St Patrick's Day, written March 2005

Today is one of those classically beautiful days. It is autumn and though the temperatures fluctuate between comfortably warm and pleasantly cool; the mercury is heading definitely downward.

As I hang clothes out early this morning I first hear then see, two kookaburras in the neighbours' tree. Puts a smile on my face and a spring in my step. The sky decides to be that perfect blue. The red of the autumn leaves against this blue is a startling contrast to the otherwise lazy feel to the day. The sun on my face is just the correct temperature and the air is as crisp as a starched shirt.

I ride north to work along the parkland that forms the southern boundary of the Adelaide Central Business District. To my left is greenery, to the right the wide grey sheet that is Pulteney Street. I play a little mental trick with myself, one that is often done in meditation. I start by blocking out the whine of the traffic and slowly then surely, I begin to hear the sounds of the parkland. First a flock of cockatoos, then some rosellas flying overhead - quick flashes of sound and colour. A sprinkler somewhere in the distance, the water hitting a tree at regular intervals making a "hsss-trp, hsss-trp" noise. A hundred little bird-conversations with the intrigue of treaties made and broken. A brief rustle of branches making the sunshine dance on a tree-trunk. A mother calling to her child to stop running or it will fall; followed by a tiny voice crying. I can imagine the tears in its eyes; the smiling through the tears as a mother's kiss magically heals all wounds large and small.

I pass the bus stop. Notice a young man walking away angrily and a young woman hurriedly trying to hide her tears. I hope he will come back to her, this day cannot permit heartbreak. Ride past a cafeteria where executives are having a business breakfast. You can tell - by the ties knotted just so, the coats hanging carefully on backs of chairs, the array of memo pads and hand-helds vying for space with the coffee cups. Walking from the bicycle stand to the shimmering edifice where I work, I see the rose bushes are shedding their summer display. The lawn nearby is covered with the pretty petals, and a little boy runs through them laughing in delight at the cloud he creates. Arms outstretched, face to the sun, he makes a rainbow to remember.

It is St Patrick's Day and there is an afternoon tea in the department. I am wearing a green shirt and have brought green peppermint creams. I had planned on making green samosas, but decided against the toiling. There are numerous deadlines to meet and a frightening number of messages to respond to. Many are marked "urgent", one is marked "emergent". I suppose someone believes it is an emergency. I wonder if I should wait for the "det-ergent" message, to wash all woes away. I push everything aside and turn my phone off. Just for five minutes, today needs to be savoured. For a brief moment, I need to just be.

What should we do with you doc?

These incidents occurred during the years I lived in Manhattan (94-97). I have related them to friends and colleagues, and am now putting it down in writing.

Part 1 - July 1994.
I had commenced working at a hospital in Brooklyn. One with the busiest ER in New York State, or so I was told. The elevator in the outpatient building was shared by staff and patients, and multi-drug resistant TB was common. Having no particular wish to acquire this, I used the stairs. WITHOUT exception.

Prisoners from the high security section were brought to this hospital for their check-ups. During such times, the routine was that access to the stairs was closed from all floors within the building, and from the main foyer. The prisoners entered via the exit at the back of the building and led up the stairs to the appropriate floor. This back exit also provided the shortest route to the cafeteria for hospital staff.
A week before I started, one of the prisoners had attacked a guard and injured her. Security became tighter, and the orders were that anyone unexpectedly running out that back door when prisoners were around, was to be shot. I was unaware of this.

One noon I was ravenous after a hectic Gynecology OP. Running down the stairs from the 4th floor with my tiny bottle of tabasco sauce in the pocket of my white coat, and looking forward to lasagne day at the cafeteria, I opened the back door. I froze as I heard a series of strange clicks and found a semi-circle of guns pointing straight at me. Milliseconds (or was it hours?) later, an anxious voice shouted, "DON'T SHOOT!" And then the same voice to me, "Jesus f***ing Christ Doc, you scared the shit out of us". It was one of the armed prison guards, and what had saved me was his glimpse of my white coat. He hugged me in what I can only imagine was relief, while I leaned against him weakly. "What are we going to do with you Doc, those stairs were out of bounds today", he said. He helped me to a bench, where I sat for a while. He found out that someone had forgotten to lock the access from the 4th floor OP to the stairs. I ate no lunch that day and remained shaken for many days, realising that New York demanded a steep learning curve.

Part 2: November 1994

I often left the hospital late due to the workload. In a 'dangerous' neigbourhood, heading towards winter, this wasn't in any way optimal. Sometimes I got a ride to the subway station, most times I walked quickly. I was often on my own on the platform, praying for the speedy arrival of a train. Being slight by American standards and being a female was a disadvantage. Thinking it provided some security, I waited just inside the turnstile, within view of the station clerk.

One night at about 11 pm, the train was late. A little further down the platform, a group of teenage boys was enjoying a noisy time. I was nervous and kept checking for the train. After a while, one of the boys approached me. He seemed to grow taller as he came nearer and by the time he was within arm's distance, he was well over 6 ft tall. Dressed typically in low-crotch baggy trousers, large loose flannel shirt and the basketball cap backwards, he looked like any other young boy trying to make a statement. It occurred to me that the more kids try to look different, the more they look the same. He said, "Hi miss". I said hi back. "You all by y'self miss?" he asked. "Yes" I answered. All the time he was smiling, and all the time he was playing with something in his left trouser pocket. "Hey guess wha' I got in my pocket miss?" he asked. "I have no idea", I said. "Weell, I'll let you guess miss. See, it's a small hard shiny thing. And it fits into 'nother hard shiny metallic thing. If I squeeze miss, the small hard thing comes shootin out the other hard shiny thing. Go'on miss, guess."
I was truly afraid now (was it only a bullet or did he have a gun too?), my mouth was completely dry, and I could not speak. Instead I nodded to him. "You 'fraid miss?" I nodded again and peeked into the tunnel. No train.
"I need your advice miss. See, ma friends and me, we want to try out a game. But we don' know if we should or not, so I'm gonna aks you. I'll tell you the game, and you tell us if we shoulds do it. OK miss?" I swallowed hard and nodded. "See miss, we's been told that if we throw this hard shiny thing, reel hard I mean, at the track, jus' as the train comes by; well, there's fireworks miss. Reel fun. What do you say miss, should I do it?" I could smell the sweat pouring down my body. Then as he kept smiling, standing so close to me with his hand still in his pocket, I heard the train. The speech-releasing sound of a train.
Hoping to appear calm, I said, "I think your game is a bad idea. Don't do it." He laughed, a beautiful deep laugh and I felt suddenly very sad. He yelled to his friends, "Yo, she sez no". They laughed and strolled towards us, with the confidence of people who know they are in charge. Four of them, with Burger King bags. I felt confused. Would I be able to get on the train, what did they think I was saying no to? With his face close to mine, the young man said, "It's OK miss, we know youse a doc up the hospital. Folks say you a kind person. We's not dissing you miss, we'll look after you."
The train stopped and he lifted me onto it, the others surrounding us and hiding me with their size. He sat down with me on his lap, held onto my waist tightly and asked in my ear, "What should we do with you Doc?" The others sat on either side, laughing and munching giant hamburgers. There is fear, and there is fear. I found myself wondering whether they were eating a cheeseburger or a quarter-pounder. Or was that a McDonalds menu I was thinking of?
In a soft voice, caressing my arms, he asked again, "What should we do with you Doc, will you be kind to us?" Thinking there would be no tomorrow, I took a deep breath and said, "You know I am afraid. I have reason to be. You are all taller, bigger, stronger. But you are also young enough to be my sons. And I have at home, a 6 yr old and 3 yr old waiting for me. That is all I am going to say." With that, I handed my life to destiny and sat back against him. Willing myself to give up my fear, forcing myself to relax. There was silence. Then they let me be. They stayed on the train till the last stop in Brooklyn before Manhattan. "To make sure I wus safe".
I do not remember how I got home. I remember that I cried a lot, but I didn't know if I was crying for them or for me. Something was lost that night, but I didn't know what or who lost. I gained something valuable too. I learned that a fear of fear is the worst fear of all.