Phyllis McKenna

 

My incredible journey being nearly over, I face it with conflicting emotions. I have floated timelessly in a tomb-like cocoon of cosiness, my only companion in this silent world the mysterious vibrations drumming deep in my soul. I have travelled far and yet I have not travelled at all. The constant expansion of mind and body is a unique , unrepeatable experience and I relish the journey’s end to know what I have become.

Feeling a shift in the movement of my pleasant prison, I know my time is here and I am expectant. The shallow shifting becomes a constant pressure then suffocating tightness. I cannot breathe! I am being propelled forward and I cannot breathe! Gasping, thrashing, fighting for air I slide slowly into the light. Blinking rapidly to soothe my searing eyes, to banish the brightness for an instant, I cry with relief. I am alive. I am beginning. I have begun.

I am stretched out now in a clear lidless box, but feeling safe and secure, a little restless perhaps to view my surroundings. I listen avidly for my journey’s invisible friend, the sibilant sound of the beat but it is no more. Instead a patter of strange noises quickens my heart and I am a little anxious. Shapes continually approach my resting place, gaze and sigh, touch me gently, lips moving delivering that which I cannot comprehend. I am drawn towards the shadows, instinctively trusting their judgement towards my welfare. Anxiety dissipates and fear does not make an appearance as I feel myself lifted and carried across this wide, white wilderness to be placed in a soft, smooth place that completely fits the contours of my form. Sighing with extreme contentment, my eyes travel upwards to the face above me to meet the misty gaze of a goddess, the golden smile of a Madonna. I sense the familiar vibration of my travelling friend, the beating heart that gave me life. I smile as I listen to the warm, velvet voice, feel the cord binding us together and I know!

“Hello, baby,” my mother croons, “we made it, you and I, didn’t we just.”

 

 

 

 

The rain thundered down outside the door and I relished the opportunity to stay at home today.

My spirits rose as I considered my choices. Keeley and I could stay indoors beside the fire, watch a few Dora dvds and therefore not travel to the dreaded clinic,  rendering my angel safe  from the threat of a bad cold, or worse, a debilitating bout of influenza. No one should travel anywhere today. Or I could take her to that place and subject her to whatever their staff had in store for unsuspecting little girls.

Who am I kidding? I have to take her there for her own health and safety.

Huh! What do those people know? They’ve only studied medicine for a few years. What does that make them?

“Well,” reasons my inner consciousness, “Nurses and Doctors, perhaps. That’s what that makes them.”

Resignation set in and I strapped Keeley into her little car seat. As I did so I felt like one cruel Granny, leading my little Darling to her fate. I started the car and pulled out into traffic, silently praying for engine failure. But to no avail. My little Honey chittered gaily behind me, sadly unaware of what lay ahead. As I drove my mind wandered and I began to question how exactly they give a child an injection nowadays. It had been so long since I had taken one of my own brood, the trauma had been relegated to a sealed drawer at the back of my mind. Visions of handcuffs, various methods of child restraints and force feeding of knock out drops assailed my tortured, guilt-ridden brain. Surely none of these would come into force. She is only three years old. She is only three years old, you sadistic people.

Do these medical practitioners shout at little ones if they cry? Do they threaten unimaginable and untold horrors if they don’t stand still?

Oh! I am a bad Granny. I am not taking her there. Oh, Yes, I am!

The clinic came into view and I stalled the car. Keeley’s innocent presence prevented me from spitting venom at the motorists harassing me from all sides. Having eventually parked the car, my little charge and I, hand in hand, strode valiantly forward like soldiers into battle. Totally unaware of future events, Keeley chattered seamlessly, temporarily allaying my fears. Such a beautiful little girl, her trust in me so evident and pure, and I, the supposedly caring Granny was about to burst her little bubble. Tears came to my eyes and I hastily brushed them away. Wasn’t I going to do enough damage to the child without having her witness her grandmother’s mental breakdown.

On entering the Torture Dome, we were assailed by the scent of bubble gum and cotton candy billowing forth from the overhead ventilation system. Cartoon characters of every description grinned at us from multi-coloured walls, floor tiles in every conceivable hue paved the way for us, shelves resembling Santa’s workshop stacked with toys, bookshelves crammed with children’s favourites waiting to spring open and wordily capture their imagination. A veritable fairy wonderland! How cruel. Was this the gingerbread house? Entice the little ones inside then pounce. This was worse than I ever dreamed possible. Sad, unkind people. Professing to be protectors of children’s health. Shame on you!

Just as I was about to turn tail and take my little charge home, a garishly painted door nearest to us opened, and I kid you not, the female equivalent of Santa stood there, baring her teeth at us – well, okay, smiling in a friendly manner. I hated her on sight. While my heart cried: “You’re not getting her.” I felt Keeley’s hand slide from mine and she merrily skipped over to this apparition. I felt betrayed, bewildered and bested.

My granddaughter, my Keeley, took the proffered hand and fearlessly entered the cavern. My hands shook. I had palpitations, I could feel the beginnings of a hot flush. All in all I was a mess. Calm, cool, collected Keeley, on the other hand, rolled up her sleeve as instructed to receive her “Special Medicine!” They even have cute names for the “poison.” A tear slowly slid down my cheek as I witnessed my precious, brave little grandchild receive, without a whimper, without a cry, without any sound, her swine flu inoculation!

I smiled through my tears as she turned to me and said, “Is that it. Did I get my Special Medicine? I was very brave, wasn’t I, Nanny?

 

 

 

I was called Philomena after my Mother. Unfortunately, when I was about seven years old, St Philomena fell into disrepute with the church and was axed. No more sainthood! She must have done something really, really bad. Good on her, I say!

It could have been far sighted of the holy crowd, realising that a namesake of Philomena’s was going to turn out to be a Dracula-loving, gothic-loving fan of Horror! And if you saw my house you would understand that last statement.