Transition

tran·si·tion  (trn-zsshn, -ssh-)
n.
1. Passage from one form, state, style, or place to another.
2.
a. A modulation, especially a brief one.
b. A passage connecting two themes or sections.
3.A period during childbirth that precedes the expulsive phase of labor, characterized by strong uterine contractions and nearly complete cervical dilation.

Transition. The word feels like it involves an easing, a slow process, a passage.
My transitions have never been like that. Maybe moving to Australia could have been a transition, slowly moving to another country, visit first, learn the language, live here for a while and then move. Moving schools, a few visits, meet a few of the students, orientation week, then move.
But in my life, transitions have been a lot more like that third definition: that one of labour.
Violent, expulsive, strong. Out of control, a time when you feel like there is an end in sight to something, but all you feel like doing is letting go, your body takes over, and there is blinding, tearing pain, and a terrible urge that takes over, and your heart races, and then it is over.
That was my parents' idea of a transition, I think. Do it quickly, plant them in their new school mid-year, and they will sink or swim. Chuck them into a new country, and by being there, they will absorb the culture, the language, all at once. A dizzying expulsion into the new, like a newborn baby, blinded by the light, the cold, the newness of it all. Except, the newborn gets picked up, cuddled, given nurturing warm milk.
We were left to explore our new world in the dark. Told that we were stupid if we faltered, just be brave.
My baby girl has a transition visit to her new school today.
For her, despite the fact that she was scared, it is a true transition. She walked into the huge school, full of new symbols of faith that she is not familiar with, students that tower over her head, pictures of priests and ex-scholars, and she shone. She walked in, proudly and confidently, knowing that I would be there to provide the comfort, should she need it. They talked about their home room class, and for a minute I panicked. Oh, no! She won't know what that is. Transported back 22 years to my first day at St Clair High: I went to my first class, only to find that all the students were different from what I expected and I insisted that I wanted to be in that class. The teacher argued with me in a foreign language and got me to spell my name and tried to tell me that I had to go to home room first. I argued back in my poor excuse for english that I wanted to be in that class. Kids sniggered in the background, and my skin burned.
Yep, yep ,see ya, she said to me, as I walked away in horrible torment.
Yes, my issues. No more, no less. I feel like a ship without a rudder, in a wild storm, doubting my decision, doubting myself and wishing that I had someone to hold me up. OW OW OW it hurts. But thankfully, I have learnt, and her transition will be almost painless, slow and welcoming, nurturing.
I am so glad that we humans are capable of learning.
I know that tonight, when I am sitting there at the parents' information night, I will be that 14 year old again, and my heart will be pounding. But I also know that as a new parent, this time, the transition will be painless for me, I hope. If I can just keep my memories separate from the reality that I am experiencing, I should be alright. I will just keep telling myself that I am a 36 year old old bag who should know better. Without their knowledge, I am learning through these kids, through being their rudder I am finding my way in these stormy seas. They feel ok these days, very few things daunt me. These kids have taught me more in 12 years than I learnt in 24 by myself. I hope they don't notice how lost I feel sometimes. I hope they just feel my undying support for their endeavours and my guiding hands. I hope they don't tremble...

Last breath

I have the day off. Now that is a big deal for me. I don't have a lot of days off. And I love it. I plan to do it more often. I have been to the gym and had my butt kicked by my personal trainer, I have had coffee, I have eaten gorgeous toast with vegemite and cheese, and cuddled the cat, played with her and fed her treats. (Apart from all the usual getting kids to school stuff).
And I have loved it all. It's only 10 am, and already I am inspired to write. This is going well!!!
One of my patients died yesterday. It all happened very quickly. She had been unwell for a couple of days and I knew she was dying after my assessment. She died within my 5 hour shift.
I had to go in and certify her life extinct. It was sad, but familiar. And it got me thinking about death, not in a bad way, but my experience of death, both personally and as a doctor.
My first experience of death was in the dark, dank and stinky dissecting room in medical school. I was 17, and had never seen a dead person before. I was petrified.
We walked in as a group. It was cold, and the smell was the most unusual plastic smell. One I had never smelt before, and one I will never forget.
The bodies were lined up in metal trolleys, and covered in linen. All the bodies were de-personalised: their heads were shaved, and it was very difficult even telling their sex, until you looked in the obvious places. I must say I became quite used to the idea of using these bodies to learn. Once their skin was off, they were simply anatomical specimens. I never attended the dissections of the head and neck, because I could not bring myself to stare at these people's faces, I did not wish to know that I was cutting into a human being, having to look at their dead eyes. And I guess that was my lack of understanding, my lack of experience. Our culture naturally avoids that.
Then, as an intern, it was our job to certify that a person has died. The signs need to be looked for: pupils are fixed and dilated, no breath sounds or heart sounds, no response to pain.
So, at 23 years of age, naïve and silly, I had to walk into a room full of mourning relatives, and poke a dead person and listen to their chest and shine a torch into their eyes. It was terrifying. And even more terrifying was the dead person who had already been placed into a body bag, and you had to go in, and go through the motions in the middle of the night, in the dark BY YOURSELF. I was so scared, I used to do things as quickly as I could and run away as fast as I could. I guess it was natural at the time, but now, my attitude is so much different.
I have seen a lot of people die and experienced my own father's death. I have counselled people who have miscarried, had a foetal death, lost a newborn, lost a child, I have seen dead children, mothers, fathers, grandparents. I have done CPR and fought alongside people to allow them to remain alive for as long as possible. I have watched my beloved pets die, and buried many of them. I have grieved, hard, and painfully; deeply.
I have cried when children die at work, when my long term GP patients have passed on, and accidental deaths are the hardest, the violent and unpredictable.
So how did I view this death? I was sad. She was a lovely little old lady. She told me she didn't feel very well, and slipped away comfortably. I felt compassion and care, I wanted to allow her to pass without discomfort. And as I certified her life extinct, I said goodbye to this vessel. I imagined what her hands had done, touched, created. I imagined those who she had loved and those who loved her, and I was glad to have been part of her life. I have accepted that this is something we all have to do: our final experience, the last one we will all have, and never have the chance to discuss with the living. In a way, I can't wait to experience it, like all other life experiences.
Of course I hope it is not premature, and therefore fight daily to keep this vessel as healthy as possible. Death is never easy for anyone, but for us, who face it daily in our working lives, it is just a part of living. So, I hope when my day comes, I face it as bravely as my patient did. And have just a caring a doctor, nurse, volunteer, family member, to hold my hand and whisper that is will all be alright.
In the meantime, I will try my best to make my life extraordinary. Starting right now! Have a great day!!!!