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Author Profile Elise McCune was born and raised in Elise eventually found a position with
the Her creativity has long been channelled
into writing and was nurtured during her years living on a farm several hundred
kilometres north of ‘From the Heart’ is her passionate personal life-story of love, romance and the challenge of open-heart surgery. A book told through stories of the heart. Prologue The
idea for this book came to me as I was taking an afternoon walk. I was on
holidays and enjoying exploring the area surrounding the lovely home where I was
staying. It was autumn in As
I made my way along the wide paths I could feel the chill of the changing
season. It was a pleasure to be outside and as I was enjoying myself so much I
decided to take a longer route home. Within a short while I found myself
following the path known as the Pausing,
I looked out at the glistening waters where small sailing boats were being
pushed along by the light breeze. Watching them intently through a break in the
tea-trees, lovely scents drifted towards me from the tangled bush that edged the
way. I felt enchanted and something touched my heart. The beauty of where I was,
the mystery of the artists who had painted so much of this beautiful part of It
was then that I realised I needed to share the way I had improved my life beyond
anything I could every have imagined. My
journey has been one of self-discovery and a growing awareness that I could have
the life I had always wanted. I would like to share it with you. It has at times
been difficult and lonely. Other times I have been blessed beyond measure, and I
must add I have also had lots of fun and laughter. This
then is my story, a story told from the heart; please come and share it with me.
It is with love that I give it from my heart to yours. Chapter 1 My Uncertain Future (Part Sample) Five
years ago I was living on a farm some two hundred kilometres north of Situated
15kms from the nearest township by road, when the rusty gates were closed behind
me I could think of no other place I would rather be. As I drove up the winding
dirt road, past the orchard and the new house site to our small corrugated iron
home I would feel such happiness amidst the isolation, a sense of contentment I
had never felt living in the city. I
now lived in a place lovelier than any I had ever known. I cannot remember the
words John spoke to me when I arrived there for the first time, but I saw the
proud smile that spread across his face as he showed me around his farm. The
malevolent east wind blew strongly that day whipping little bits of dust and
grime into my unshielded eyes. John drove the ute steadily, I sat next to him
excited and interested. I was seeing his farm for the first time and I knew he
was waiting for my approval of the place that was so close to his heart. It was
to be my future home and he looked at me closely, wondering what I was going to
say. Turning
my face towards his I said, ‘It’s everything you said it would be. I’ll be
happy living here.’ I
felt a slight constriction in my stomach as the ute lurched forward, a faint
stirring of some undefined thing, the first moment of unease that perhaps we
would not always live together at the farm. But on that bright and beautiful day
I pushed the thought away as easily as one pushes aside the gossamer thread of a
spider’s web. On
we went, stopping here and there to walk together through a world so different
from the city life I had recently come from. John pointed out different
landmarks as he spoke to me about the history of the farm. His family had
settled there more than sixty years previously and were well known in the local
area where they raised crops and grazed cattle and sheep. His
real joy, however, came from showing me the sappy green shoots of the wheat crop
he had planted many months before. Lying dormant, the golden grains had waited
for the watery winter sun to leave the sky before pushing exultantly through the
rich fertile soil. Soon their golden heads would be gleaming, life-sustaining
grains ripening under the summer sky. I
listened to him as he explained many things about farming and every now and then
as we strolled along, he would pull a leaf from a low-hanging tree branch and
crush it between his fingers. Offering it to me the unique eucalypt perfume
filled the air and I saw the misty memories of childhood move across his face. Towards
late afternoon flocks of white cockatoos flew screeching overhead and I heard
him mutter ‘bloody things’ under his breath. These birds can be devastating
to any new unprotected trees, stripping pieces of tender bark from trunk and
limbs. If the tree survives it is as a strange and twisted specimen, ugly, with
not a touch of symmetry or beauty. In the brooding stillness of late afternoon
their cries lingered around us; suddenly they turned in unison and like excited
children headed noisily towards the orchard. Soon,
far too soon, it was time to head back to the coolness of air conditioning and
overhead fans. We hurried inside to where a chocolate cake sat on the kitchen
table. Sitting close together on the comfortable lounge we ate several large
slices washed down with beer to celebrate our union. I felt secure and leaned
toward John, placing my head on his shoulder. He took my hand in his as he said,
‘Life is perfectly simple really, isn’t it?’ and I knew at that moment it
was. John
understood the love I had for him when I decided to move to the farm. Neither of
us had ever lived with anyone else beside our ex-spouses, so it was a big step
for both of us to take. However, it was his understanding that helped me in
those early years. As our love had been awakened so too was my love for the
bush, a beautiful part of my life. When I was with John, I felt I was with
someone whose essence shadowed my days. When we were silent it was a
companionable thing, no searching for empty words to fill the void. Our love was
never fragile; it was strong and robust from the beginning. John
is a handsome man, tall and strong. When he is away from me the thing I remember
most about him are his hands; they look so capable, hands that can fix all
things mechanical, plant trees and dig in the earth. He paints the most
beautiful pictures with his brush held firmly in one hand while the other
reaches to hold the edge of his easel. We were introduced to each other at a
party in As
is the way with matters of the heart we have spent time apart but have always
remained friends. We all need someone to walk beside as we journey through life
and for a time John and I had each other. I love John very much and always
wanted to make him happy although at times I did not succeed, I must admit. It
is his nature I love. He knows the beauty of the bush, he hears it in the call
of the wild birds flying overhead, listens to it on dark nights as the wind
lashes the trees and rain drums on the iron roof. He has touched it when he
cleared an acre of bush to plant a grove of fruit trees. He smells her scent
after the first rains of autumn and sees it in the painted skies of dusk. What
other man would call you up on the two-way to say, ‘Look out the bedroom
window, there’s a rainbow from one end of the sky to the other’? One
day he brought me a tiny bird’s nest he had found abandoned on the ground as
he walked through the bush. Other times he would bring me wildflowers, sometimes
proteas or fruit from our orchard. He is the only man I know who could get away
with bringing pumpkins to me instead of flowers when we first met. John gives
from his heart. Memories
of the farm come to me like picture postcards. Running across the parched
paddock I would hitch up my dress to paddle in the creek on hot summer
afternoons. If John happened to be nearby he would soon be splashing me,
laughing. Finally, our clothes soaked, we would turn and walk westward toward
the farmhouse in the intolerable heat. Along
the road from the farm is St Anne’s Church. Magnificent salmon gums flank the
gravel drive that leads from the road to the entrance of the church. Never was a
guard of honour more regal than these radiant trees. St Anne’s is a mellow
stone structure that has weathered the years gracefully. I dreamt that one day
John and I would marry there. The afternoon sun would cast gleaming light
through the church windows and the entire town would come to celebrate. As the
years passed, I realised that particular dream would never be a reality. Now the
dream has ended; however, when I look back through the years I still feel a
close affinity to that beautiful church and have memories of the dreams I once
had. The
farm has been sold now, but the land never really belongs to anyone; it is just
there, waiting. I miss it very much. John and I would have loved to live on a
farm again. He often said to me, ‘Someone, somewhere is looking after our
fruit trees,’ and we laughed knowing it was a way of hanging onto our dreams.
To us the thought of a farm somewhere was very appealing and rural properties
advertised for sale in the paper were always read with interest. At
the farm we planted an organic garden where lots of different vegetables and
flowers flourished under our watchful care. John planted everlastings on the
rise outside the kitchen window, where they formed a mass of pale pink and white
flowers every spring. I would pick them by the armful. As they dried out they
would linger in vases, dropping a petal now and again as papery reminders of
summers long since past. We had an old bath (since lovingly restored) filled
with bush basil, oregano and other herbs. Mint, which likes to live alone, spilt
in frills of emerald green from an old urn I had placed on the patio. We also
grew small compact shrubs called proteas, which come in a variety of different
colours with romantic names: Serruria Rosea Red and Blushing Bride swayed
beguilingly in the breeze. Often
after the farm chores were done, I would lie in the colourful striped hammock
John had hung between two gum trees. Hours passed as I looked up through the
shimmering green haze that was interlaced with chinks of enamel blue sky.
Swaying gently I would wonder idly where John was. He was always busy fencing,
checking stock or doing one of the many other jobs that needed to be done around
the farm. Soon, however, the late afternoon sun faded and reluctantly I would
leave the world of the dreamer. The afternoon had quite naturally hurried by;
books had been read, my journal written and meals planned. Time had wings in
that enchanted place. It
was never too hot for us at the farm. I know some people would not agree, but to
us it was heaven. Of course we also enjoyed the cooler days of winter, sitting
by the fire, talking and laughing. We enjoyed our steaming hot food and lots of
red wine. Soon, however, we would long for the warmth again. We looked for it on
the first mornings when we could walk with bare feet on the linoleum. Our doona
would be put away and we would sleep once again under cool white linen sheets.
We had forgotten for a while the blazing summer sun and clear blue skies. But
now we made love with sweat drenching us as the fan clicked overhead, while
outside the earth turned golden. There
is an overwhelming beauty about the Australian countryside – it is unique and
inspiring. I can remember watching from our verandah the most beautiful sunset
anywhere on earth late one afternoon some years ago. The sky was clear and
luminous as the sun slipped slowly towards the horizon, a molten ball whose
light streaked the sky splashing orange and gold. Across the gold a white vapour
cloud moved slowly, the only sign of an invisible aeroplane carrying evening
travellers. I remember slowly turning away, like a child who has been told to
stop playing. I went inside feeling awed by such beauty. Often
on the farm as part of my daily exercise program I would throw on a pair of old
boots and walk for kilometres around the farm. Sometimes John would come with me
and as we trudged along he would point out the beauty along the way. One of our
favourite walks followed the creek, which was edged with tall blue gums and
wound its way along the boundary of the property. In places the bulrushes, thick
and hard to get through, clawed at our legs with sharp spikes as we tried to
push them aside. Some
days as we walked with the wind on our faces, the clouds dark and heavy
overhead, we would come to a place near the creek where during the Depression
years rabbiters had built a hut. Now all that remained were old bricks and rusty
sheets of tin that lay scattered on the ground. I liked to think of these
long-departed men, imagine them in their tattered clothes sitting around a warm
fire as the billy boiled. Perhaps they looked upward at the same darkening sky,
as they felt a smattering of rain on their faces. Nameless ghosts, itinerants
who had no past. They had nothing but then again they had everything. A few
mates, perhaps a smoke, a good yarn before settling into their swag for the
night. They had a simple life, unhurried and at one with nature, a good life. I
believed that I too was living a simple life, a romantic and inspiring way of
life I thought would always be the same. I could not have imagined how in a few
short months my reality would change forever. It
was on these walks I started to notice how breathless I was getting. I pushed
the thought aside that my heart valve was giving me a warning, a warning I could
not ignore. Seven years previously during a routine medical procedure I had been
diagnosed with aortic stenosis. This is a narrowing of the aortic valve in the
heart. It can also narrow the aorta above or below the aortic valve, although in
my case it was the former. This narrowing makes it very hard for the heart to
pump blood to the body. I
knew I was feeling very tired and would have a rest most afternoons. It was an
insidious thing, a slow deterioration I hardly noticed at the time. However, I
was now starting to notice chest pain when I exerted myself. I had been advised
by my heart specialist to take special note of this and let him know immediately
it happened, as it would be a sign my condition was now very serious. It
was around 5.00pm on a cool winter afternoon that John came home to find me
sitting at the kitchen table. He could tell by the expression on my face
something was wrong. ‘I
have just experienced some really bad pain in my chest,’ I whispered. ‘What
were you doing?’ he asked as a worried expression flitted across his face. ‘Walking
across the back paddock. I was walking too fast, I should have stopped.’
Please don’t look at me like that, I thought, wanting to scream at him. I
needed him to say something that would make my world right again. ‘Do
you want me to take you to hospital?’ His words were measured and careful. Silence. ‘You
have to tell me what you are feeling,’ he said emphatically. There was no
panic in his voice, just a calm tone that reassured me. I
paused before I answered shakily, ‘I’ve got my appointment at the hospital
next week for my check-up.’ My mind was racing; I really took a chance with my
life then as I added, ‘No, I won’t go. I feel alright now,’ and I really
did. However,
I knew this was exactly the time I should have gone to hospital. I felt a deadly
sense of denial washing over me. Signs of my heart deterioration over the last
seven years had been slow and insidious. I had compensated physically by not
exercising to my limits and resting more than I had in the past. It had now
become normal for me to live my life at a slower pace. I buried any thoughts
that my deteriorating heart valve was the reason for this. Now with the pain I
had experienced I knew that at my next medical appointment I would definitely be
scheduled for open-heart surgery. John
then said the exact words I needed to hear. I feel I have heard no more
beautiful words in all my life, words of love and encouragement. As he spoke he
put his arms around me and carried me to our bed where I rested as he went about
the normal evening chores. I slept that night feeling a lightness of spirit,
encircled by the strength of my loved one, a calm and loving presence from which
I drew tranquillity and peace. So
it was that on a beautiful sunny afternoon in 2002 I sat nervously in the
waiting room of the cardiac unit at I
had decided to go alone for this visit although I had been advised by the
hospital to take a family member or close friend with me. I knew, however, I
wanted to be alone to absorb what the cardiac surgeon would be telling me. I
knew also there would be no choice; I would be facing my most life-changing
event: open-heart surgery. As
I sat and waited my thoughts were drifting forward to what the outcome of my
consultation would be. Occasionally tiny slivers of doubt slipped into my mind,
like jagged sharp ice. Should I have this operation at all? It was up to me to
make the final decision regarding surgery. I wondered how long I would survive
if I decided not to have surgery to replace the faulty valve. Finally,
after about ten minutes the registrar called me into his office. He explained my
condition and the outcome if I decided against having the operation. There was
no doubt I would die and it would be sooner rather than later. He went on to
explain that if the operation went ahead I would be having an artificial valve
called a St Jude’s valve, this being the most suitable for me. It
was then that my cardiothoracic surgeon came through the door. He was a
no-nonsense man and I liked him immediately. How lucky was I? And this man made
me feel I really was. He told me my condition had deteriorated to the point
where I needed major heart surgery. As he spoke I felt all my doubts leave me. I
knew I was in safe hands, hands that would soon hold my heart. I asked about the
length of the operation and how long the recovery period would be, the usual
questions most people would ask at such a time. He answered simply and when he
left I asked the registrar still more questions that were answered with clarity
and compassion. I had no doubt then I needed the operation and I decided while I
was in that office to have it. I
left the hospital feeling very sad. As I was walking along the tree-lined street
away from the hospital, my mobile phone rang and it was John. As soon as I heard
his voice I started to cry. Sitting down on a bench under one of the leafy trees
I told him all that had happened. He was so supportive of me, I longed for him
to be with me. I wanted him to be there to put his arms around me. We talked for
a while and when my tears stopped I headed back to my car to make the long
journey back to the farm. I
thought of many things during the next few days. I imagined my breastbone being
sawed and muscle being peeled back, leaving my beating heart exposed. I knew I
was facing death and I was very afraid. I thought of my experiences – some
good, some bad – that were woven through the essence of my life. There were
strands of gold, burnished and glowing, unique times like the birth of my
children or a long ago love affair. Other strands were sad little pieces of
rusty barbed wire still having the power to plunge hurtful barbs into my heart
when I least expected it. It was the rainbow ones I loved the most, the many
happy times I had spent with family and friends. I wanted to keep these memories
always and was so afraid of losing them. Our
days at the farm slipped by as I struggled to keep my mind focused and clear.
John was a much-needed loving support but at times I would catch him looking at
me as if trying to keep a picture of me in his mind. He was always positive and
encouraging to me, only confessing later his fear that he thought he might lose
me. Walking past me he would often reach out and touch my hair, a comforting
gesture to let me know his love for me. It
was at the farm that my spirituality developed to a higher level. I had been
meditating on a daily basis for some years now and found I could enter into a
beautiful golden light within minutes of sitting down in my meditation position.
I would seat myself comfortably on a mat on the floor crossing my legs and
holding my hands gently together palms up. One thing I discovered while
meditating was that, rather than trying to force errant thoughts from my mind as
I sat quietly, it was better for me to let them flow through my consciousness. I
often found that after my meditation I would have the answer to any problems I
had in my life at the time. While this works for me it might not work for you;
you will discover what is right for you when you practise your own meditations. In
our normal everyday life we all receive thoughts that seem to come from nowhere.
If you take notice of these thoughts there is often a message for you, an answer
to a problem or special guidance. I
also purchased some yoga tapes on a visit to the city and practised these in
front of the television set. Yoga helped both my mind and my body. I swam on a
regular basis at the local swimming pool, which, as the temperature soared
beyond forty degrees on a regular basis in summer, I found a very pleasant way
of getting exercise. I also wrote regularly for my own pleasure, enjoying the
process of writing. Of course I was busy around the farm with the usual
household chores to be done and animals to feed and water. I loved my life and I
did not want it to change. However,
I knew in my heart it would soon change forever. Now each day I waited for the
letter from the hospital that would inform me of the date of my operation. I
thought often of my life at the farm, wanting to pin the memories in my mind,
like an entomologist pins butterflies in a display case. But as I passed through
the country of my mind I knew the Angel of Death was walking beside me. One
day in particular when I was at my lowest ebb, I lay in bed until after noon.
The morning had passed languid as melting honey. The overhead fan clicked
lazily, humming in endless circles. John was away and I could not bring myself
to leave my bed, a sign I now realise of depression. Finally I crawled out and
took a long warm shower, not worrying for once about using our precious
rainwater. Sitting in front of my dressing table mirror my hand moved to the
coloured pots and jars arranged there like an artist’s palette. Iridescent
green, silver blues, golden browns, ruby reds and palest shell pinks, delights
to the eye. My fingers felt the grainy-textured eye shadows. Liquid foundation
flowed like silk from a bright new tube until finally my face shone. I chose a
plum coloured lipstick, creamy and warm. I spent the afternoon selecting my
clothes, soft cream silks and chocolate brown lace. If my angel came now I would
be ready.
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