Autumn Edition 2011
STAY ON THE SUNNY SIDE
By © LOU POLLARD and THE HUMOUR FOUNDATION 2011
8th March 2011
8th March 2011
In
the hospital burns ward Dr Quack and Dr P. Brain were asked by a nurse
to visit a small patient who had been in hospital for a month and was
very depressed. We walked in to meet a sad little boy aged around five,
with his dad sitting by his bedside looking desperate. The boy was
swathed in bandages, he looked a little grey and he could barely lift
his head off the pillow. We stood near his bed and softly sang and
mimed the actions to “I’m A Little Teapot.” He gave us a weak smile. So
Dr Quack started singing her favourite song, ”Twinkle Twinkle little
garbage bin,” and his scratchy little voice said, “No, that’s not the
words.” So we sang “Twinkle, twinkle little dragonfly…” As he let out a
small giggle, his dad’s face lit up. “No!” His hoarse, tired voice
cried out, “No, you are silly!” He sang the whole song with all the
‘right’ words along with us and as we were finishing I glanced over at
his dad to see him weeping tears of joy. We waved goodbye and walked
out.
“Was that him singing?” said a nurse.
“Yes, what a beautiful voice,” we said.
“He hasn’t spoken to us for weeks, he’s been too weak. I can’t believe you got him to sing. Thank you,” she said as she shook her head in amazement.
When we walk onto a ward we take our advice from the nurses, then we take our cue from the patient. Clown Doctors* always ask children’s permission, either verbally or non-verbally, to enter their room or bedside space, thus returning some control to the child.
We introduce play into the serious hospital setting. Kids are open to this but most adults have forgotten how to be silly. Even if we arrive at work in a bad mood, one cheeky child can quickly take us into the world of play. Children laugh a lot every day; we adults take ourselves so seriously we need to be reminded to look at the funny side of life.
Clown Doctors are in people’s lives when they are at their most vulnerable; they’re far from family and friends. Our work is not about making fun of people it’s about sharing a gag. We are usually the butt of the joke. Humour is a loaded gun; we find it’s more effective if you aim it at yourself. Like nurses we believe there is nothing wrong with leaving our patients in stitches.
Clown Doctors brighten the lives of very sick children and elderly patients. We parody the hospital routine to help children adapt to hospital life, improvising and working with each child’s interests. Adults benefit from Clown Doctors as much as children. Caring clowning
speaks the language of the heart and brings a sense of connection and consolation, with people frequently sharing their feelings.
International research has found that laughter has both physiological and psychological benefits. Doses of humour help relieve fear and stress and help recovery. T cells and serum cortisol levels are lowered, thus boosting the immune system. Muscles are relaxed and the cardiovascular system and respiratory system benefit. It is possible that endorphins reduce pain.
We believe there is truth in the old saying ‘laughter is the best medicine.’ Our team of Clown Doctors spend hours each week helping children and adults in hospitals across Australia laugh and have fun. We think there must be something to it.
* Clown Doctors™ are provided by The Humour Foundation free of charge to 20 hospitals around Australia.
“Was that him singing?” said a nurse.
“Yes, what a beautiful voice,” we said.
“He hasn’t spoken to us for weeks, he’s been too weak. I can’t believe you got him to sing. Thank you,” she said as she shook her head in amazement.
When we walk onto a ward we take our advice from the nurses, then we take our cue from the patient. Clown Doctors* always ask children’s permission, either verbally or non-verbally, to enter their room or bedside space, thus returning some control to the child.
We introduce play into the serious hospital setting. Kids are open to this but most adults have forgotten how to be silly. Even if we arrive at work in a bad mood, one cheeky child can quickly take us into the world of play. Children laugh a lot every day; we adults take ourselves so seriously we need to be reminded to look at the funny side of life.
Clown Doctors are in people’s lives when they are at their most vulnerable; they’re far from family and friends. Our work is not about making fun of people it’s about sharing a gag. We are usually the butt of the joke. Humour is a loaded gun; we find it’s more effective if you aim it at yourself. Like nurses we believe there is nothing wrong with leaving our patients in stitches.
Clown Doctors brighten the lives of very sick children and elderly patients. We parody the hospital routine to help children adapt to hospital life, improvising and working with each child’s interests. Adults benefit from Clown Doctors as much as children. Caring clowning
speaks the language of the heart and brings a sense of connection and consolation, with people frequently sharing their feelings.
International research has found that laughter has both physiological and psychological benefits. Doses of humour help relieve fear and stress and help recovery. T cells and serum cortisol levels are lowered, thus boosting the immune system. Muscles are relaxed and the cardiovascular system and respiratory system benefit. It is possible that endorphins reduce pain.
We believe there is truth in the old saying ‘laughter is the best medicine.’ Our team of Clown Doctors spend hours each week helping children and adults in hospitals across Australia laugh and have fun. We think there must be something to it.
* Clown Doctors™ are provided by The Humour Foundation free of charge to 20 hospitals around Australia.
A GENEROUS LIFE
Ever entered a home so warm it
embraces you at the threshold?
For years I caught glimpses of Carmen Testa’s life through the beaded curtain of our mutual friendships. Although I had never met her, Carmen’s love of people and her God pierced through our separate lives and touched me. Finally, I had the pleasure of meeting her and her husband Frank for the first time on the 9th of February. On that day, Carmen told me she had retired from teaching 25 years ago. I disagree, for on that day, the conversation we had confirms to me that she is still actively teaching – by osmosis – how to live the gospel.
Carmen migrated to Australia and arrived here on Australia Day 1951. Nine months later, Frank – who was her boyfriend at the time – followed, and two years after that they were married. They had eight children – unfortunately they lost one at birth.
Frank has always supported Carmen in her community work, so much, Carmen always says: “Behind every man there is a woman but in our house it's the opposite, behind this woman there is that man.”
Her community spirit has been evident since she was 11 years old and has continued throughout her life. You might assume that raising seven children leaves little time to help others, but Carmen has proven that it’s possible to successfully nurture family and support neighbour.
Even as a child growing up in Malta, Carmen helped other people. She was rare in her ability to read and write thanks to her parents who “Valued education,” she said.
And consequently, she was often asked by people in her village to fill out forms for them.
On arrival to Australia, she continued helping fellow migrants with basic needs:
I know what it’s like to have a family and to struggle. I used to make deb.
dresses for those who couldn’t afford it…We’re very community orientated; people are important to us. Our house has always been a warm and friendly one. My children’s friends were always welcome.
Carmen’s ventures include: a women’s group she founded in 1987, to give new arrivals and widows a social and spiritual network – which still runs today. “(As a group) for 25 years we sponsored five World Vision kids. The people involved used to pay $2 each per month. (Some of us) went to meet them.”
Also, she has been a regular speaker on the Maltese radio station 97.4 FM and she has raised money for the Augustinian Orphanage whenever possible. Thankfully, her contribution to the Maltese and migrant community has not gone unnoticed. She has received honours for:
Faith is the greatest gift from God, that’s proven in this. Trauma affects everyone (in the family)…They (hospital staff) couldn’t believe that such a big family wanted to be there.
As bad as it is and as hard as it is I thank God.
This amazing lady also believes that you must persist in order to survive your ordeals.
I get up, when I’m not healthy I stay and read. When I pick up, I go and do things. You don’t want to give up and there’s always people worse than you – visiting nursing homes and sick makes me realise how much. You have to accept it (your situation).
Clearly, despite the pain and suffering she has experienced, Carmen advocates self motivation, “Believe in yourself. Don’t give up. You have to fight on.”
For years I caught glimpses of Carmen Testa’s life through the beaded curtain of our mutual friendships. Although I had never met her, Carmen’s love of people and her God pierced through our separate lives and touched me. Finally, I had the pleasure of meeting her and her husband Frank for the first time on the 9th of February. On that day, Carmen told me she had retired from teaching 25 years ago. I disagree, for on that day, the conversation we had confirms to me that she is still actively teaching – by osmosis – how to live the gospel.
Carmen migrated to Australia and arrived here on Australia Day 1951. Nine months later, Frank – who was her boyfriend at the time – followed, and two years after that they were married. They had eight children – unfortunately they lost one at birth.
Frank has always supported Carmen in her community work, so much, Carmen always says: “Behind every man there is a woman but in our house it's the opposite, behind this woman there is that man.”
Her community spirit has been evident since she was 11 years old and has continued throughout her life. You might assume that raising seven children leaves little time to help others, but Carmen has proven that it’s possible to successfully nurture family and support neighbour.
Even as a child growing up in Malta, Carmen helped other people. She was rare in her ability to read and write thanks to her parents who “Valued education,” she said.
And consequently, she was often asked by people in her village to fill out forms for them.
On arrival to Australia, she continued helping fellow migrants with basic needs:
I know what it’s like to have a family and to struggle. I used to make deb.
dresses for those who couldn’t afford it…We’re very community orientated; people are important to us. Our house has always been a warm and friendly one. My children’s friends were always welcome.
Carmen’s ventures include: a women’s group she founded in 1987, to give new arrivals and widows a social and spiritual network – which still runs today. “(As a group) for 25 years we sponsored five World Vision kids. The people involved used to pay $2 each per month. (Some of us) went to meet them.”
Also, she has been a regular speaker on the Maltese radio station 97.4 FM and she has raised money for the Augustinian Orphanage whenever possible. Thankfully, her contribution to the Maltese and migrant community has not gone unnoticed. She has received honours for:
- Manoel De Vilhena Award (A Cultural Award, awarded by the Prime Minister of Malta for work within the community} in 1995
- C.O.T.A. Senior Achiever Award in 1996
- Medal of the Order of Australia in 1998
- V.M.C. Premier's special Commendation Award in 2001
- Certificate of Recognition / Year of the Volunteer in 2001
- Outstanding Achievement in Promoting cultural Diversity - Victorian Immigration and Refugee Women's Coalition {VIRWC} in 2004
- Medalja tal-Qadi tar-Republika (MQR}.This is the equivalent of the Order of Australia but awarded by the Prime Minister of Malta in 2005
- Living Treasure - Awarded for community work by Brimbank Council in conjunction with the Hunt Club in 2010
Faith is the greatest gift from God, that’s proven in this. Trauma affects everyone (in the family)…They (hospital staff) couldn’t believe that such a big family wanted to be there.
As bad as it is and as hard as it is I thank God.
This amazing lady also believes that you must persist in order to survive your ordeals.
I get up, when I’m not healthy I stay and read. When I pick up, I go and do things. You don’t want to give up and there’s always people worse than you – visiting nursing homes and sick makes me realise how much. You have to accept it (your situation).
Clearly, despite the pain and suffering she has experienced, Carmen advocates self motivation, “Believe in yourself. Don’t give up. You have to fight on.”
A TEENAGE PERSPECTIVE
16-year-old Tabitha Burr describes the common
teenage girl as make-up mad and submissive to peer group pressure. It’s a common belief that this passage of
youth is a time when we’re true to a type but not to ourselves. In contrast, a petite, articulately spoken
Burr is prematurely comfortable in her own skin which, through the eyes of
other teenagers, makes her both awesome and nerdy and always a curiosity.
Burr’s defiance against common teenage practices extends passed the curiosity of her adolescent peers. Everyone – at any age – who meets her, is intrigued by her cultured interests in ornithology, tailoring and history. She has an impressive ability to relate to her boy-crazy, party-loving friends while remaining faithful to her unique interests. When asked, what gives her the courage to be her true self, Burr replies:
I don’t have to involve myself in all the politics. The number one reason for politics (at school) is acceptance and the desire to be liked. There’s this ideal
Image of what everyone wants to be but on one knows what that ideal image is. That’s the uselessness of the politics; no one knows what it is and…no one is going to be the ideal… If you’re yourself people will say ‘Boy she’s weird.’ If you change they will say ‘Why is she being like this?’ No matter what (you do) you are going to get a reaction. They’re just talking, they can’t hurt you
Is it any wonder then, that our teenagers struggle with self image and who they are, when the guidelines of teenage etiquette are apparently such a blur? This figment of our teenager’s imagination they call ‘the ideal image’ bears a resemblance to the mechanical rabbit in a greyhound race – a frustrating, unachievable motivator. According to Burr, the peer group pressure to reach the impossible ideal can cause real damage in young people’s self esteem.
It makes them do ridiculous crap. When I think about peer group pressure, I brush it off. (It) makes you do unnecessary stuff. It shrinks them (teenagers) from expressing their individuality. They become sheep.
Although she advocates expressiveness to her fellow teenagers, Burr also appreciates the quiet individuals in her life. She values the uniqueness in people and is wise beyond her years in her ability to see the beauty in everyone.
I went to a beach house with my friend’s family. They don’t talk – so cute. I’m the only one that talks. Even though they don’t talk much, there’s something really pleasant about them. It’s not (that) you can’t talk to them; it’s that they don’t talk.
An accepting soul with a positive attitude are undeniable truths about Burr. She’s discovered who she is and the courage to express it at a very tender age. Her quirky and as she calls it, weird, personality is both interesting and delightful. Most importantly, she appears to have found the link that joins authenticity, happiness and youth together. Like many profound discoveries, the solution is uncomplicated and basic. “Just say, I don’t care.”
Burr’s defiance against common teenage practices extends passed the curiosity of her adolescent peers. Everyone – at any age – who meets her, is intrigued by her cultured interests in ornithology, tailoring and history. She has an impressive ability to relate to her boy-crazy, party-loving friends while remaining faithful to her unique interests. When asked, what gives her the courage to be her true self, Burr replies:
I don’t have to involve myself in all the politics. The number one reason for politics (at school) is acceptance and the desire to be liked. There’s this ideal
Image of what everyone wants to be but on one knows what that ideal image is. That’s the uselessness of the politics; no one knows what it is and…no one is going to be the ideal… If you’re yourself people will say ‘Boy she’s weird.’ If you change they will say ‘Why is she being like this?’ No matter what (you do) you are going to get a reaction. They’re just talking, they can’t hurt you
Is it any wonder then, that our teenagers struggle with self image and who they are, when the guidelines of teenage etiquette are apparently such a blur? This figment of our teenager’s imagination they call ‘the ideal image’ bears a resemblance to the mechanical rabbit in a greyhound race – a frustrating, unachievable motivator. According to Burr, the peer group pressure to reach the impossible ideal can cause real damage in young people’s self esteem.
It makes them do ridiculous crap. When I think about peer group pressure, I brush it off. (It) makes you do unnecessary stuff. It shrinks them (teenagers) from expressing their individuality. They become sheep.
Although she advocates expressiveness to her fellow teenagers, Burr also appreciates the quiet individuals in her life. She values the uniqueness in people and is wise beyond her years in her ability to see the beauty in everyone.
I went to a beach house with my friend’s family. They don’t talk – so cute. I’m the only one that talks. Even though they don’t talk much, there’s something really pleasant about them. It’s not (that) you can’t talk to them; it’s that they don’t talk.
An accepting soul with a positive attitude are undeniable truths about Burr. She’s discovered who she is and the courage to express it at a very tender age. Her quirky and as she calls it, weird, personality is both interesting and delightful. Most importantly, she appears to have found the link that joins authenticity, happiness and youth together. Like many profound discoveries, the solution is uncomplicated and basic. “Just say, I don’t care.”
STAGES OF CHANGE
When we go through a healing process, whether it’s overcoming depression, a habit or addiction we will go through stages of change. This means that during the process we may think that “this can’t be happening to me” or become shocked when the initial awareness hits us. We may become secretive, seek help in the form of counselling or read self-help books.
When my clients come to me for change, it usually means that they either want to act on the change or are contemplating whether it’s worth the effort. They may either feel frustrated or can’t believe it’s happening to them. Clients may, for instance, seek help in overcoming depression.
In this instance, I may get them to consider how they talk to themselves, what triggers are causing their depression and recommend they learn new stress management skills such as deep breathing exercises or meditation.
Relapse
Relapse is an important and normal stage of change. It can be used as a tool to learn new coping skills, discover newfound strengths and work through weaknesses.
A relapse can occur because the client will feel defeated or overwhelmed with their emotions while working through their condition. The client may then feel angry and withdraw from the problem or experiment with the small changes they are making.
Why Relapse?
It is normal for people to relapse and go through the stages of change several times. Therefore they may realise that they need to work on a situation by practicing their new coping skills. Often, they go back to old habits like not meditating, the situation returns and then they are at the “why me” stage.
This may seem like a frustrating process for anybody but it’s about being kind to yourself and patient because it takes time to change. Just like it takes time to learn a new skill, get used to a new job or settle into a new relationship.
Our mind is so used to “what was” that it has trouble with “what is”. When we go through change, we are telling our mind that it is no longer going to have what it is used to and therefore the mind reacts to that through frustration, etc. At this time, we either resort to the “old ways” or re-educate our thinking.
Education can include thinking differently and as mentioned previously, learning new coping skills.
Resistance
When we teach the mind new skills it can become resistant by saying ‘this is too hard’ or ‘I can’t do this’.
The idea is to be aware of the resistance rather then become angry or lose hope. You can use the resistance as a learning tool to say that this new skill is not suitable for me.
I always work with my clients rather then expect them to follow me. This means that I need to realise that everybody is different and I need to listen to them. What works for one person may not work for another and this is what their resistance is telling us.
Therefore rather than seeing it as a failure, I am using it as a guide to help me assist my clients.
Sustaining Change
When we decide to go through change, we need to maintain it. This includes finding a support base such as a friend or therapist.
You can then turn to the support base to talk about the resistance. They can help find a new coping skill or explore why you have relapsed, what stage of change you are at, help in renewing your determination and motivate you to maintain your new way of living.
Josie from Writeway Communications is a trained counsellor and communication’s expert. She runs individual, group and couples counselling and assertive and conflict management training sessions. Feel free to call Josie on 0410 534 489 or on [email protected] for further information about counselling or to book a session.
MANILA'S HEROES
By Leeanne Grima
8th March 2011
8th March 2011
Leeanne Grima, 26, has recently returned from 14 months of missionary
work in the Philippines with Heart's Home, a Catholic organisation
dedicated to being a presence of compassion in the most deprived areas
of the world. Her time in Manila was spent in friendship with
local children and their families who showed her that grace can be
found inside a fishport, under a bridge, and in a garbage dump slum.
Leeanne is an active member of St Peter Chanel parish in Deer Park,
Victoria, and previously worked with a Christian aid and development
organisation. You can read more about her experiences in the
Philippines at http://insideaglassofwater.wordpress.com.
MOURN WITH THOSE WHO MOURN
Jopen is 20, so pretty, and lives with her family in a small house
at the entrance of our looban. A few months ago, we had news – her first baby was born in the local
public hospital! But the baby was to be kept there a while.
We went to see Jopen and her baby at the hospital not long after. Baby Brix was small and thin. He
was on a manual ventilator, because he couldn’t yet breathe on his own. Jopen and her husband took
turns to pump his ventilator, squeezing it slowly every few seconds. The two parents, relieved occasionally
by Jopen’s mother, Ate Josephine, stayed at the hospital, taking turns to sleep on children’s
cots in the babies’ ward under bright lights. They were both so tired, it sometimes seemed that they
were squeezing the ventilator in their sleep.
Brix was born with the umbilical cord wrapped around his head, and probably did not breathe for a long
time after his birth. The doctors did not tell the parents if they thought there would be long-term
damage, or how long they thought Brix would be in hospital, and Jopen and her husband were
bewildered by each new expensive prescription they were given. They couldn’t pay for all
the medicines.
After about a month of Brix being in the hospital, we asked a nurse friend of ours to visit the family in
the hospital. She spoke quietly to the doctors, and helped the family understand which prescriptions
were most important. Even in a public hospital which services the poor, medicines and equipment must
be paid for by the patient before anything is administered. Our friend explained to us that while it
seemed unacceptable that the family could be left in confusion so long, it is the way here. Doctors will
not bear bad news if it will prematurely distress people. If the doctors were honest and there was
nothing more to be done, she said, they would send the baby home. Claire and Marianne donated their
blood so that Brix could receive a transfusion, and we helped with some of the medicines.
A few weeks later, Brix was sent home. The family were happy and we tried to share their happiness,
but we were troubled. Brix was still so small. The neighbourhood children remarked bluntly on his
strange, shrunken appearance. But Jopen loved him dearly. He was baptized at our church. We prayed
for him to grow strong.
One night, coming back from mass, the children in our looban ran to us saying ‘ baby patay’ – dead
baby. We rushed to Jopen’s house. Baby Brix, so small, was lying on blankets on the floor, unresponsive.
His family were crowded around him, massaging him, urging him in quiet voices to stay with
them. When they indicated, we ran for the local priest. Fr Chris came and blessed the baby. He spoke
with the family. When he left, the family were calmer. They could detect a faint heart beat.
The next morning, we went to see the family again. Ate Josephine was outside, and told us quietly that
Brix died in the early morning.
After Brix’s death, Jopen was flustered and in shock. She asked if we would help her – it was her first
child to die she said and she didn’t know how to do. Would we pray with her as her family entered the
long time of the wake? Of course we would.
Every night we went to her husband’s house with a bundle of rosaries and booklets in Tagalog. We
prayed the rosary with the family in front of Brix’s tiny casket, and then accepted the food and drink
they offered us. Jopen was a perfect host, smiling, praying quietly with us. When Brix was buried
a week later, her grief opened up, sobbing and loud, and it was heartbreaking.
*
The next story belongs to our friend Ate Marisa and her family. They live in a place called Market 3,
a large squatter community inside the fish port compound. We visit the family, including her children
and grandson, regularly. Her son, Julius, is in jail - I will share more with you about him in my next
letter. Her daughter Indai, 24, is an especially good friend of ours. From a childhood in the fish port,
she managed to get a scholarship through highschool and to graduate from college.
Ate Marisa, 49, was in hospital for months because of a diabetes complication. After a partial amputation
of her foot last year, infection set in and was rotting her leg. The doctors wanted to amputate
again, but Ate Marisa was reluctant and afraid. Eventually, she was too weak to be operated on. The
doctors had to wait till she was stronger. Indai worried about how they would pay for the operation and
the ever longer hospital stay.
Claire and I spent one night with Ate Marisa in the hospital, to give a rest to her husband and son John
Mar, 20, who were attending to her. In the hospitals here it is compulsory to have a ‘bantay’, a family
member with you 24 hours to help because the nurses cannot attend to all needs. So tasks we expect to
be done by a nurse are done by untrained people – everything from assisting the patient to the toilet, to
cleaning and dressing their wounds.
Ate Marisa was in a diabetes ward of about fifteen men and women. The beds were lined up dorm-like,
without curtains to hide when someone needed to change their clothes, or have their wound cleaned, or
go to the toilet in their bedpan. Cats wandered in and out. At night, the lights were left on, and it was
hard to see how any of the patients could rest. There was a single filthy toilet. The stench from the
wounds, some wrapped in diapers because of the seeping infection, was so bad.
That night, it was clear to us Ate Marisa was in a bad way. She struggled to breathe, and her sleep was
fitful. She cried out for her husband and son. While he was with us, John Mar comforted her by singing
her favourite songs and stroking her hair. Without John Mar and her husband, the night was so long for
Ate Marisa.
A few weeks later, Indai came to our house while we were playing with the children, and shared
through tears that Ate Marisa had slipped into a coma. The next day at church, we learned Ate Marisa
had died late in the night.
Ate Marisa’s body was laid out in a room near the parish church. Each night we went to stay with her
sons and daughters and her husband who wandered lost and confused.
*
A few days after baby Brix was buried, Jopen and her mother Ate Josephine invited us to their house.
They gave us cola and crackers, and we chatted. Jopen showed us pictures she had developed of Brix.
One, cased in a badge, was pinned to her clothes. Later, we saw Jopen’s father had tattooed the name
of his dead grandson, his first ‘apo’, across his back.
Always, a Filipino will be brave. Jopen shared that she hopes to have more children. And in the middle
of our conversation, Ate Josephine said to us “You are always here for us”. And I realise, despite
ourselves, despite our sorrow that this suffering comes to this family, how small our consolation, that
our presence is a difference, is a sign of love.
Jopen and Leeanne
We experienced this too, with Ate Marisa’s family. It might be strange to hear it, but most of the time
we were with them at the week-long wake we were laughing and joking. The first night, my brother of
community Julian - he was still new - looked sad and mournful. I realised he was probably uncomfortable
with our bright conversation with Ate Marisa’s family, just metres from where her body lay
in state.
John Mar noticed this and was puzzled. He asked Julian - why do you look sad? It was a genuine
question, said with concern for Julian. And in broken Tagalog Julian tried to explain, as sensitively as
possible, that it was because he was mourning, with the family, their mother.
And John Mar replied, in a loving way, a matter-of-fact way - there is a time for happy and time for
sad. Ate Marisa was happy in life. And so we be happy now. There will be a time for sad later - at the
cemetery, at the final goodbye – but for now, we be happy.
Like so much in this mission, a time for happy, a time for sad.
Rejoice with those who rejoice
In the weeks and months since baby Brix and Ate Marisa were buried, our friends show us again, their
resilience, their hope, their strength. Days ago, Jopen told us she is pregnant. Last week, we joined
a large group of our neighbours, including Jopen, on a pilgrimage to Antipolo, to visit the shrine of our
Our Lady there. On the truck getting there, I watched Jopen and her husband sit close together, his arm
around her. We know it hasn’t been easy for this young couple, but they endure.
Ate Marisa’s daughter, Maricel, gave birth not so long ago. A baby girl named Marisa, in honour of her
grandmother. Maricel told us that a mother must be strong to give birth in the slum like she did. They
are strong.
Baby Marisa at her baptism
Death stings hard, but our friends remind us that it has not the victory. Last letter, I shared with you
about Jossa and her life on her raft under the bridge. One evening, the children called us to go see their
mother, Ate Susana. She had been in labour the day long, and had had enough pregnancies to know
something was not right. We pleaded with Ate Susana to allow us to take her to the hospital.
We spent a long night searching the public hospitals of Manila for one which would admit her. The
doctor we saw at the first hospital explained her baby was pre-term and would probably need to be
incubated after birth. But there were no vacant incubators there, and the specialist private children’s
hospital we went to rejected this mother, rudely blaming her for her situation, just another poor person
in their midst. The fourth hospital, a busy public hospital a long way from Navotas, finally admitted
Ate Susana.
We stayed with Ate Susana and her husband the night and day. Her husband is illiterate, so we helped
him fill in paper work, and entered the room where she was being kept along with all the other mothers
in labour, because it was forbidden for men to enter.
Early on the morning of the 12th of November, Ate Susana had her baby. When we met her with the
baby the first time, she asked us to choose his name. So touched, Karen suggested Lorenzo, the name
of the Philippines’ first saint, and the patron of our parish where we so often meet her children Jossa
and Jo-ann.
At the hospital, during those long days of waiting for mother and baby to be discharged, Ate Susana’s
husband told us he has ‘utang na loob’ for us. This is a Filipino term which is something like a debt of
gratitude, but goes deeper – a debt of the heart. How do we explain to this family that there is no debt?
That there is only our love for them, and the love they show us. I don’t have the words to say this to
him, and so I just smile.
Ate Susana, Nelsan, and Lorenzo
Every time we pass the bridge now, we call out to Ate Susana on the raft, and she looks up at us, and
smiles her broad smile, and fetches Lorenzo so that we can wave at him and admire him. When I’m
sad, I think of Lorenzo. A time for happy
DEPRESSION SUFFERER'S UNSUNG ENDURANCE
Despite government efforts to raise public awareness
in recent years, victims of depression are still being stigmatized as weak
willed and self destructive. Although sufferers fight that enormous battle with their emotions over and again, they are
rarely considered strong people. Sue Gatt understands the resilience necessary
to get through every day with depression as she has managed to do so for 16
years.
When her second child was eight months old, Sue began to feel overwhelmed with life. Basic chores like house cleaning became too big to tackle. Feeding her baby was an effort and she lost interest in everything else including the desire to eat. At the time, doctors told her it was post-natal depression until she didn’t recover. In hindsight, she suspects losing a friend in a car accident was the trigger but, as her mother is a long time sufferer herself, Sue says: ‘What happened to me came slowly from my childhood.’
Even though she’s learnt coping skills, Sue lives with good and bad days just like everyone else. But for Sue, a bad day brings anxiety attacks and an inability to get out of bed and face the day. On a good day, ‘I want to conquer everything. On my good days, I can do anything.’
And what she does is amazing; her condition hasn’t affected Sue’s creative abilities. As well as a personal carer, Sue works as a party planner for children, adults and dog celebrations. She receives positive feedback about her work and her business is generated from word of mouth alone.
Although Sue’s condition makes everything harder, in some ways she feels grateful for her depression.
I look at things differently. If I wasn’t depressed I wouldn’t have achieved all these things. It has made me stronger, more independent. I push myself to do things…It’s only because of my depression I feel I want to give. Before I got depression I was a very selfish person. If I didn’t get what I got who knows were I would be. Things have to happen in life to change a person.
Sparked by depression or not, Sue’s altruism is reflected through the many ways she contributes: in her charity and volunteer work with Royal Children’s Hospital and mentoring with Whitelion; in her work as a personal carer for disabled people and through her interaction with people in her life.
When someone asks me for help I feel needed. It’s a big thing for me. Whatever, I’ll do it. There’s no hesitation. I need to feel like I’m doing something all the time.
Sue’s story clearly confirms that depression is a sign of incredible strength not weakness. For this Purple Hero it’s an opportunity to reinvent herself as well as a continuous obstacle in her path. Certainly, she’s been through many stages of the condition in the 16 years she has suffered – from feeling disorientated and confused to feeling sorry for herself. But now she’s embraced it and is using her experience to help others, ‘Don’t think there’s no hope for you. There is help.’
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Evangelia-Creations/150977744963959?v=wall
When her second child was eight months old, Sue began to feel overwhelmed with life. Basic chores like house cleaning became too big to tackle. Feeding her baby was an effort and she lost interest in everything else including the desire to eat. At the time, doctors told her it was post-natal depression until she didn’t recover. In hindsight, she suspects losing a friend in a car accident was the trigger but, as her mother is a long time sufferer herself, Sue says: ‘What happened to me came slowly from my childhood.’
Even though she’s learnt coping skills, Sue lives with good and bad days just like everyone else. But for Sue, a bad day brings anxiety attacks and an inability to get out of bed and face the day. On a good day, ‘I want to conquer everything. On my good days, I can do anything.’
And what she does is amazing; her condition hasn’t affected Sue’s creative abilities. As well as a personal carer, Sue works as a party planner for children, adults and dog celebrations. She receives positive feedback about her work and her business is generated from word of mouth alone.
Although Sue’s condition makes everything harder, in some ways she feels grateful for her depression.
I look at things differently. If I wasn’t depressed I wouldn’t have achieved all these things. It has made me stronger, more independent. I push myself to do things…It’s only because of my depression I feel I want to give. Before I got depression I was a very selfish person. If I didn’t get what I got who knows were I would be. Things have to happen in life to change a person.
Sparked by depression or not, Sue’s altruism is reflected through the many ways she contributes: in her charity and volunteer work with Royal Children’s Hospital and mentoring with Whitelion; in her work as a personal carer for disabled people and through her interaction with people in her life.
When someone asks me for help I feel needed. It’s a big thing for me. Whatever, I’ll do it. There’s no hesitation. I need to feel like I’m doing something all the time.
Sue’s story clearly confirms that depression is a sign of incredible strength not weakness. For this Purple Hero it’s an opportunity to reinvent herself as well as a continuous obstacle in her path. Certainly, she’s been through many stages of the condition in the 16 years she has suffered – from feeling disorientated and confused to feeling sorry for herself. But now she’s embraced it and is using her experience to help others, ‘Don’t think there’s no hope for you. There is help.’
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Evangelia-Creations/150977744963959?v=wall
GREAT EXPECTATIONS
By Fiona Browning
8th March 2011
8th March 2011
As a child, I had great expectations of
what life would be like. I dreamed about singing with ABBA and marrying Hawkeye
from M*A*S*H. As a young teenager, I
knew I would be a doctor, a cardio-thoracic surgeon no less, and like Victor
Chang I would heal the hearts of children. As a young woman, I expected a long,
loving marriage and all the joys of motherhood. Some of my expectations were a
bit out of my league, but I had always been told that with hard work anything
was possible.
And then of course, there is the reality. My story is not unique. Take one child, add a little trauma, subtract a little innocence, and mix in a good solid dose of grand-maternal manipulation. Let this stew for adolescence and include a thwarted VCE year. Add marriage and motherhood in the early twenties and complicate it with severe mental illness. Let this combination simmer for another eight years and finally remove the husband. Tip the remaining contents into well of ongoing depression, stir in a major accident and loss of career and you will end up with a jumbled concoction that is my life.
None of this came close to my expectations, and I will admit for a very long time I couldn’t get beyond the overwhelming nature of the illness. At first, the doctors tell you it will get better over time; like a Pantene ad, it won’t happen overnight but it will happen. And so my expectations changed. I expected a complete recovery. I waited for it, worked with my doctors for it, kept my family hoping for it and at the end of each episode expected it. But it never happened. By the time my husband left me six years later, the only expectation I had for certain was that someday I would succumb to the illness for good. I stopped expecting life to come good and for another six years all I did was hunker down to survive until my kids were grown up.
Not much of an inspiration story, but to be honest I found nothing inspiring about experiencing depression. And yet, there were others around me living with depression and living fulfilling lives that did inspire me. It was through watching them, talking with them that I realized I needed to change my expectations. Instead of expecting the doctors, my family, God or the universe to make it all better I put that expectation back onto myself and discovered not only can you live with the illness, but you can live beyond it.
The hard part in all of this is, how? I could fill this page with platitudes like time heals all wounds, stay true to your dreams; but I know in my blackest moments I find them trite. Instead, a gentle reminder from a friend, family member or doctor that I can expect each episode, like the last, to pass, will help get me through.
After seventeen years my expectations have definitely changed, but the values that have driven them have not. I still want to help people heal, only hope to do so with a pen rather than with a scalpel. I still hope to find a loving partner and can honestly say that maybe because of the depression I appreciate the joys of motherhood more. Life is rarely what you expect it to be, but despite adversity, or maybe because of it, it can still be great.
(Fiona’s is a published writer and editor of SEED Magazine at Victoria University. Her dream is to open a residential Well Women’s Centre to provide a place of rest and recovery for women who are struggling with the day to day experience of mental illness.)
And then of course, there is the reality. My story is not unique. Take one child, add a little trauma, subtract a little innocence, and mix in a good solid dose of grand-maternal manipulation. Let this stew for adolescence and include a thwarted VCE year. Add marriage and motherhood in the early twenties and complicate it with severe mental illness. Let this combination simmer for another eight years and finally remove the husband. Tip the remaining contents into well of ongoing depression, stir in a major accident and loss of career and you will end up with a jumbled concoction that is my life.
None of this came close to my expectations, and I will admit for a very long time I couldn’t get beyond the overwhelming nature of the illness. At first, the doctors tell you it will get better over time; like a Pantene ad, it won’t happen overnight but it will happen. And so my expectations changed. I expected a complete recovery. I waited for it, worked with my doctors for it, kept my family hoping for it and at the end of each episode expected it. But it never happened. By the time my husband left me six years later, the only expectation I had for certain was that someday I would succumb to the illness for good. I stopped expecting life to come good and for another six years all I did was hunker down to survive until my kids were grown up.
Not much of an inspiration story, but to be honest I found nothing inspiring about experiencing depression. And yet, there were others around me living with depression and living fulfilling lives that did inspire me. It was through watching them, talking with them that I realized I needed to change my expectations. Instead of expecting the doctors, my family, God or the universe to make it all better I put that expectation back onto myself and discovered not only can you live with the illness, but you can live beyond it.
The hard part in all of this is, how? I could fill this page with platitudes like time heals all wounds, stay true to your dreams; but I know in my blackest moments I find them trite. Instead, a gentle reminder from a friend, family member or doctor that I can expect each episode, like the last, to pass, will help get me through.
After seventeen years my expectations have definitely changed, but the values that have driven them have not. I still want to help people heal, only hope to do so with a pen rather than with a scalpel. I still hope to find a loving partner and can honestly say that maybe because of the depression I appreciate the joys of motherhood more. Life is rarely what you expect it to be, but despite adversity, or maybe because of it, it can still be great.
(Fiona’s is a published writer and editor of SEED Magazine at Victoria University. Her dream is to open a residential Well Women’s Centre to provide a place of rest and recovery for women who are struggling with the day to day experience of mental illness.)
YAY TO GEN Y
World record breaker and 2011 young Australian
of the year, Jessica Watson, contradicts belief that character comes with
age. Her publicity – generated by her
sailing voyage around the world in 2010 – confirms that driven, dedicated young
people can positively contribute to society.
Unnoticed, are similar stories of youth whose Y generation alter ego –
infamous for excessive drinking, laziness and selfish behaviour – is being
promoted above their adventurous and giving side. Ex-charity fundraiser, Hope Gatt, is a prime
example of positive teenage behaviour.
Now 16 years old, Gatt began her charity work at age nine. She was inspired by her brother’s friend, Sarah Mason, who had battled childhood leukemia and survived. With the help of her mother, Gatt created a magazine she named ‘Friends Forever’ and sold it to her friends to raise $45 a month for the Royal Children’s Hospital Leukemia Research Fund. Soon ‘Friends Forever’ became a type of club and its members met every three months for a theme night. In the five-and-a-half years that the magazine was published, money from sales of the magazine and a very successful Gala night held in 2007 totaled an amazing $15,000. The best thing for Gatt was “Knowing that you’re helping.”
During her time with ‘Friends Forever’ Gatt received numerous acknowledgements: The Good Guys Award for community service, The Herald Sun 2005 Woman of the Week recognition. She was invited onto the Kerry-Ann show and to the 2006 RCH Annual Ball – where she met Lilian Frank – as a $2000+ major donor, and in 2007 she was invited back as a $5000+ major donor, and consequently, she made it into the RCH annual booklet. Gatt’s advice to other young people is, “If you want to make a difference, you actually have to do something about it.”
Clearly, the reputation of her generation overlooks achievements like this. It’s often forgotten that although our teenagers are dramatic in the way they conduct themselves, young people like Watson and Gatt are also dramatically improving the world.
Now 16 years old, Gatt began her charity work at age nine. She was inspired by her brother’s friend, Sarah Mason, who had battled childhood leukemia and survived. With the help of her mother, Gatt created a magazine she named ‘Friends Forever’ and sold it to her friends to raise $45 a month for the Royal Children’s Hospital Leukemia Research Fund. Soon ‘Friends Forever’ became a type of club and its members met every three months for a theme night. In the five-and-a-half years that the magazine was published, money from sales of the magazine and a very successful Gala night held in 2007 totaled an amazing $15,000. The best thing for Gatt was “Knowing that you’re helping.”
During her time with ‘Friends Forever’ Gatt received numerous acknowledgements: The Good Guys Award for community service, The Herald Sun 2005 Woman of the Week recognition. She was invited onto the Kerry-Ann show and to the 2006 RCH Annual Ball – where she met Lilian Frank – as a $2000+ major donor, and in 2007 she was invited back as a $5000+ major donor, and consequently, she made it into the RCH annual booklet. Gatt’s advice to other young people is, “If you want to make a difference, you actually have to do something about it.”
Clearly, the reputation of her generation overlooks achievements like this. It’s often forgotten that although our teenagers are dramatic in the way they conduct themselves, young people like Watson and Gatt are also dramatically improving the world.
FROM THE EDITOR
Hello once again,
In this edition 'Essentially Me' is about the women who quietly change the world.
I wondered, while compiling/writing these articles, how these women think. Sure, the stories give
us a look inside their lives and minds, but how do they manage day to day situations? Then I remebered
my last new years eve function and realised there might be a connection.
To put it in perspective, I must tell you that several years ago I attended my cousins
wedding and was served the most delectable cheesecake of my life, and the new years eve ball I was to attend was at
the same venue. Needless to say, when I realised that the cheesecake would be on the menu, I was very
excited. Finally, the night arrived and I spent the evening eating one course and the next anicipating the
piece de resistance. But, when finally the dessert arrived I was so full with other courses that I could only manage to eat a couple
of bites. I was devastated.
What is the connection, I hear you ask?
Well, I can't be sure, but I suspect that these women pace themselves more effectively than I did that day. They have a goal, a passion,
they continuously leave room for in their lives. Perhaps this means they must deprive themselves of other thing to ensure they can fit
it all in. If this is true, community service and self growth can be practiced and achieved by everyone, when we leave room for dessert.
Thanks for coming.
Louise Crossley
In this edition 'Essentially Me' is about the women who quietly change the world.
I wondered, while compiling/writing these articles, how these women think. Sure, the stories give
us a look inside their lives and minds, but how do they manage day to day situations? Then I remebered
my last new years eve function and realised there might be a connection.
To put it in perspective, I must tell you that several years ago I attended my cousins
wedding and was served the most delectable cheesecake of my life, and the new years eve ball I was to attend was at
the same venue. Needless to say, when I realised that the cheesecake would be on the menu, I was very
excited. Finally, the night arrived and I spent the evening eating one course and the next anicipating the
piece de resistance. But, when finally the dessert arrived I was so full with other courses that I could only manage to eat a couple
of bites. I was devastated.
What is the connection, I hear you ask?
Well, I can't be sure, but I suspect that these women pace themselves more effectively than I did that day. They have a goal, a passion,
they continuously leave room for in their lives. Perhaps this means they must deprive themselves of other thing to ensure they can fit
it all in. If this is true, community service and self growth can be practiced and achieved by everyone, when we leave room for dessert.
Thanks for coming.
Louise Crossley