The sound of the alarm shattered Tim from the nothingness of deep sleep into the harsh, conscious reality of 4:30 am. He killed the sound with a fling of his arm and swung his legs out of the bed. He sat in silence, angry. Angry at being woken up so early, angry that he had no real option. The anger was normal – part of the ritual now – and helped him get up, get moving.
Tim staggered to the en-suite and took a leak. He had a drink of water from the cup on top of the vanity. He moved silently in the dark. He never turned on the light. Light was offensive at this hour.
Tim took his pants from their usual place and put them on. It was an effort. He didn't want to go to work today – more than usual - even for the first day of a tour. He worked his arms into his shirt. As he did up the buttons he noticed that it hurt a bit to swallow. He thought about this, slowly. Perhaps he was sick, or would become sick part-way through the shift.
He sneaked out of the bedroom. His wife hadn't moved the whole time, since the alarm. Perhaps she's dead, he thought. If I check, then I'll be dead. Of well, I'll find out when I get home.
He took the milk from the fridge and poured some into the bowl of cereal on the kitchen bench.
Tim ate slowly, sitting on a bar stool. It was getting towards summer now, and a little pre-dawn light came in through the windows. That made it easier to get going; not easy, but easier.
Tim didn't think about much as he ate. He couldn't think at this hour. He did decide he wasn't sick, though. His throat was still sore, but the crew would need him. Two teaspoons of cement was all he needed.
Tim left the empty bowl on the counter and grabbed his crib from the fridge as he put away the milk. He headed out the front door ten minutes after he'd woken up. He didn't need to check his watch.
He began to walk towards the bus pick-up. It would take him seven minutes, maybe eight. The birds were awake now, flying around, making a racket and catching their worms, or whatever they did.
Tim walked along the edge of the road, carrying his bag. He felt empty. It was like being sad, but worse, and different. He felt like that a lot lately. He tried not to think about how he felt.
He was glad it wasn't raining; that was something. He'd have stayed home, he thought, if it was raining. But stayed home for what?, he wondered. Better off at work. Rock and a hard place. Hard place. Harden up.
He was at the bus stop in plenty of time. Some of the others nodded, said g'day. A few were smoking, while they could. A few blokes were telling each other dirty jokes, laughing.
A year ago, Tim would've joined them. But he'd lost interest in that sort of thing. Like most things. Hate my job, and not interested in finding another one. For sure, not interested in learning a new mine, a new boss, new people. Only wish this job didn't grind me down. Harden up Tim, harden up.
"Hey Tim!"
Tim fell out of his daydream. "Hey what?"
"Coming?" The bus had arrived, and everyone else was on board. How'd I miss that?
He climbed on board to head off for the first shift of the tour.
This story was first published in Issue 99 of Shift Miner Magazine. I wrote this coming into the month of "Movember", helping to raise awareness and funds for men's health issues for prostate cancer and depression. Let's just say I wasn't going to write a story about prostate cancer.
Depression is a killer. One way to help is to so go to the beyond blue website and give some money.
Showing posts with label sickness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sickness. Show all posts
Wednesday, December 1, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
Solidarity
It had stopped raining the day before Sue came back to work. After seven months away, she'd expected the blokes to make a big deal of it, or poke a bit of fun, but there was none of that. Most didn't seem to know where to look, like they were embarrassed to see her. She tried not to take it personally, but it did hurt.
She kept her hard-hat on during the safety meeting; her hair was still so short. She'd always had long hair before, tied up in a bun, until she walked out of the bath-house at the end of the shift, when she'd let it down, and it would flow long and red down her back. She hoped she'd live long enough to let it grow back that long again.
Sue was glad when the meeting was over, and she could get back into her truck. She was amazed how the pit had changed in the time she'd been away. New roads created, old pits filled in, and coal coming out of places that they'd only just started hauling overburden from when she'd got sick.
She hadn't needed to go back to work for the money. She'd been told she could just quit, and get her super. But she didn't want to crawl home to die.
Here at the mine she was important: as important as everyone else, working together like a machine to move dirt and coal.
By mid-morning, the circuit was second-nature to her again. She slipped straight back into the system: queuing, loading, hauling, dumping, returning and then queuing again. Sometimes the work was monotonous, but it was never boring. She was always learning, always looking around at what was going on.
Today, Sue sometimes found herself smiling with the simple satisfaction that she was back on the job. She took off her hard-hat at last, and ruffled her hands through her inch-long hair.
By crib time, she felt she'd re-proven herself - not to the others, but to herself – that she could still do it. When she'd first become an operator, she was the first woman at the pit, and there were plenty of men waiting and watching, ready for her to fail. In time, she'd proven herself. She earned the respect, and even the friendship of most of those that later admitted that they hadn't wanted to see a woman working at the mine.
Then the cancer had come. Physically, it had destroyed her, almost. And, in a way more sinister and less expected, it had threatened to destroy her as a person, and as a woman. She had once shown the men that she could do it; today she had showed herself again. She'd operated her truck text-book style: no mistakes, no delays. It gave her confidence again, as an operator, and as a person.
As she parked up at the crib-rooms she looked down to take off her seat-belt and the sight of her chest brought tears to her eyes, as it often did. It looked the same on the outside as it did before, but the prosthesis didn't go far to replace what she'd lost. She clenched her teeth together, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and planted her hard-hat firmly on her head. Recovering her confidence and her identity as a woman would take the longest time, she knew.
After a minute, she'd calmed herself back down. She took her crib bag and left the cab of the truck.
She kept her hard-hat on, of course, as she slipped into the crib-room.
"Welcome back, Sue," said someone. She looked up. It was Ted, sitting down in a group of four, dealing out the first hand of five-hundred. He gave her a big smile.
Sue looked around the crib-room, suddenly shocked. Everyone in the room was wearing their hard-hat.
This story was first published in Issue 97 of Shift Miner Magazine. That issue - and this story - had a special focus on breast cancer awareness and research. It doesn't have to be a special campaign-time to give money. Spend a little on yourself and go to the National Breast Cancer Foundation website and donate.
She kept her hard-hat on during the safety meeting; her hair was still so short. She'd always had long hair before, tied up in a bun, until she walked out of the bath-house at the end of the shift, when she'd let it down, and it would flow long and red down her back. She hoped she'd live long enough to let it grow back that long again.
Sue was glad when the meeting was over, and she could get back into her truck. She was amazed how the pit had changed in the time she'd been away. New roads created, old pits filled in, and coal coming out of places that they'd only just started hauling overburden from when she'd got sick.
She hadn't needed to go back to work for the money. She'd been told she could just quit, and get her super. But she didn't want to crawl home to die.
Here at the mine she was important: as important as everyone else, working together like a machine to move dirt and coal.
By mid-morning, the circuit was second-nature to her again. She slipped straight back into the system: queuing, loading, hauling, dumping, returning and then queuing again. Sometimes the work was monotonous, but it was never boring. She was always learning, always looking around at what was going on.
Today, Sue sometimes found herself smiling with the simple satisfaction that she was back on the job. She took off her hard-hat at last, and ruffled her hands through her inch-long hair.
By crib time, she felt she'd re-proven herself - not to the others, but to herself – that she could still do it. When she'd first become an operator, she was the first woman at the pit, and there were plenty of men waiting and watching, ready for her to fail. In time, she'd proven herself. She earned the respect, and even the friendship of most of those that later admitted that they hadn't wanted to see a woman working at the mine.
Then the cancer had come. Physically, it had destroyed her, almost. And, in a way more sinister and less expected, it had threatened to destroy her as a person, and as a woman. She had once shown the men that she could do it; today she had showed herself again. She'd operated her truck text-book style: no mistakes, no delays. It gave her confidence again, as an operator, and as a person.
As she parked up at the crib-rooms she looked down to take off her seat-belt and the sight of her chest brought tears to her eyes, as it often did. It looked the same on the outside as it did before, but the prosthesis didn't go far to replace what she'd lost. She clenched her teeth together, wiped her eyes with her sleeve, and planted her hard-hat firmly on her head. Recovering her confidence and her identity as a woman would take the longest time, she knew.
After a minute, she'd calmed herself back down. She took her crib bag and left the cab of the truck.
She kept her hard-hat on, of course, as she slipped into the crib-room.
"Welcome back, Sue," said someone. She looked up. It was Ted, sitting down in a group of four, dealing out the first hand of five-hundred. He gave her a big smile.
Sue looked around the crib-room, suddenly shocked. Everyone in the room was wearing their hard-hat.
This story was first published in Issue 97 of Shift Miner Magazine. That issue - and this story - had a special focus on breast cancer awareness and research. It doesn't have to be a special campaign-time to give money. Spend a little on yourself and go to the National Breast Cancer Foundation website and donate.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Visiting Esme
“Good morning Esme, how are you today?” said Jim, his voice bright and cheery. He looked into her face for a glimmer of recognition, but saw only cold mistrust.
“I'm fine, thank you very much,” said Esme loudly, peering up at him. “But, who are you? And what do you want?”
There were six patients at Whitman Park Aged Care Home, including Esme, whose religious affiliation was listed as “Presbyterian”. It was Jim’s right, and duty, as the local Presbyterian minister, to visit them each week. Jim did his visiting on Thursday mornings. It suited him as well as any other time. The old fogies that kept track of days and times appreciated the routine, and it made no difference to the others.
And then there was Esme. She had her good days and her bad days, but overall, Esme's dementia was a case of steady decline. On a good day she showed a vague sense of having met Jim before. It didn't help for him to insist that he had known her his whole life. Her responses to such notions were belligerent, and often violent.
After introducing himself as the minister, Jim won her affection with some licorice all-sorts. It was a cheap trick, but he always used it, because it worked.
“These are lovely,” she said. “I can’t say I’ve had them before, but they are just lovely.”
Esme told Jim she’d had a terrible night's sleep. “Those young people in the flat downstairs had their music on so loud, the whole night long,” she said. Her hands trembled as she spoke. “Not that I call it music. Bang, bang, bang! That's all it is. Noise. That's what it is: just noise. Something should be done about it. Someone should do something.” She dabbed at the edge of her mouth with a handkerchief.
Jim blinked. He was still not immune to the things that she could say. Whitman Park was a single-story complex, flat on the ground; there was no ‘downstairs’. He bit his lip and swallowed and prayed, quietly in his mind, for strength.
“I'm sorry to hear that Esme,” he said. “Tell you what: I'll have a good stern talk with them about it on my way home. I’ll make sure that it doesn't happen again. How does that sound?”
Esme smiled. Her glasses glinted as she sat up in her chair. “Oh, would you? Would you really?”
“Sure,” said Jim as he got up. He felt claustrophobic.
Esme asked him to stay a while longer. “You've only just got here.”
But Jim had to leave. He couldn’t make himself stay. He retreated, shuffling backwards through the door, and waved as he left. Esme stayed in her armchair, watching him go, looking bewildered.
Jim marched quickly through the corridors of Whitman Park, out into the fresh air, and towards his car. He leaned against the car and took deep breaths to calm himself down. He took a tissue from his pocket and wiped the tears from his face.
He still wasn’t sure if he had the faith or the strength it took to be a minister. They hadn't trained him for this sort of thing at the college, and God felt farther away than ever.
Visiting Esme was killing him. He did it because it was what he had promised to do, and to be, but he wished he was someone else. He wished that Esme would hurry up and die. Take her soon, Lord, please, he prayed, She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t even know her own son.
“I'm fine, thank you very much,” said Esme loudly, peering up at him. “But, who are you? And what do you want?”
There were six patients at Whitman Park Aged Care Home, including Esme, whose religious affiliation was listed as “Presbyterian”. It was Jim’s right, and duty, as the local Presbyterian minister, to visit them each week. Jim did his visiting on Thursday mornings. It suited him as well as any other time. The old fogies that kept track of days and times appreciated the routine, and it made no difference to the others.
And then there was Esme. She had her good days and her bad days, but overall, Esme's dementia was a case of steady decline. On a good day she showed a vague sense of having met Jim before. It didn't help for him to insist that he had known her his whole life. Her responses to such notions were belligerent, and often violent.
After introducing himself as the minister, Jim won her affection with some licorice all-sorts. It was a cheap trick, but he always used it, because it worked.
“These are lovely,” she said. “I can’t say I’ve had them before, but they are just lovely.”
Esme told Jim she’d had a terrible night's sleep. “Those young people in the flat downstairs had their music on so loud, the whole night long,” she said. Her hands trembled as she spoke. “Not that I call it music. Bang, bang, bang! That's all it is. Noise. That's what it is: just noise. Something should be done about it. Someone should do something.” She dabbed at the edge of her mouth with a handkerchief.
Jim blinked. He was still not immune to the things that she could say. Whitman Park was a single-story complex, flat on the ground; there was no ‘downstairs’. He bit his lip and swallowed and prayed, quietly in his mind, for strength.
“I'm sorry to hear that Esme,” he said. “Tell you what: I'll have a good stern talk with them about it on my way home. I’ll make sure that it doesn't happen again. How does that sound?”
Esme smiled. Her glasses glinted as she sat up in her chair. “Oh, would you? Would you really?”
“Sure,” said Jim as he got up. He felt claustrophobic.
Esme asked him to stay a while longer. “You've only just got here.”
But Jim had to leave. He couldn’t make himself stay. He retreated, shuffling backwards through the door, and waved as he left. Esme stayed in her armchair, watching him go, looking bewildered.
Jim marched quickly through the corridors of Whitman Park, out into the fresh air, and towards his car. He leaned against the car and took deep breaths to calm himself down. He took a tissue from his pocket and wiped the tears from his face.
He still wasn’t sure if he had the faith or the strength it took to be a minister. They hadn't trained him for this sort of thing at the college, and God felt farther away than ever.
Visiting Esme was killing him. He did it because it was what he had promised to do, and to be, but he wished he was someone else. He wished that Esme would hurry up and die. Take her soon, Lord, please, he prayed, She doesn’t know me. She doesn’t even know her own son.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Big Weekend
My contribution to Edition 87 of Shift Miner Magazine was called Big Weekend. I hope you enjoy it.
Big Weekend
Pete stood alone in the soft glow of the dawn at the bus-stop, waiting for the shift-bus. He had a jacket on, but even that wasn't enough to keep out the cold. Winter was coming quick.
Someone came round the corner, walking towards Pete, smoking a cigarette. It was Will. He stopped a few metres from Pete and said G'day quietly as he looked down the street for the bus.
Pete said, "You look shattered."
"Yeah, big weekend."
"What'd you get up to?"
Will drew hard on his smoke. "Friday was a few quiet ones at Smithy's place. Followed by a few more. Didn't get home till about three."
"Good time?"
Yeah, not too bad. Slept through Saturday, though." Will threw his cigarette butt on the ground, then quickly lit another. He liked to get as much nicotine into himself as he could before the forty-minute bus-ride to site.
"And Saturday?" said Pete. "You get up to much?"
Will managed a grin. "Oh yeah. We went hard on Saturday night. Starting drinking at our place, for a while, to get limbered up. Then we went up the Tavern."
"Drinking before drinking?"
Will gave Pete a dirty look. "Too expensive to get completely rat-faced at pub prices. Can't smoke out, either. There was a band at the Tav, too. They sounded pretty good; I think."
Pete thought an iPod would have sounded good to Will when he was that well lubricated, but he said nothing.
Will continued. "We started doing shots there, which was fun, until it got a little out of hand. We stayed at the Tavern till we got kicked out."
"Too drunk?"
"No, closing time. Funny thing, I was sure I went home after that. At least I think I was going to."
"So what happened?"
"I can't rightly remember, but it looks like we went down to The Arms after that."
Pete grimaced. The only attractive feature of The Arms was that it had the latest closing time in town, and 1980s prices. A rough joint, but you could stay later, and get drunker.. "You can't remember what you did?"
Will smirked. "It was too big a night to remember. I saw the pictures on Facebook though; it was The Arms alright. We got hammered. A really good night. Very big night."
"You get sick?"
"At least a few times. Smithy seemed to think that was the best thing to take photos of."
Pete shook his head. Smithy had developed a talent for drinking photography over the last few years. It was kind of like wildlife and action photography combined. Tired of not remembering what he did the night before, Smithy had started taking pictures along the way with his phone camera. He could still take good pictures when he was so drunk he couldn't walk. Facebook had made Smithy's photos of his escapades accessible to the world. A lot of people logged in to see what they and their friends had been up to, but couldn't remember.
Will looked down the street. "Bus's coming," he said, as he lit his last smoke.
Pete said, "You have such big weekends. You must hate Mondays."
"Not at all, mate. I need a week at work to get away from it all and recover. A man needs some rest in life."
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Brave Little Girl
This story is a response to Sunday Scribblings writing prompt number 193: brave. It's just a little idea; I hope you like it.
Julie hated to be called brave.
"There's a brave little girl," her Mother always said before the needles and the operations. A brave little girl was what it meant to feel a lot of pain and not be able to do anything about it.
"She's so brave," the other adults whispered to her parents, thinking she couldn't hear. It's my bones that don't work properly, she thought, not my ears. She pretended to ignore them, and wheeled her chair to her bedroom to cry. To be brave meant to be helpless and pathetic. Brave girls were pitied, and whispered about.
"I just want to say from all Australians, you are so brave," said the hyped-up burly sports reporter, right after Julie was awarded her Paralympic gold medal. The brave little Aussie girl in the wheelchair, who captured the heart of a nation, buried her fist in the reporter's face, knocking him cold to the ground.
"She is such a bitch," said the office-workers as they gathered in their kitchenettes for their morning coffee breaks.
Julie hated to be called brave.
"There's a brave little girl," her Mother always said before the needles and the operations. A brave little girl was what it meant to feel a lot of pain and not be able to do anything about it.
"She's so brave," the other adults whispered to her parents, thinking she couldn't hear. It's my bones that don't work properly, she thought, not my ears. She pretended to ignore them, and wheeled her chair to her bedroom to cry. To be brave meant to be helpless and pathetic. Brave girls were pitied, and whispered about.
"I just want to say from all Australians, you are so brave," said the hyped-up burly sports reporter, right after Julie was awarded her Paralympic gold medal. The brave little Aussie girl in the wheelchair, who captured the heart of a nation, buried her fist in the reporter's face, knocking him cold to the ground.
"She is such a bitch," said the office-workers as they gathered in their kitchenettes for their morning coffee breaks.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
Curse the Flu
I just posted the following six-sentence story at the Six Sentences website here.
The fever has returned; it is mocking me, shaking my aching body as I walk unsteadily to the bathroom. The night is cold on my hot, naked skin; but I am thirsty, and drink two full cups of water, before exploding into a coughing fit that leaves a big yellow blob of phlegm in the sink. My teeth are chattering now, and I cannot control the shivering in my arms and legs: I need to return soon the warm cocoon of blankets in my bed.
First, I need something for the fever, so I reach for the blister pack of Panadol on the counter, but I'm suddenly unsure when I last took it - I know that's important, if you want to keep your liver. I appeal to the face of the fool in the mirror for help: his hair a mess, his beard overgrown, his eyes bloodshot and wild. I remember now that I took Nurofen last; I take the Panadol, curse the flu, and go back to bed.
The fever has returned; it is mocking me, shaking my aching body as I walk unsteadily to the bathroom. The night is cold on my hot, naked skin; but I am thirsty, and drink two full cups of water, before exploding into a coughing fit that leaves a big yellow blob of phlegm in the sink. My teeth are chattering now, and I cannot control the shivering in my arms and legs: I need to return soon the warm cocoon of blankets in my bed.
First, I need something for the fever, so I reach for the blister pack of Panadol on the counter, but I'm suddenly unsure when I last took it - I know that's important, if you want to keep your liver. I appeal to the face of the fool in the mirror for help: his hair a mess, his beard overgrown, his eyes bloodshot and wild. I remember now that I took Nurofen last; I take the Panadol, curse the flu, and go back to bed.
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