end, my serioso is my companion and my best friend. And I love her...

Just to be completely random here, I commented to my brother-in-law the other day that I thought that a noticeable amount of sexism has crept into the lead up to Father's Day (which is celebrated here in early September). During the lead up it seems that television, radio and print has served up a steady stream of advertising for hardware stores.

So much so that I got pissed off with it.

To me it's akin to advertising steam irons or washing machines for women. It's saying to men 'all you're good for is doing things around the house - even though we spend our time bitching and complaining about all the things that need to be done around the house on every other friggin' weekend of the year. 'Here's a drill...now go drill something'.

Role Reversal Ladies - all you're good for is standing at an ironing board - even though we spend our time bitching and complaining about all the crumpled shirts and trousers that need to be done on every other fricken weekend of the year.

Here's a $350 iron...now go press!

See what I mean?

Where are the advertisements for package deals on the PS3 or the X-Box 360! Where are the advertisements for say a weekend for Dad and his mates to go paintballing or hang gliding for the afternoon!! And, actually, where are the advertisements for Dad to have a session with a masseuse, where aromatherapy is involved, a bit of a manicure - hell even a bit of a facial!!! (Did I just go too far then??)

Those advertisements aren't there because the advertisers and corporations (read hardware chains) don't want Dad's to have any fun on Father's Day. They would rather the population be simply conditioned towards purchasing power tools. Well I have news for them...

NOT ALL MEN LIKE POWER TOOLS!!!!!

(I myself don't mind the odd excursion into the hardware store and I can handle numerous power tools but...)

...Father's Day should be about big boys’ toys - X-boxes, Playstations, a flight in an old war bird or even a session at a day spa! NOT power tools, socks, friggin' cook books written by sporting hacks or Peter Brock tributes.

(Addendum - April 7th 2009 - I actually wrote this around the time of Father's Day 2008 but since I haven't posted for a while and I was stuck for updated content).

I got a nice bottle of aftershave and a DVD of my current, favorite TV show...