Elsewhereville by JC Staff

Daydreams end at the edge of this town,
a place unconstrained by parameters of time and thought,
suspended adrift in this other-dimensional ambiguity.
Prior to entering, gate keys exchanged in agreement:
“All awareness is forbidden, and to be left at the gate.”
But awareness is cultured and bred in mind and body.
Do I choose to enter?
Do I submit to those confines?
Do I rush towards it, without touch or thought?
How did I just arrive suddenly, in this stillness?
Surrounded now by lonely silence, in limbo?
I just ran in, not listening to all those rules.
Body abandoned wherever I was before,
my mind has stayed back too,
because only the Self can slip
into Elsewhereville.

Not Mother Enough  — by jcstaff_
Strangers’ reactions followed the same pattern,
they’d look, stare, then mentally ballpark the ages.
“You’ve got your hands full!” then a familiar chuckle.
Did they all think they were the first to declare this?
I’d just smile politely, letting them think they really were.
Three, two and newborn; three babies aged three and under,
all planned, all adored, our little family complete and compact.
Fascinatined, I watched their development flourishing every day.
They looked to me for praise and approval, as they learned to walk,
say recognisable words, use crayons, spoons, come down a slide and read.
Like little ducklings they were, all three in a line.
I was so calm and mothering them came so easy,
I really could do it with my eyes closed.
Though they never let me sleep.
And I never minded.
“It will get easier,” people would say. But I knew they were wrong.
The birth until the baby’s 5th birthday is the simple part, a honeymoon.
Children smell lovely in their drowsiness, their tender breath sweet, gentle.
Glimpses of moonlight through curtain cracks, streaking the wooden flooring,
sitting in the armchair next to their cribs with one cherub or another in my arms.
Surely, that’s why they woke me, to snatch those moments of sensory delight.
I loved those secret minutes in the still of night, soft, warm babies held close.
Days filled with sparkling eyes, watching me with such endearment,
blinking amazed, like I was the best mother in the whole world.
Those were the days – I was right, it is more complicated now.
But has it become harder, or has my belief in my ability to mother, vanished?
It feels like I’m doing it all wrong these days, I’ve lost the map and compass.
Now it’s me looking to my children for their praise and approval.
I mostly raised myself from about nine, navigating my teens alone.
How can I guide our ducklings successfully, with nothing to go on?
Can I do this?  Can I help these young beings grow up into adults?
I have no confidence; I tell them.
“Sorry…” I say, “I’m sorry you got me.”
Then one morning, I arrive home hot and damp after a leisurely run.
I’m stretching on the steps as my middle child opens the front door.
Pleased to see me back, she greets me warmly and says,
“Oh Mum, I hope I can run like you when I’m older!”
Maybe, just maybe, I am doing it. Right now.
Maybe, just for today, I am mother enough.

A “Routine” Procedure by JC Staff

*trigger/difficult content alert – discusses medical examinations

In my twenties, I move up north with my boyfriend.  We have been living in the village less than a year, our days are busy with commuting into the city, working and studying.  I have only been to the doctor’s in the next village a couple of times, once for an ongoing back issue, and another time for my asthma prescription.  It has been a few years since my last routine cervical smear test, and it’s overdue – but let’s face it, life is busy, the test is a chore, and it’s easy to let the time elapse between appointments.  I have been living with my boyfriend for 2 years, and have no pain or concerning issues, so the smear test is low on my priority list. Eventually, I make an appointment at the doctor’s, just to get it over with.

In the waiting room, I sit slightly nervously, staring into my phone and waiting to be called.  The village population is elderly, and a number of coughing/sniffling older people sit chatting to each other about various ailments as they wait.  I hear my name, and look up to see a young nurse.  A very young nurse.  Seriously, she looks like a teenager.  Where is the matronly older female nurse who normally works here?  Oh well.  I follow the young woman into the examination room, and start complying with her monotone instructions to remove clothing.  She’s not very friendly, and seems nervous, distracted – her words sounding wooden and stilted.  I feel a little more anxious now, as her inexperience is already palpable.  She makes no attempt to relieve my trepidation as previous nurses have done prior to the exam.

As I lie back on the bed, naked from the waist down, with the paper sheet crinkling against my skin, I am immediately shocked.  On the ceiling, directly above me is a poster.  It looks like the ones which come in the centrefold of pre-teen pop music magazines, and features the popstar, Robbie Williams.  Jeans seductively unbuttoned, he is naked from the waist up, tanned, and rippling his six-pack abs with a smoulderingly sexy look on his face.  “Just relax” says the child-nurse, with a robotic tone, as though she would rather be anywhere else in the world, but in this room with me.  “Snap”, I think, feeling exactly the same way.

I lie there, my feet in the icy cold, metal stirrups, feeling incredibly vulnerable, and trying to take in the poster and process its incongruity.  Why?  What is its purpose?  Is it implying women will feel aroused by the sight of that man, staring down at them, and will be more physically compliant with a gynaecological examination as a result?  Surreal.  A poster featuring a meadow in the Swiss Alps, or an image of a seascape with an empty beach, a bent palm tree and an inviting sunset may have eased the tension a little.  But this?… I am unable to make sense of it at all.

The procedure begins and is immediately extremely painful.  I take my breath in sharply in response, entirely unprepared for the pain having only experienced mild discomfort on previous occasions. “Sorry”, says the nurse, sounding feeble, retracting her equipment.  My tension increases now, as cervical smear tests have never felt this uncomfortable in the past.  The nurse apologizes again weakly, making another attempt.  The pain is all-consuming.  I won’t go into any further detail, but needless to say, the procedure feels very wrong.  It is not supposed to hurt like this.  The Robbie Williams poster suddenly feels very irritating, like I’m being watched by the singer, mocked, as I’m enduring a difficult and painful examination.  Feeling sexy is the very furthest thing from my mind right now.   The young clinician now quietly apologizes once more, aware of the physical discomfort she is causing.

In a blur, she finishes, and I am distantly aware of her offering me a tissue – inadequate is an understatement.  I hear her saying it’s “all done”, and telling me I can get dressed again.  I don’t remember the rest, and drive the mile or so distance home in a daze.  As I stumble into the house, feeling shaky, I go straight to the bathroom.  I am bleeding heavily, and my dress is already stained.  It was a favourite.  I throw it out – even if I had got it clean, I wouldn’t wear it again as it would remind me of the experience.  I get changed and lie on the sofa; I am feeling delicate, tearful, and the pain is acute.  I take some pain medication and call my boyfriend, crying.  He leaves work straight away and comes back to the house.

I spend two days on the sofa recovering.  When the ordeal has passed, my feelings shift from feeble and injured, to angry and indignant.  Why was the test carried out by someone so inexperienced?  Why is there a poster of a half-clad male pop singer on the ceiling above the very spot where women are being investigated for possible signs of cervical cancer?  How exceedingly inappropriate is that?  Is the sight of a famous male celebrity meant to turn women on?  Who feels turned on during a vaginal examination, for God’s sake?

I write a lengthy letter of complaint to the practice manager of the doctor’s office.  I highlight that it seemed clear the young nurse was inexperienced and should not be left alone to carry out invasive, gynaecological tests which she clearly lacks confidence in doing.  As well, I ask who thought it a sensible idea to put the poster of a half-dressed male pop star above the examination bed?  It was utterly offensive, in my opinion.  One in three women on that bed will have survived sexual trauma, and do not need a photo of a man staring down at them when they are lying there, trying to clutch tightly to shreds of dignity as they undergo a pelvic examination.  I suggest others may feel the same but are too embarrassed to raise the issue. Surely gone are the days when we are to be subject to that level of patriarchy.  (I think Robbie Williams is ugly anyway.  And conceited.)  Seriously, a half-clad male celebrity, striking a pose, conflated with a sexual health procedure is entirely inappropriate.

Finally, I state in the letter that I was only aware of the incompetence as I had prior experience to compare it to.  Any young woman who may have endured that as her first experience of a cervical smear test, would have likely been far too traumatised by the ordeal to ever go for another one.  This, in itself, is very concerning, and potentially dangerous, as cervical cancer, like others, is most manageable when detected early.  It is essential that women’s sexual health care is accessible and sensitive to women’s needs.

I received an apologetic letter in reply, from the manager of the doctors’ office, and the poster was taken down.  Gratefully, we only lived there for two years, and smear tests I have undergone since have been routine, carried out by skilled medical professionals, with only run-of-the-mill mild discomfort.  I would always encourage any woman who experiences sub-standard healthcare to speak up, challenge poor practice and expect high standards of quality care where your physical and emotional health are concerned.  You are likely not the only one who feels that way, and might be raising an issue that affects others, too. 

Your safety matters.  Your voice matters.

You matter.

We Told You….. by JC Staff

I have my hands pressed over my ears tightly so I cannot hear your vitriol and tripe
Your rebuttals shrink and wither the second they leave your lips, like a three-day-old balloon becoming flaccid when touched
My eyes are shut tightly, your snide, sarcastic jibes, always tinged with aggression, sometimes saturated, will no longer leak into my space, flood my screen, or invade my aura
You have finished pushing your way in to help yourself
To take, to harm, to abuse, to violate – to meet your wants
Satiating your desires at the expense of us all, with no remorse
I have had enough of your voice, and all the others, denying my truths
I am not listening; I am refusing to listen now, your words are like empty envelopes
You are relentless, it’s true
But my tenacity in this quest to silence your power once and for all, is greater than your energy to make me pay attention to your misogynistic drivel
Petulance, you say? Perhaps.
I am stamping my feet now to shake the ground beneath you
If that does not stop you, I can make thunder with my tongue
To silence your patriarchal assertions of entitlement and objectification
You are not justified, you never have been
I will make you hear me in the end
Leave me be; I will turn my back
I will not walk away because you have not won, and you will never win
Remaining fierce with my heels firmly planted, immutable, unshakable
I am going to have the final word.
Because we told you,
Survivors in the millions,
Driven by collective passion
And a bravery unparalleled,
Stood up around the globe;
We held hands and shouted
So now you need to listen
We told you:
Time’s Up.