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Fair go or ego?

Fair go or ego?

20 May 2019

Somebody asked me on Sunday how I felt because ‘I lost’ when the coalition won on Saturday night.

Let me be clear about something.

I didn’t lose anything.

I’m a white, middle class, female in a heterosexual relationship. I have two daughters, both my husband and I have jobs, we have access to healthcare, education and all the other stuff that makes life relatively easy in a first world country.

The only way I could possibly be better off is to be male.  And a lottery win would be nice.

Let me repeat this because I think it’s really important – I didn’t lose anything.

I didn’t vote to improve anything for me or my family. We are already sitting pretty because of the system – by and large, the system works for us.

I am heartbroken and devastated because maintaining the status quo might be good for the economy but it’s devastating for us as a society.

“The true measure of any society can be found in how it treats its most vulnerable members”

I’ll be honest – I don’t understand how we can say we don’t ‘like’ Bill Shorten and yet vote in Dutton, Christensen and Joyce. I don’t understand how we can vote in a government that has repeatedly demonstrated it’s unreliability, traded in cruelty, trashed our economy, had us formally recognised as a country that consistently violates human rights.

I don’t understand how people can say they don’t want to pay taxes. That’s what you do, that’s how a functioning society works – that is what pays for our roads, our politicians, our art, our culture, our healthcare, our defence forces, all the bits that we like to complain about when they are not working efficiently. Which they can only do if we pay taxes.

I don’t understand how so many of the parties on the voting slip were so blatantly racist or focussed on only one issue and we somehow thought that was okay. I don’t know how Queenslanders voted for the companies that are going to destroy that which they are most famous for – beaches, great barrier reef, rainforests. 

I don’t understand how one man spent $60 million dollars on a campaign just to get the current government back in, when he could have used that same $60 million dollars to do good things that would have genuinely made Australia great again. 

I don’t understand a lot.  And not because I don’t try. I’ve travelled, I’ve volunteered, I’ve talked to people whose views and experiences are comprehensively different to mine. I read far beyond my comfort zone, I researched every single party before I voted and that included reading a lot of policies that made me feel sick.

I really really wanted Labor to win over the Coalition. I did. I’m not going to deny that. I liked that they played a steady game and told us what they were going to do. I didn’t agree with all of it. I never will. Because a government should be working towards what is best for the whole, not the individuals. Truth is, it’s been a long time since that happened – so maybe we’ve forgotten how to live in a country whose government is about governing and not about personal power.

I didn’t vote for change because I need it. I voted for change because I can see that Australia needs it. We need to be better at caring for the environment, for refugees, our elderly, our Indigenous Australians, our children, our women, our queer folk, our farmers, our businesses… for everybody and everything basically.

I am not heartbroken for me. I’m heartbroken for a country that prides itself as being the land of the fair go, when it’s not. It is the land of the ego. What is in it for ME, for ME, for ME, for ME?

Gough Whitlam summed it up in a piece he wrote for the London Daily Telegraph in 1989 when he said “The punters know that the horse named Morality rarely gets past the post, whereas the nag named Self-interest always runs a good race.”

And so I ask myself now – when my heart genuinely aches when I think of how many people are going to be genuinely affected by the return of the Coalition to government – the people who will die, the people who will be incarcerated, the people who will be traumatised and persecuted, and the opportunities and minds that will be forever lost to Australia – what can I do?

Probably channel my inner Gough and contain to maintain both my rage and my enthusiasm. I need to stay mad at the inequality and the injustice, I need to maintain my enthusiasm for change, and most of all, I need to retain my belief that people are inherently good.

Change does not have to wait for a change of government. If we continue to speak for those who are voiceless, or have lost heart, if we maintain the rage on behalf of those who have been beaten down, if we enthusiastically campaign and advocate for change, if we believe we can – anything, anything is possible.

ScoMo need not be the only person to believe in miracles.

It is not light that we need, but fire; it is not the gentle shower, but thunder. We need the storm, the whirlwind, and the earthquake. (Fredrick Douglass)

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Dear New Mum

Dear New Mum

7 May 2019

The Western Sydney University has this great initiative called the “Mother’s Day Letters Project”. It came to my attention via a friend studying to be a midwife. The project is about supporting new mums and promoting resilient motherhood.

And my one piece of advice from me to every new mother I meet since I become a mum myself is “trust yourself”. But the project was asking for letters – so a letter I wrote.  Mine is below, but if you want to take part in the project you can do so RIGHT HERE. This is in no way sponsored or anything interesting like that – I just like the idea of coming together and supporting new mums before they get sucked into the vortex that is ‘online mothers groups’ or ‘in my day…’ or any of the other well meaning advice that doesn’t take into account the exquisite individuality of each and every child and associated parenting experience.

My daughters aged 1 and 0.
Dear New Mum,

Trust yourself.

You have just spent a number of months growing this small human inside you. Depending on the kind of person you are you have either turned to family for all their advice, read all the books, joined every forum, faithfully read all the things the nurses or doctors or doulas have recommended. Maybe all of the above. You have bought all the things you need, and all sorts of things you will never need. And now, now you’re a mum.

You have birthed that baby by pushing it out of you or by having somebody slice you open and then stitch you up. Either way, you’ve just done something magnificent – you grew a human. Like seriously – all on your own. Sure, you got some help getting it started but in the end – who is the legend that did most of the work? YOU.

So trust yourself.

Nobody is an expert at raising a child. Not your mum, your friends, your sisters, aunts, cousins, nor the woman offering advice from the next bed who is up to her 68th child. No medical professional is an expert. No baby guru. No author. No midwife. No nurse. Nobody.

So trust yourself.

Babies just need love, food and regular changing. They have no agenda. They can’t be manipulated into behaving into a certain way unless that’s how they go naturally. Good sleepers are just sleepy babies. Good eaters are just hungry. Babies that sleep through the night from 2 days older are mainly mythical creatures who will cause their parents grief in different ways further down the track.

So trust yourself.

Nobody is going to love that baby like you. Despite their relentless opposition to learning to speak in the womb, that baby of yours will learn to communicate with you. Initially it all just sounds like crying. And it still will for a couple of years but generally if you pick them up and cuddle them, or feed them, or change their butt – they’ll quieten down. You will learn when a small smile is your baby farting or actually smiling. You will learn the little cues they offer up. Because you love them, you’ll work it out.

So trust yourself.

If you are having a really crappy time and you feel sad and down and you’re not enjoying it – that’s not you being a bad parent. That’s your brain. Go and speak to the doctor – get some help whether its medication, or a therapist, or a massage. You are a good parent. You’re a great mum. Being tired all the time is a given. Being sad all the time is your brain being an arsehat.

So trust yourself.

I have never met you. I probably never will. But I know this – your child might sleep perfectly for three months and cry for the next or all the other things that you will spend time feverishly googling to see whether or not they are normal – but they are doing things right on schedule for them. And no matter what happens, whether they are diagnosed with ‘a thing’ or they cruise through the first year like the poster child for children, the only thing you can be sure about is that you know your child better than anyone.

So trust yourself.

You will lose time marvelling at their tiny toes or weird dimples. You will see beauty where others see one of those weird fur-less cats. You will marvel at your child’s uniqueness – just like everybody else. You will discover that wiping poop off your shirt is not as gross if it comes from somebody you grew. You will marvel at the fact that you just whipped snot out of your child’s nose with your own two fingers (which you know is totally disgusting but the tissue box was out of reach and buggered if you were moving).

So trust yourself.

Loving your child is an evolving process. Just when you think you are at breaking point, they smile, or giggle, or just look at you as if you are the most wondrous thing they have ever seen and all of a sudden, it’s bearable again. Loving a child is a visceral experience. Go with your gut every time. You are never wrong. Yes, even now. Right now, when you think you don’t know anything.

Trust yourself.

You. Yes you. You are a perfect mum. Just as you are.

Much love

Me x

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Old correspondence feels

Old correspondence feels

3 May 2019

Last weekend I spent a pleasant couple of hours sorting through a box which I have moved many times over the last twenty years but never unpacked.

It was full of old correspondence from my late teens into my late twenties.

Birthday cards, letters, invitations to weddings, invitations to birthdays, invitations to christenings, postcards from friends and family, blank valentine cards from my long term mystery admirer (my dad) that had arrived every year without fail, short notes from my Grandpa and assorted elderly relatives who have long since passed away.

As I sorted through it, I chuckled at the various assortment of couplings that had occurred within my friendship group that I could track through the shared signatures at the bottom of cards, but that ended with wedding invitations that I dug up deeper in the box.

I got all teary at the letters from my baby sister. I moved out of home when she was 8 and I was 18 and her letters are the sweetest things, detailing the minutiae of her life as well as big announcements about what was going on at school and with other siblings.

The postcards from my friends and family travelling the world. The different perceptions of the same cities. The different priorities when they travelled. Their different adventures and loves scrawled in cramped script with my various addresses squeezed into a square and partially covered with a stamp. A long letter from a friend that died unexpectedly a couple of years ago poignantly recalled his particular style of storytelling and brought him fleetingly alive again. 

There were other clues to the end of the last century and the beginning of this one. The different styles of wedding invites over the years, the more sophisticated printing styles for the 21sts. The letters that people enclosed in their annual Christmas cards summarising the last 12 months for you – sometimes accurately and sometimes not.

The long letters from friends living and working abroad. Sorry letters. Love letters. Cards made out to me and boyfriends who always seemed like the one. Some postcards written by me to others and returned to me so that I ‘could keep the memory’ which I always thought strange since I kept travel journals.

There are newspaper clippings featuring me or people I know. Old departmental newsletters. Memes from the olden day of faxes. Newspaper or magazine articles that clearly resonated at the time but for which I have no memory now of why. Appointment letters for jobs and other positions. Christmas and birthday cards from people whose names no longer spark any recognition. Congratulations cards. Bon Voyage cards.

The departmental pass I had lost so never handed back in. Some IOUs. Some photographs of babies who are now older than the parents that took the original photograph. Plane tickets. Movie tickets. Itineraries. A badge from the US Air-Force. Part of a love letter written to me by somebody now dead. Four cloth badges featuring ‘Condoman’ from some long forgotten safe sex campaign.

Some beautiful cards and letters from people that cared for me and saw my strengths long before I ever learned to appreciate them.  All carried from city to city, from house to house. 

image source: my heritage blog

It is not just me that is still hugely interested in the lives of our families and friends. We still want to know what is going on, stay connected.  We use email, social media, chat forums, share photos digitally. We are just doing it differently. Invitations are sent via email, websites are set up for weddings and we have family WhatsApp groups to keep people connected since they no longer live around the corner and can pop by for Sunday night dinner.

There are positive and negatives to both. I enjoyed sifting through the box, marvelling at what version of me thought keeping a Christmas card from my then chiropractor a good idea. I recycled a bunch of the cards – from people I didn’t recall, and even from people I did but who are no longer part of my life and whose words no longer hold the meaning they did. 

But I enjoy the immediacy of communication these days and I love a daily remember of what I was doing this time a year ago, six years ago, ten years ago. I love seeing my girls’ faces on the couch beside me as we look at younger versions of themselves, or recall funny things they said and I had shared. I have saved every email from the guy who turned out to be the one and I have over 29,000 photos on my phone alone which allows me to be nostalgic without sneezing through a dusty box.

I like scrolling through photos of my friends and families lives – the good, the bad, the ugly and the occasionally questionable. I love seeing the faces of babies turn into toddlers turn into children even though they all live on the other side of the world. I love hearing about people’s holidays or being able to send support and love when the world is an arse.  I love the immediacy of the news and being able to share or save or the output of my accomplished and clever friends.

Basically, I like my tribe and staying connected to all the wonderful people in it.  Both old and new.


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Too much and not enough

Too much and not enough

4 Apr 2019

Little one. I see you and my heart explodes. It also aches for you sometimes.

You’re only seven and already the world is busy telling you how you are too much and not enough.
You’re too loud. Too noisy. Too exuberant. Too talkative. Too energetic. Too everything.
Except for when you’re not.
Then you’re not paying attention. You’re not listening. You’re not focussing. You’re not doing as you are told. You’re not conforming. 
Because this is what it is all about. 
The world wants you to be what they are comfortable with and your natural self doesn’t pay any attention to what the world is comfortable about.
You are energy. You are joy. You are rage. You are loud. You are loving. You are kind. You are emphatic. You are fierce. You are just the way you are supposed to be.
And yes that self – that self – can be a right pain in the arse sometimes. It can drive your parents to distraction and your beloved sister to tears of frustration.
Ignore us until we learn to live alongside your beautiful you. Ignore any person at all that tries to make you into a different, quieter, smaller you. Never let your true self be dimmed. Not one iota. You can wear what you damn please. Be as loud as you want. You can say no. You can demand the world be better suited to people like you who know what they want and when they want it. 
Be as fierce, as joyful, as deliciously gleeful as you want. You can be mad, you can be cranky, you can be loud. You can change your mind as often as you want. 
Just don’t change you. 
Your true self might be too much and not enough for some but your true self is a beautiful thing to behold. You are at heart curious and compassionate. You look for reasons to like people. You want to share every experience in all its details with all your friends. You have empathy and a fierce sense of justice. Your commitment, love and loyalty to your sister is wondrous to behold. Your heart might sometimes be furious but it is ever so loving. That’s a gift my girl. A true gift. 
You will need to earn to walk softly when you feel like stomping and to utter polite words rather than hurl profanities as you age. Compromise is part of life. We need to adapt our behaviour and fit in with the world sometimes. That’s just part of being on a planet with 7 billion other people who are all completely individual. But never, and I mean NEVER, at the expense of your true self. Always seek out people that love you for the you that you are, not a version of yourself that other people find more palatable or more socially acceptable. 
Never stop asking why when we ask you to do something that makes no sense. Never stop that wonderful ability to lose yourself in a moment or a task that looks like you’re not paying attention when we want you to do something else. Never stop questioning. Never change who you are ‘just because’, and never change because somebody wants you to do things differently. And that includes us your family as well as society at large.
I admire your tenacity and your joy. As your mama, I’m going to try so hard to let you be just the way you are for always. I never want you to doubt yourself, to second guess yourself or to live with the lack of self esteem that comes when you are not allowed to be who you truly are. 
You are loved in every single way, every single day. 
You are neither too much nor are you not enough.
You are perfect just the way you are. 

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So. I had a brain haemorrhage

So. I had a brain haemorrhage

22 Mar 2019

An acute right sided deep small to moderate sized intracerebral haemorrhage in fact.

A stroke.

Or as the Germans call it – a schlagenfall.

I had it on the first Sunday of March. I woke up with a headache and a stiff shoulder and painkillers did nothing to relieve it. An hour later, I vomited violently in the downstairs bathroom and then was hit with a headache so severe I don’t have the words to describe it.

It was like the hounds of hell were repeatedly striking me on the back of the head with an iron bar. Each wave of pain coming so closely on the back of the previous I couldn’t catch my breath. In fact, I was trying not to breathe as that seemed to be the only thing that could possibly stop it. It was relentless. I lay on the bathroom floor wishing for oblivion.

I could hear my daughter crying and there was nothing, but nothing I could say to make it okay because at that stage I didn’t know what ‘it’ was.

The ambulance came. The paramedics started talking strokes. I’m 44.

What’s my pain level out of 10? Eleventy billion. Possibly higher.

Into the ambulance. Insert canula. Morphine.

First to one hospital. CT scans. Lots of words like brain bleed. Haemorrhages. Transferred to second hospital into the neuro ICU. More CT scans. More canulas. An AV line. Tests. Then an angiogram. Eventually the MRI scan.

They take blood. They ask questions. How’s your blood pressure normally? (Fine – being a blood donor means I’m across these stats like a legend – my BP is generally perfect). Are you diabetic? (No) Do you smoke? (not since 1 February 2006). Do you take cocaine? (No). Have I ever? (No)

Are you sure about all of the above. Over and over again – yes. I offer up everything I can think of – I’m a booze hound (that’s not a good thing and you shouldn’t be but that hasn’t caused this), my grandfather’s great niece has Takayasu’s Arteritis (nah, too far removed), I have had an unexplained abscess in my backside (hmmm… inflammation but no), depression (nope), I was feeling particularly upset the night before it happened (ah… nope).

All the surgeons are in agreement. I’ve definitely had a brain haemorrhage. But nobody knows why.

Smile for your visitors. Be polite to the nurses and doctors. Brave face for family and friends. Save the crying for my own time. Crying hurts my head. The facts are starting to filter through the fog.

I’m fucking terrified.

Only around 10% of strokes are haemorrhagic – which roughly means caused by a bleed rather than a clot.

The survival rate for a haemorrhagic stroke is around 30-40%. Compared to an ischemic stroke (the common one) which has a survival rate of 85%.

So that’s good news. I’ve beaten the odds.

I ask for more painkillers. I might be alive but I still have a pool of blood sitting in the basal ganglia part of my brain waiting for the body to do it’s thing and reabsorb the blood. In the meantime – it hurts.

Apologise to your husband for scaring the bejeezus out of him. Make bad jokes about how English people cope in a crisis. You say ‘Pip Pip’ and ‘Lets queue’ and you both cry together. You promise not to do anything daft ever again. He laughs because he’s been married to you for almost ten years and he knows that’s a promise you are not qualified to make.

They send me home. Rest and recuperation and we’ll see you again when the bleed clears up. No driving. No flying. Cancel your work. Don’t be worried about no answers. Be thankful you’re not dead. This kind of thing kills people you know.

Yes. I got that. Thank you. My typical black humour has not abandoned me but this phrase is starting to make me stabby.

Currently my bleed is defined as ‘cryptogenic’ which is a fancy way the medical fraternity say “I don’t have any fucking idea why this happened.” They’ve taken vials and vials of blood. I have to have another MRI next month once the bleed goes down so they can see if it was hiding something. Say a tumour or a melanoma. But they don’t think so, they think it’s just bad luck.

I didn’t need them to throw in other options. Google is getting quite the work out as I try and work out what they have said versus what they have meant versus what they didn’t say out loud but is in my notes. I write down my questions for next time. Why the referral to rheumatology? What are we looking for now?

The specialists say… The face drop will go (could’ve been worse Al). The weakness in your left arm should pass (but hold off replacing those broken glasses and vases until you know for sure) Your vision should go back to normal (and if it doesn’t get new glasses). Your words will come back to you. The fatigue will pass.  Give it time. How much time? As long as it takes. Maybe 3 months. Maybe more. They say they understand it’s frustrating. But I should be thankful I’m not dead.

Yes. Thank you doctors. I’ve got that bit. I’ve beaten the odds.  I’m not dead. I have gotten off lightly.

They warn of personality changes – I might be more emotional (my poor husband I think). I might say or act in ways that are different from before. It might be that I have permanent physical changes. Just rest. Just remember – no straining, no lifting, try and avoid extreme emotional responses. Sure. Fine. How long for? As long as it takes. 3 months. Maybe more.

I still have no answers. There is nothing I can control. Nothing I can change which limits the possibility of this happening again. The median age for a person suffering a stroke of this kind is 86 years old.  They rarely suffer a second stroke.

Possibly because they’re dead from old age. I’ve got 42 years to go before I’m supposed to get this kind of stroke. I think to myself, how strange is it that just two years ago that this same brain was full of suicidal ideologies, that I saw my death as my only useful contribution. And now this same brain, this same brain wants so desperately to live. This brain wants to feel like it has some control, that they are doing something actively, changing something permanently, being responsible for not having another brain bleed.

I’m still finding it hard to process. It’s been three weeks. I am starting to get out and about again. I am still feeling very vulnerable and highly emotional. I drop the children at school and then get a lift home. Talk to friends. Potter about doing things that need doing. It’s still restful compared to my normal pace. I have to relinquish control of many things to my husband. I don’t have the energy or if I’m honest, the capacity. I have to work – we have bills and I don’t get paid if I don’t work. While speaking to a client I lose all my words, my brain refuses to function. I have to apologise and reschedule. I cry. Again. I’m still an ugly crier. Some people just can’t catch a break. At least I can still laugh at myself.

In 36 hours it’ll be three weeks since my brain haemorrhage didn’t kill me. It’s another 4 weeks until we can check out what the bleed is doing. I’m moving forward while going nowhere. It’s like walking up the down escalator. I wait. We wait.

I’m more comfortable helping than being helped. I’m not comfortable with platitudes. Unexpected kindness makes me cry. I find being frank about it helps. I end up reassuring people. I am ever so appreciative for the food, the flowers, the fruit and the Facebook love.

I don’t have the words to express my thanks to the friends that are in touch, that help out, that follow through, that make me laugh, that let me cry over and over again. They don’t tell me it’s okay. They nag me about rest. I admire my mother’s superhuman efforts not to nag me and to remain upbeat when she calls.  Dad and I talk in reassuring shorthand and play Words with Friends. I tell my wider family that I love them because life is short.

It’s been such a short time. It’s been such a long time.

#bitchhadabrainbleed

And survived. And all is the same and all is different.

This is recovery.

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  PS: Strokes – all the cool kids are doing them: Emilia Clarke’s Story

My year of unsubscribe

My year of unsubscribe

29 Dec 2018

In 2018, I set myself a challenge to unsubscribe from every email I didn’t open immediately. Within about a minute I had of course changed that to unsubscribe REGULARLY from every email I didn’t open immediately.

And so it began – that first month I went through and diligently unsubscribed to a bunch of shop emails that I’d inevitably ended up subscribed to so that I could get 10% off my first purchase and with whom I had never shopped again. Then I unsubscribed from emails related to jobs or clients that were long gone. Then the emails associated with charities or causes that didn’t understand that asking me everyday was annoying. Then I unsubscribed from all my social media notifications and then…

well you get the picture.  By the end of the year I was pretty much only receiving emails from actual people bar a couple of favourite shops, blogs and news sites. My inboxes were an oasis of moderation and bliss.

I become evangelical about the power of unsubscribe. I was prepared to talk about it to anyone that wanted to know what I was achieving in life. What was I doing that nobody else was doing? WELL THANKS FOR ASKING….

Almost 18 months on, my inbox is back to bursting. And I primarily blame corona. Companies that hadn’t contacted me since the noughties got in touch to tell me how they were dealing with the pandemic, how they were taking care of their customers, and how I could trust them.

After the first dozen I deleted with frenzied glee anything that whiffed of a corona update. Okay I get it, you’re washing your hands. You’re asking your employees to wash their hands. You’re going to throw my food at me should I order it (UNLIKELY RESTAURANT FROM ENGLAND AS I HAVE NOT LIVED THERE FOR 13 YEARS).

But then…. all these companies that haven’t contacted me remembered that they have an email database and in the time of corona they can’t actually see me so they might as well start sending me emails again. And email marketing doesn’t work like that – you can’t just ignore somebody for months or years and then start asking them to trust you or buy from you again because a pandemic has wiped out your business. I’m not that easy thank you very much – I want to be courted like I count. As a marketer I was mumbling profanities at companies with the kind of cheery abandon I normally save for Australian politics. And then I thought to myself….

UNSUBSCRIBE!

I do not mind telling you that I have rediscovered the power of unsubscribe with all the fervour of a born again Christian. Like Trump with his Twitter account I am UNLEASHING. Well okay, I’m hitting ‘unsubscribe’ and then ignoring them when they ask me why I’m going… I’m BUSY unsubscribing – no time for your feelings.  At my current unsubscribe rate I’m fairly confident that I’m going to be back in that small oasis of under control inboxes before the end of the financial year.

Current status: SMUG AF