Working Backward

When I dream, I dream in full technicolour surround-sound smell-o-vision. My dreams are science-fiction space-romance operas, filled with movie stars and monsters. They are a Kids’ Own Adventure book wrapped in a music video tied up with string theory. I’ve been known to wake laughing. Recently however my dreamscape has been blanketed in a bleak pall, as my night-time escapades feature more dead babies than baby dolls. It’s obvious that by entering the write-up phase of my doctorate, my unique research topic was seeping into my sleep, and the intrusion was annoying.

The counsellor was friendly, as most counsellors are. They gently inquired about my reasons for being there, sat back on her couch, cushion clutched to my belly. They asked appropriately leading open-ended questions and I answered confidently. I’ve been dealing with my own anxiety and depression for long enough that I felt that a small measure of arrogant self-awareness was acceptable.

“My research is pretty heavy,” I announced boldly, “this will all be about my research.”

“Tell me about your research then.”

And I did. I told them all about my PhD. I made sure to include my well-rehearsed pauses for dramatic effect. I ensured my narrative was as performative as ever, always aiming to elicit maximum response.

“I’m looking at childhood death on the goldfields, during the goldrushes.”

… dramatic pause …

 “I’ll call the book ‘Childhood on the Goldfields: Short. And Shit’.”

… obligatory chuckle …

“Subtitle: ‘Counting Dead Babies’.”

… ironic twist of mouth …

They were not impressed. How rude.

I offered up my spiel about nineteenth century language filled with graphic metaphors and secretive euphuisms. Poisoned infants, drowned toddlers, burned children and hanged teens. I told them about the inquest reports and statistical graphs I weave into heartbreaking tales, tales which liberated juvenile voices unheard since depositions delivered a century and half ago. It’s all quite noble.

A raised brow.

“That sounds fascinating and important—why don’t you tell me what’s been happening in your life outside research?”

Sure. Seems straightforward.

And I did. I told them how I’d been busy with marriage equality and busy starting an arts festival and busy helping a mate with cancer and going overseas and organising a book drive. Busy! Busy! Busy! That’s me! Never a spare moment ha ha. Oh, and a few months ago it was my friend’s funeral. It was a gorgeous day. He was like a father. There was that thing too when my sorta foster-brother died suddenly of pneumonia a couple of weeks back. Which reminds me, I should probably mention Grandpa died last year, which was difficult because my actual Dad was involved of course, and we haven’t spoken since I began my PhD.

The counsellor nodded carefully, stood, and walked to the whiteboard. They took out a black marker. This was more like it – things were getting serious!

“I think we need to do a timeline. Let’s work backwards, starting with your grief.”

And we did.

Henry James Joyce 1926-2017