That Moment When

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Last year late afternoon in June I was at my friends house bundling our 3 year old girls into my car. I was taking her Miss R to our place for a sleepover, my poor friend was heavily pregnant and having a shocker in and out of hospital.

My phone rang, and normally with two 3 year olds heading towards the end of the day I’d leave it, but a glance at the phone told me it was my mum, and I wanted to talk to her as I knew she was getting test results that day. Not that I was worried, I wasn’t. She’d had some persistent abdominal pain, more annoying than anything else. No loss of appetite, nothing to worry about.

“I have cancer.”

Jesus. Of the nasty kind? We didn’t know yet, more tests, urgent ones.

I’ll never forget that drive home, done in autopilot. The delightful Miss R chitty chatting from the back seat all the way home. “Lexy!” she’d yell if she sensed I wasn’t listening, “Lexy!”

I wasn’t listening (I’m sorry Miss R I wasn’t but I’ll make it up to you). The oceans were pounding in my head as I drove into the orange sun. My mum has cancer. My mum has cancer. My mum has cancer.

As a family, we’ve all been smug in our absence of cancer and heart disease. Rolling our eyes at our inevitable longevity as all the oldies got to their 90s before dying of…. well of old age.

So there we were. Yep serious, but treatable and surgery straight away please, oh and don’t go Googling it because it’s unhelpful and it’ll only tell you that peritoneal or ovarian cancer is known as the “silent killer”and knowing the survival rate is just not helpful. Unfortunately, by the time I agreed with that advice, I’d googled and googled and I’d seen.

My mum, my amazing beautiful mum has been extraordinary in this journey. So strong, so inspiring.

She went through 2 hell surgeries, damn near died with blood clots travelling through her heart, lost god knows how much weight. Chemo, hair loss, some weird foot injury requiring more surgery and delayed chemo, then more chemo.

In all that time, mum has stayed so positive, so strong. She refused to get sick, she got on with her life. Once she’d recovered from the awful awful surgeries, we almost forgot she was in chemo. She got on with it. She has chosen to believe the doctors who tell her things are looking good. She believes them, so I do too.

She just hates her lost hair. I think she’s looking like Judy Dench now it’s growing back.

Cancer – which I’d always sympathised with but never really considered as an issue for me – not only touched us, it grabbed us by the neck, picked us up till our feet were dangling and shook us into submission.

So this Mothers Day, which I usually acknowledge with a phone call if I remember, I am thinking about my mum. Not because I don’t think she’ll be here next year, I know she will. But for the extraordinary inspiration she is, for the wonderful, tireless mum, wife, sister and grandma she is.

And the friendship her and I have grown since I became an adult.

And so much more.

Mumma, I treasure you now and for the next 20 years you’ll be around and forever.

To those individuals and families who have been touched by cancer (‘touched’ being the polite word) I’m thinking of you too. With love xx

FIFO Wife, FIFO life. It’s Great, and it Sucks.

 

 

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Last year, on a hot Australia Day weekend, Andy and I got married on a lawn overlooking a sparkling blue Sydney Harbour. Then we had a party, a big, noisy, boozy party. We loved it, then followed it up 2 days later with a lawn party at our farm. It was a wonderful, exhausting, perfect weekend. And we were married.

A few weeks before that, Andy dipped his toe into the FIFO world, and there he has been ever since. For the uninitiated, FIFO stands for Fly In Fly Out. The term originated – and is still mostly connected with – those who work in the mines in remote places, but now refers to anyone who flies to their job, then home for breaks. FIFOs work in any number of “swings” – 3/1 (3 weeks on, 1 off), 2/1 (2 weeks on, 1 off), 7/3 (7 days on 3 off) and so on.

The day after our party weekend, a partied out newlywed flew off to the Pilbara for 3 weeks and oops, we forgot to consummate. Now I know most couples who get married after having been together for a while don’t get around to too much loving’ on the night, but 3 weeks! Ah well, needless to say we got there in the end. Enough said!

Now Andy works closer – Melbourne, Brisbane – and flies out pre-dawn Monday morning and home Friday night (5/2), but still, in the 1 and a bit years that we’ve been married, he’s been away for most of it, adding “FIFO wife” to my list of credentials

I get “I don’t know how you do it” (because I have to)  or  “you’re amazing ” (thank you!)  or “don’t you get scared” (sometimes, not often) or “why do you let him do it” (money).

So what’s it like? Good and bad, of course. ..

The Good

– The money

– Downton Abbey, MKR, The Bachelor/ette and all the other mindless and crap TV that comes with having total control of the remote.

– The money

– No one is snoring anywhere near me.

– The money

– Limited time to annoy or be annoyed by another

The Bad

– Sole parenting (hats off to you single parents – at least I get some form of relief on the weekend)

– Winter; home in the dark, freezing, 3 wet dogs jumping up demanding dinner, light fire, tend to four year old; dinner, bath, stories, bed. Collapse on couch, hello wine.

– Bin night – there’s a 100m walk from our house to the road. In the dark, and rain, and freezing cold. I fucking hate bin night, especially in winter.

– Lonely, and sometimes a little scary

But probably the hardest of all is the impact on our relationship. There is no doubt it takes its toll.  I can’t put my finger on exactly what it is that causes the strain.

It’s not the routine being interrupted – our daughter is 4 now and she’s easy, routines aren’t too important. It’s not handing over the remote on the weekends – I’d rather a marriage than a TV. It’s not the snoring – I’m one of the lucky ones who can sleep through it.

I think….. I think it’s the fact that we are losing that closeness that couples have. There’s a distance between us, we don’t laugh together as much as we used to. We’re not always friends. We are living separate lives, weekends are short – too short to nurture our relationship to any extent – there’s a farm to run, wood to chop, a daughter to raise, a new house to design and build.

Yes, that’s the worst part.

So, we work at it. Go on dates (not often enough admittedly), be respectful to each other, keep up the contact when we’re apart, cuddle a lot when we’re together and throw in a little “fake it till we make it”. There’s no lack of love between us – it just takes work to direct it the right way.

Is FIFO worth it? We think so for now, for maybe another 3 years. The FIFO life either works for families or it doesn’t. The money is getting our dream home built far earlier than we expected. We’ll make it work. We have to. We WANT to. One day, Andy will have a local job, we’ll have a lovely house and this will be a distant memory. And we’ll laugh together again.

 

 

 

 

I Did a Tree-Change But it Didn’t Make me a Gardener

When contemplating a tree-change, images of weekends spent pottering in the garden came to mind. We would eat an abundance of home-grown fresh produce and any excess will be pickled or frozen for use when out of season. We would never shop for fresh produce at Woolies again – on Saturday’s I would frequent the local farmers markets to buy anything we haven’t grown. When visitors came to dinner, everything on the plate would be home-grown, including the meat.

The first two years, I had reasonable success with snow peas and zucchinis.  Tippi would go out to the veggie patch and pick and eat her own crunchy snow peas – I’m a natural! The strawberry plants thrived but didn’t fruit very much, but I was undeterred – they’ll do better next year!

The problem with veggie patches is that they require attention ALL THE BLOODY TIME! Turn your back for a few days and the weeds start to take over, the snails slide on in and the birds have a party. On a fine spring day, I will happily spend an afternoon in the veggie patch clearing, weeding, digging, planting, fertilising, watering. Allen Seale would be proud! (to readers too young to get the reference, he was a gardener on TV in the 80s famous for his whistling lisp)

Then I’m done. Until the next warm spring day that is a) on a weekend and b) on a day that I FEEL like gardening again – that can be weeks for even months later. Damn, stupid veggie patch doesn’t just look after itself. By the time I get back to it, I have to start again. And then the same happens, so I start again. Then the same happens again. And then it’s winter and there’s no bloody way I’m digging around in dirt when it’s 4 degrees outside.

Five years on, that veggie patch and I are still not friends. This year we actually got a few strawberries – all of which my daughter ate – and I have a huge bush of parsley of the old fashioned kind – you know, the curly stuff no one uses anymore – and that’s about it. No snow peas, no zucchini, nothing. Zip.

Wouldn’t you think that the very act of making a tree-change (rather than just talking about it forever) would automatically grant you magical gardening abilities?

It doesn’t. Here is the fruit of my every now and then labours:

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There’s actually some tomatoes in there, but they’ve been there for weeks and just stay green.

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Oh, and I still haven’t been to a local farmers market. I’m going this weekend I promise! Our guests do eat home-grown beef and lamb, but I can’t take credit for that – that’s Andy’s job.

My Kid Gave me Goosebumps Today

Minnie Mouse reincarnated?

Minnie Mouse reincarnated?

…And made the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Miss Four and I went to the medical centre to get her vaccinations done, she was being surprisingly calm about it, actually she felt quite grown up.

I parked in the parking lot next to another car and in the drivers seat was an old lady – maybe 85 or so – glaring at me I assumed for parking so close to her. I live in a rural area dominated by seniors and they get really cranky about all the SUVs in the car parks in town. I mean, if the car spaces are too small, take it up with the council, right? What other car could be more practical for both farm and family life? I shoved and shunted a bit to give her more room to open her door, but really I was perfectly positioned in the middle of the marked out space. So I was internally eye-rolling at yet another cranky old “dear” tch tching me.

As we were getting out of the car, Tippi – Miss 4 – said “I like that lady, can I talk to her?” and straight to the window she went and said “hello!” with a big, gorgeous smile and a wave. The lady was nice to her, but said not a word to me – not that she had to mind you but I’m just making the point that she wasn’t exactly engaging us in any exchange – this was all driven by Tippi. We walked in to the doctors surgery and went about our day.

When we came out of the nurses room some 45 minutes later, Old Lady was sitting, waiting for her turn. “Hello!” says Tippi.

This time Old Lady was quite lovely with Tippi and they had a little chat. I should point out that my daughter is charming as all four year olds are, but she is also OFTEN extremely shy and whilst not unheard of, it is very rare for her to initiate conversations with strangers. I needed to go to the loo so Tippi begged me to let her stay with Old Lady while I did that. She didn’t seem to mind, so I went, gobsmacked wondering where my shy little girl went and bursting with maternal pride. Tippi was being utterly delightful and the Old Lady couldn’t help but be charmed by her.

As we were leaving, we said our goodbyes, and then Tippi ran back to Old Lady and said: “Excuse me, can I come to your house for a play one day?” The poor old thing spluttered out an excuse that she didn’t live in a house, she lived with lots of old people who might not like her to come and play. Tippi accepted that and off we went.

In the car on the way back to preschool, she was quiet for a while then suddenly said: “In the olden days, when mummy wasn’t around and daddy wasn’t around, I played with that lady but I cant remember her name.”

Hellooooo goosies! It reminded me of a time around two years earlier when she would be in the bath and occasionally looked past me out the window and said “who’s that?”. There was never anyone there, but it always rattled me a little.

Tippi must have seen a look on my face, because she then said: “But it’s just a story, Mumma.” I told her I thought it was a lovely story, and that was that.

If I did give her a look that made her think she’d said something wrong, I deeply regret that. I’m not taking this as some kind of evidence that reincarnation exists, but equally I don’t want to stifle her imagination with grown up perceptions. If it was just a story – and it more than likely was – what lovely creativity is starting to come out, I would only ever want to nurture that.

Do I believe in reincarnation? I’m open to it, but I tend to shrug it off with the belief that if it does exist, we’ll know soon enough when we’re dead.

Have your kids ever said or done something that spooked you just a little?