You haven't heard from me for a while. I've been ignoring your calls and making excuses not to see you. We used to chat for hours and didn't think we could ever run out of things to say. But maybe we have. You suspect I've found someone else and I'm not going to lie to you. I have. I've rekindled a relationship with an old flame. In my heart (both old and new) she was always my one true love and always will be. I've never been able to resist her siren song and I often heard her singing it, soft and melodic but erotic and flirtatious, during those long, dull nights in hospital.
I am now back in her loving embrace. Yes, I'm back at work. And I like it. Very much. The law is my mistress and I love her dearly. My name is Paul and I am a workaholic.
I promised my doctors that it would be part time and it is - for me. I assured Doctor McKenzie that it would be around twenty hours a week. He knew, and I knew, that this was overly ambitious to the point of unrealistic. Who were we kidding. I also told him that I would make sure it stayed on a part time basis "for a while". He is a bright boy and could tell that not only was I being deliberately vague and obtuse, but blatantly lying to him. He decided to assert his authority to the extent to which a real life Doogie Howser can. He said that "part time" must mean part time, "around" must mean "no more than" and "for a while" did not mean for two weeks. I said I understood but we both knew where the story was headed. I was already planning my first tryst with my long lost lover and it couldn't come soon enough.
I've now been back with her for a month. It's like we were never apart.
Inevitably, I failed the Doogster and immersed myself in the pleasures of being a lawyer again. Part time is now thirty-five hours a week, plus the extra stuff that I don't count. That "for a while" didn't last two weeks. It lasted only one (I did do twenty-five hours in the first week). I originally told my doctors that I'd start back in October, but it was actually August.
I think my doctors understand. After all, they themselves work eighty hour weeks. We are kindred spirits and fellow travellers. With the minor difference that they save lives and I swish money around and pretend that doing so is a noble and venerable profession.
For me, thirty-five hours a week is very much part time. I may vote to the left but I will always be a Bollinger bolshevik rather than a true believer. The early socialists fought hard for a thirty-eight hour week but I am happy to leave that to the Europeans. I need to work - long and hard. It's an all in bet. There's no point owning a Ferrari if it's parked in the garage.
To me, work is a significant part of who I am. Just before I underwent surgery to have the Impaler implanted, I quipped to Doctor Thomson that my only regret was that I hadn't spent enough time at the office. It was false bravado but like all good jokes also contained a few little grains of truth. I also asked him if I'd be able to play the violin after getting a new heart. He said that I would. Great, I couldn't play it before!
I was stagnating a little at home. However, there had been a very silver lining to the big black cloud in that Camilla and I had been able to spend serious amounts of time together and I had been able to get involved with Charlie and Imogen's lives a little more. The kids are loving having their dad back. Imogen even bought me cuff links in the shape of a silver racehorse for Father's Day. She told me that this was the closest I was getting to owning Bottle of Smoke so I'd better wear them often. I do. Charlie slowly got used to my chest scars. In an inspired moment, I told him that my VAD scar was shaped like a "C" for Charlie and my sternum scar was an "I" for Imogen. I'm sure my plastic surgeon hadn't deliberately done that (as far as I can tell selective tattooing is not in her repertoire of wound repair tricks) but Charlie appreciated it very much. He had been very disturbed by seeing his dad connected to a machine with clear tubes filled with blood going into his tummy. Maybe he just needed to harden up.
But both Camilla and I knew that it was time for us both to take the next step. I needed to get back to work and Camilla needed to resume her own life as well.
Initially I was a little concerned that I would no longer have a practice. I'd been out of the game for a year. They'd managed perfectly well without me. The sky didn't fall and the job got done. As much as we'd all like to believe otherwise, everybody is expendable insofar as their job is concerned. Just ask our new State Premier.
Within a few days of starting work, I was able to honour an important commitment I had made whilst in hospital. I moved Anna's admission. I put on my suit, took a taxi to Court and joined the line of barristers and solicitors there to move the admissions of their young proteges. There is a quaint tradition in the law that dictates that positions at the bar table be taken, from right to left, in descending order of seniority. First the silks, then the junior barristers, then the senior solicitors, then the junior solicitors. There are only limited seats at the bar table so at most admission ceremonies the majority of movers stand behind the bar table whilst the barristers lean back lanquidly in their seats as if they own the place. Sometimes even some of the junior barristers have to stand. That day, I got to sit at the bar table of the Banco Court in the new Courthouse with the big kids whilst a long line of less seasoned solicitors stood behind me. Maybe it was just part of the magic that was the day, but more likely it's a function of my age. I've been doing this a while now and am starting to develop a few distinguished grey hairs.
I stood up before the three presiding Judges and in a booming voice that resonated around the room I asked then to admit her to the roll of Queensland legal practitioners. My advocacy must have been particularly persuasive that day. The solicitor appearing for the Admissions Board meekly mouthed her consent and the Chief Justice proclaimed, "Let Miss Bowler be Admitted!"
I was proud as punch. Proud of Anna. Proud of me.
I dropped back to the office to increase Anna's charge-out rate and we adjourned for a delicious long lunch with her family and a few work colleagues. Times have changed. I limited my intake to four glasses of wine, all of which were delicious, and drove home at around four. I used to lunch like an Eighties banker. At my worst, lunches could continue into the evening. The boy has now grown up. Doctors' orders.
I started work with a clean slate but my file load built up quickly. I now have a swag of new cases and I feel like a real lawyer again. I've moved on from being a patient to being me. It feels good and I am coping well. I've experienced no real problems since the transplant and have recovered very quickly. I take my drugs (still over thirty a day), eat well, do a little exercise and get plenty of rest. My weight is good and my complexion has returned to a healthy swarthy brown. The drugs have made me a little darker and a lot hairier. I've ordered a medic alert medallion on a chunky gold chain. Being Lebanese has become life as a caricature leb. I suppose that I've become Joe Ganim. I just need to invest in the jogging gear.
Working short weeks has been most enlightening. There is now an enormous expanse of free time every day between waking up and going to work, and then coming home and going to bed. Is this what it's like for real people?
Getting back to work has been good for me. I have more drive and energy. I am focussed and jovial. Life is good. Things are going to turn out OK.
Unfortunately, things are not so peachy with Mandy at the moment. She's back in hospital for the second time since her transplant because her production of red bloods cells is low. Things will improve, girl. Tough it out and you'll get better. If I can, you can.
Until next time,
