The Legend In The Waiting Room

 

In the doctor’s waiting room yesterday, I noticed a young Mum struggling with one of her children.

She had one in the pram and the other, being super wriggly and defiant in her arms. She seemed super self-conscious and stressed. It was interesting to watch the effect that this had on others in the waiting room.

Some looked annoyed.

Some were oblivious, playing with their phones or reading Take 5 from 2003.

Others, including me, shot her a sympathetic, solidarity-sister-I’ve-been there, smile.

“I should go and give her a hand, read the boy a book” I thought. But didn’t. 

I was feeling all the empathy in the world for her, but beyond some eye contact and a smile, I didn’t act.

A moment later, a woman who had been sitting in the corner knitting, popped her knitting aside, got up and walked over to the magazine area.

She fossicked for a little while through the assorted books and magazines.

A smile came over her face when she finally struck gold; a Bulldozer book.

She walked back with a spring in her step right over to that little boy and his Mum.

“Gee, have I got something special to read you” she said to the little boy.

Moving her knitting to the floor, she invited the boy to come and sit next to her.

His Mum’s face softened immediately.

His bucking and wiggling dissolved into complete stillness as he took to the seat next to her.

I watched, captivated as he fell under her spell.

She magically breathed life into the worn out bulldozer book!

The Mum’s gratitude was palpable.

I looked at her and smiled, she smiled back.

The woman asked the boy some questions about the book and he answered and giggled along giving the Mum the opportunity to tend to her baby in the pram.

After a little while, the doctor called her name.

She thanked the woman wholeheartedly before taking the children into the waiting room.

The woman smiled, then bent down and picked up her knitting. She took up where she had left off without missing a beat.

She was oblivious to the fact her act of kindness had just changed the entire feeling in the doctor’s waiting room – and probably the Mother’s entire morning.

She embodied everything that our world needs more of. Her eyes were open to others, she saw how she could help; she helped.

I am sure that she was blissfully aware of the fact that I sat there in absolute admiration.

Next time I have a gut-feeling to help someone, I am going to think of this legend of a woman and get right onto it.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Training Gets Personal

On Monday after being in denial for the longest time, I dusted off my joggers and warily took myself to my first Personal Training session at the gym.

It had been a long time in between lunges and I was extremely nervous.

I copped a glimpse of my personal trainer who was setting up for me.

He was tall, lean and those muscles! The kind of man that makes you look twice. Clearly a devotee of fitness.

My heart melted just a little when he smiled at me.

I hoped he would be as efficient at melting some of my excess baggage.

Just being at the gym, I felt like a fraud. I was self-conscious, and on some level ashamed.

“It has been two years since my last gym session” I confessed.

He knew this already.

Instead of issuing me with 100 Hail Mary’s – he taught me the correct method for doing a squat.

I hadn’t been in such a position since my drunken days at the picnic races, at which point it didn’t really matter if you went bum-up.

I bent down unnaturally, my thighs screaming like sausages thrown in the deep-fry.

I looked at the trainer, hoping for a glimmer of approval. He asked me to do 10 more.

I didn’t want to let him down, but I prayed for the floor to swallow me up.

After this he taught me some of the foundation movements of Crossfit. Boy, did I have a way to go.

 I was relieved when it was time to get on the bike. I set about doing 30 seconds on, 30 seconds off at a particular heart rate  – so far, so good.

Then, he told me to do 30 seconds as hard as I could.

He had gorgeous blue eyes. They lit up when he coached. You got a sense that he was really in his element. I didn’t want to let him down. It was the longest 30 seconds of my life.

 I was a bit peeved when he told me to go as hard as I could, again. He asked so nicely that I couldn’t stay angry.

When the time was up, I staggered like a drunk at midnight to the nearest seat.

My insides were churning, my legs were wobbling and I thought at any moment I would vomit.

Surprisingly, tears started flooding out.

With a beetroot-red face, struggling to breathe, massive ugly crying got the better of me.

The tears seemed to be coming from a long suppressed place, a place where I wasn’t worth it, where me, doing something to look after myself had been denied.

I must have looked a sight.

The trainer didn’t seem to mind, his dimples distracting me from the fact that my lungs were on fire.

All the while, my daughter, who had been playing quietly with a skipping rope in the corner of the gym suddenly ran over.

She was deeply concerned to see me so upset.

With all the confidence in the world she ran up to that gorgeous trainer and barked “Daddy! What have you done to my Mum?!”

Yep. That gorgeous trainer is my partner Dave. I’m actually pretty pumped to see where this journey will take us.

Walking The Spiral Path

I visited my Grandma on the weekend. She is an absolutely marvellous human who I am so grateful to still have in my life.

She will be 97 next week, and she’s starting to feel over it.

“You can get too old” she told me, and has told me a lot lately.

She’s had a bad trot over the last little while. She broke her hip, then was moved from hospital to hospital.

It was during these hospital visits she has had time to reflect on her life, the people she has lost, the people she has gained.

She has been around for so much, and has experienced a lot of loss, and also a lot of love.

I appreciated her being able to speak openly with me about this.

With decreased mobility and anaesthetic she’s become a little disoriented, and as she would describe “muddled.”

She hasn’t a clue anymore which direction to find the bathroom, but she’ll tell you in an instant about her first day of school, or make a funny quip about the hospital food. She’s bloody amazing, and definitely one of my heroes.

When my daughter and I arrived at the nursing part of the hospital on the weekend she said “They are just about to take me for a walk”.

The nurse came over and asked if we would like to take her instead.

Of course, we were delighted.

Outside there was a lovely garden and a spiral footpath.

She had her walking frame at the ready. My daughter and I followed behind with a chair, right behind her if she needed a rest.

As we made our way around the spiral path, 94 years separating the eldest and the youngest, I got a strong sense of how metaphoric this walk was. The spiral path suddenly represented this whole journey. We followed along, allowing her to set the pace. We helped her around the bends when she stopped and didn’t know which direction to go.

I patiently guided her in the right direction.

It reminded me of the first time I was allowed to ride my bike to the pool as a kid.

I felt confident riding off on my own knowing she believed I could do it.

I knew after a swim, I could hop back on my bike and she’d be at her home waiting with an orange fresh from her tree.

Funnily, I became aware of how she always peeled an orange for me in the same spirally pattern. This recurring pattern all of a sudden screaming out at me.

As we continued around the path, there were times when she wanted to sit and rest.

We simply breathed it all in and listened to the birds chattering away.

We laughed when my daughter cried “Snake!” pointing to the worm that was on the path.

I thought my three year old might have wanted to run ahead, lead the way, dance and prance across the path, but she was happy to follow, slowly, in the footsteps of the women that have gone before her.

After we had made our way around we sat out with a cup of tea and a biscuit enjoying the soft breeze and just being, together.

What a humble and amazing leader we have in Grandma. It was, and is an absolute honour to walk that spiral path with her.

The Revolving Door of Panic

I’ll never forget my first panic attack. 

It was not long after my boyfriend of three years had left town following a long and traumatic break-up. I was in my early twenties and it had been the type of relationship where I had, naively, based my entire sense of self on it succeeding.

I was sitting at the desk of my newspaper job in Sydney. I needed to go to the bathroom, so I went. As I finished I wandered back to my desk.

Before I could even sit down, a strong urge to go struck again.

“But I just went” I told myself – I returned nonetheless.

As I made my way back to my desk – it happened again.

The panic started to rise in my chest. An all-consuming feeling that I somehow wasn’t going to make it to the bathroom. Even though I had just been, twice. I was dizzy, frightened and self-conscious.

I returned again.

The fear of somehow getting stuck in the crazy cycle and never quite making it back to my desk overcame me. I couldn’t breathe properly. I had to get out of there.

I grabbed my bag, trying to not attract attention to myself – thoughts racing at a million miles an hour, I legged it to the foyer and out of those glass spinning doors that perfectly reflected the state of my brain. Round and round in an endless cycle.

I walked out.

It was 2pm on a workday and I just left.

I flagged a cab down and jumped in.  I called my friend from work and as soon as I tried to speak, the tears overcame me.

“What’s wrong? What’s wrong?” she asked

“Where are you?”

Struggling to find my voice I told her “I’m in a cab, I had a panic attack – I had to leave, I had to get out of there”

She assured me she would pass this on to my boss.

I spent the rest of the cab ride sobbing with irrational fears, again, that I needed to get to a bathroom – while feeling trapped inside the cab. This cab, that seemed to find Sydney’s busiest roads and have a soft-spot for getting in the wrong lane. It was the longest cab ride of my life. I couldn’t think straight. I just needed to be home. Safe. Alone. Home.

When I finally arrived back to my apartment in Bondi – I felt immense relief. I curled up on the lounge and cried myself into a deep slumber.

Little did I realise that this was just the beginning of a crippling state of anxiety set to wreak havoc on my city life.

Have you experienced a panic attack? How did it manifest for you?

The Sleazy Therapist

I was seven months pregnant with my first-born when I met the sleazy therapist.

I wasn’t comfortable in my newfound pregnancy, all the sudden changes to my body, and my moods. I needed to talk over my fears with someone. In a small town my choices were limited, I would have preferred not to discuss this kind of thing with a man, but there wasn’t an option B.

He was middle-aged with grey hair and a neatly groomed goatee.

He had an air of authority about him, which he emphasised by looking down at me with his glasses that sat on the end of his nose.

I got the immediate impression he was out of his depth and even fooling himself.

He started the session by asking me what I was experiencing.

I gingerly explained my concerns. They revolved around how I felt about my sense of self, my body image, my ‘me-ness’ that was changing rapidly. He listened intently, nodding in the right places and gazing far too intently.

There was no doubt about it, this guy made me uncomfortable.

After I finished explaining where I was at, I looked to him awaiting his take on it.

He took a long breath, leaned forward and said “You know, when my wife was pregnant we had the best sex of our lives.” “Those pregnancy hormones are WONDERFUL things, you really should embrace them.”

If I wasn’t already massively uncomfortable divulging my innermost womanly fears to this man, I had now reached the next level.

I was frozen, knocked for six by this comment.

“Your body really does become so much more womanly at this point in your life, you need to embrace it, play with it, dress it up – HAVE the best sex of your life!”

He looked off into the distance as if reminiscing about the best sex of his life. I looked back at the door.

Now swinging lightly on his chair, he returned his gaze to me and removed his glasses.

“The only other time I had sex that good was back in my days of taking speed. Did you ever dabble with drugs?”

“No.” I said.

It was at this point I actually felt afraid. I found myself wondering if there was anybody else about in the building. What would happen if I just ran out of the room? Would he try and stop me? I decided my best bet was just to get through the session as quickly as possible then make a complaint.

“What do you love to do?” he  asked

“Ummm… I love to write” I said.

“How long has it been since you’ve written, really written?” he asked.

“A fair while.” I replied shortly.

“Is there a writer’s group in this town?”

“Not that I’m aware of”

“You are a bright girl, why don’t you start one up?”

“Yes, good idea” I said, going along with him.

“I tell you what, next time I come to town, I am going to give you a call to see if you’ve started the writer’s group. Then, I’ll take you out for dinner and you can tell me all about it, OK?”

“Ok” I lied. “I need to go now” I said.

As I got up to walk out the door he said. “Turn around”

I turned around.

“You really have nothing to worry about, I think you look beautiful “.

I have never felt more relief leaving a room. As I walked out of that tiny little office I felt violated. I took a deep breath and noticed that my hands were shaking. I was furious, more shaken up then when I had arrived.

I immediately rang my children’s health nurse and told her what happened. She was shocked.

Weeks later I received a phone call at home. It was him. I hung up.

More weeks passed and I received another call, I hung up again.

His boss then called one day to ask why I had been hanging up each time he called to make a new appointment. I explained why. She was apologetic, and shocked. She asked if she could ask me some more questions, I obliged.

I’m not sure what happened from that point on, I said I didn’t want to know. I trust that things were dealt with appropriately.

Without the help of any therapist going forward I came to utter peace with myself. Once my beautiful baby boy was born my new sense of self was absolutely delighted with her new place in the world.

Have you ever heard of a more inappropriate, downright creepy therapist? 

My Sharon Stone Moment at the Gyno

Sharon Stone in Basic Instinct

Is it just me, or do you secretly hope that your gynecologist is going to be a lovely, tender old woman?

 My ideal gynecologist would look and act exactly like Mother Theresa with old nurturing eyes that have seen thousands of vaginas. I was very anxious as I waited to be called into the gynecologist’s office following an abnormal pap-smear.

My lovely friend had accompanied me to the waiting room for support, understanding just how shit-scared I was. Not just about the check-up, but of the experience itself. When my name was called, I died 1000 deaths.

He was in his mid-forties, tall and rugged, with a strong jaw-line and a low gravelly voice.

“Sharni Montgomery” he uttered as if taking to the stage at a jazz bar.

I looked at my friend, deeply pained.

“You’ll be right,” she said with a reassuring rub on the back.

She knew I wasn’t going to be. This was the stuff my nightmares were made of. Had I been in a restaurant that dish would have been returned.

“I ordered Mother Theresa!”

With flushed cheeks and a knot in my stomach I entered his office. He greeted me quickly, gazed over some notes before routinely instructing, “I’ll leave the room now, please just take off your underwear and sit on the chair”

As the door closed my mind entered what I can only describe as a chaotic state of panic.

“Take my pants down… right, take my pants down…. where did he say I have to sit? Oh shit, I don’t know where he said I have to sit? Oh quick he’ll be back in a minute, just hurry up!” My basic instincts said the operating chair, but I second-guessed them.

As I slid down my pants and my underwear I felt instant regret for wearing a cropped jumper.

He must have meant that chair,” I thought, my mind racing at one million miles per hour.“Where do I even PUT my undies?”

Oh, the questions!

I popped my undies and pants up on the desk and sat myself on the leather chair. My panic attack was at fever pitch. I wasn’t prepared for the look on his face as he re-entered the room.

There I was, butt naked, sitting on some kind of leather director’s chair in the gyno’s office. It was at this moment that the truth dawned on me:“I’m meant to be on the chair up there!!!! The one with the stirrups!! YOU IDIOT!”

I felt like I should have breathed a sultry “Well hello there” before puffing on a cigar. HOLY SHIT, I was having a Sharon Stone moment at the handsome gyno’s office!

I could see that he was embarrassed, but trying not to make me more embarrassed said: “No – that chair over there” pointing to the chair where you are supposed to pantlessly sit.

It was at this mortifying moment, I performed my next trick, peeling my bottom from the leather chair and executing a very awkward bum run to the other side of the office. The operating chair like a mirage in the distance!

I tugged at my cropped jumper. It had buckley’s of covering my jiggly white bum.

The gyno was now coughing and spluttering in a polite attempt to divert from the live streaking action.

There was no need for that dashing gyno to leave the room to give me privacy. The damage had been done.I can’t remember what happened next. It’s all a bit of a blur. The checkup itself was fine, but my dignity…. oh my dignity. I’m sure I left it on his desk in the pile with my undies and my pants.

Have you ever been mortified at the Gyno?