Sacrifice

April and a close friend's wedding. Champagne flows. Just one sip.....? No...its not allowed.

Nothing is mine any more.

On my feet. Twelve hour days. An old man looks at me and says I should be at home. But there's work to do. I stride about in my purple top that coordinates with the staff uniforms. Its tiring...carrying around another three kilograms. 

Time goes so slow. I am so tired. Then he is here. He slithers out of my body and I am stunned that he fitted IN THERE. Being stunned doesn't last long. Oh my lord, the pain. My mother looks worried, and exclaims to the midwife... please..give her something... 

Soon.Soon.

So tired. And there is no turning back. Every few hours he's awake and hungry. I love him more than anything, but I am so so tired. And I feel so very intensely that I've gotten myself onto a ride that I cannot ever get off.

Days fill with worry. Care. Research. Questions. I need to get this right. There are no second chances. 

He throws up the blood from the cracked nipple he's lacerated, but he's alright. He needs me and he tells me. Crying and crying. Up and down the hall. Pace pace pace. Sing along to the song on the TV at midnight. The Queen of my Heart. 

My heart will never be the same.

What should he eat?

What should he drink?

What should he wear?

What should he play with?

What should I read to him?

As he grows he needs more. Days are spent finding out where we should go next. 

Days of good food. Singing. Walks to kindy. Hearty dinner. A snuggle with warm milk to say goodnight. So so tired.

Five is looming. What to choose? Do we need to move? Where is best?

Reading. Looking. Talking. Reading. Writing. Growth.

There are two. And soon there are three. Bills to pay. No job means no money. No power. No food. And that won't do, so My Keepsakes and Such are sold to make sure it is warm this winter.

The job I love is too hard on everyone. So it is my job that has to go. The job I love more than any other and grieve for now, years later. But there's a new one that works better for Everyone. There is no money though. Because that is spent looking after Number Four.

Emails, interviews. Will they be the right one? What can I trust other than my heart?

Organise. Pay. Work. Collect. Soothe. Listen. Cook. Feed. Snuggle. Wash. Listen. Think.

Nights alone with everyone. Because dreams are coming true. Everything is perfect. For some of us, anyway. Its the price to pay.

Organise. Pay. Work. Collect, Soothe. Listen. Cook. Feed. Snuggle. Wash. Listen. Think.

Alone.

Years have passed and I have nothing on the outside world. The world has moved on.

My darlings are everything and I am nothing. My heart. My time. My mind. Twelve years means everything to my darlings. Nothing to the outside world.

But sorry about having to go out of your way to

Collect

him.

The sacrifices we make for our children.

Oranges, apples and vibrators.

Did that get your attention? Yeah...probably. Because a woman making remarks about something to do with her sexual pleasure is kind of...shocking.

And that is more what this is about than anything I personally am doing.

Many years ago a couple of friends and I would laugh about going to a sex shop on K-Road. One day the two of them actually did. One of my friends was almost obsessed with carrying out what almost amounted to a dare.

Bear in mind that we were 'good Christian girls.' Sex and sexuality beyond its reproductive potential was rarely discussed, other than the widely accepted idea that it was fun, and that was ok, but it was only fun to have with your husband. The idea of sex toys in sex shops was taboo, and the idea of actually walking into one of these shops bordered on scandalous.

In recent times, I have learned more and more about patriarchal policing of women's sexuality. On a very basic level, of course, we have the slut vs stud mentality. Men are supposed to sow their wild oats, but women are supposed to be careful and discreet.

Lesbians are a threat to men's sexual superiority because...well...it means women don't need men to have a good time.

Sexuality was draped in shrouds of secrecy, and shame unless it was conducted within a certain set of rules (and I use the word 'conducted' rather than 'expressed' on purpose.)

As for self pleasuring? Well...that was the on-ramp for the highway to hell.

I don't really know if I was explicitly taught these things, or if they were somehow ideas that I absorbed from people around me, but they were there nevertheless.

For the most part, I have moved on from those days, where my sexuality was something I did, not something I felt. I started acknowledging myself as a sexual being, and as a woman.

I have moved away the idea that women independently exploring their sexuality without commitment is a source of shame.

Then I came across the opportunity to put independent, sexually liberated woman to the test. In Countdown.

Yup. In a chain supermarket.

Where I found this little beauty. The Durex Delight Vibrating Bullet.

I don't know if you've checked out the price of vibrators lately, but a quick glance puts them in the hundreds-of-dollars price range. I'm sure they are long lasting and great quality, but its not a price point that appeals to the first time consumer, to people on low incomes, or to people who still have those old hangovers about the sex shop on K-Road.

This post has two points. One was that I decided to make a stand for women's sexual pleasure, and carry that goddamn vibrator up to the (self) checkout at my local supermarket.

The second is that we have moved along as a society to the point that it was there in the first place. You can now buy a reasonably priced sex toy at your local supermarket. You can throw it in your trolley as you stroll down the aisle with the paracetamol and nappies.

I am willing to bet that there are lots of women out there who still carry the baggage of shame around their own pleasure, and are too self-conscious to engage with an 'adult shop' to buy a sex toy.

But if you can chuck your $35 vibrator into your basket with your bread and milk, then maybe you might just give it a go.

Don't read the comments

Unless you've been living under a rock for the past few years, you'll know about the movie Frozen. You'll definitely know the song Let it Go, and if you have small people in your life, you'll know about the heroines of the story, Elsa and Ana, and how the twist in the plot was that true love with a handsome prince was not the happily ever after we thought we'd get.

Frozen is headed for an (inevitable) sequel, and the Twitterverse has gone nuts asking for Elsa (who seems to be the most popular of the two leads) to have a happy ever after with another woman with the hashtag #giveelsaagirlfriend.





And then it started.... The Comments.

"Oh God. Do we really need to shove that down the throats of kids?? That's far beyond the mind of a 7 year old. They're just watching the movie. That's a teen/tween concept. Let kids be kids and innocent.
I'll note that I'm not against gay or lesbian couples and have several friends who are."

"As much as the awareness is great. But I don't want my four years old seeing this kind of stuff just yet. He's to young. He thinks kissing on movies is gross so I'm guessing seeing two girls kissing even grosser."

"I have nothing against being gay but do we really need to throw it in our kids faces the world is already confusing enough for them with out making one of the biggest Disney characters of their time gay just to confuse them more."

This idea that we must protect children from normal human relationships is more indicative of 'confusion' amongst adults than children. I'm sure children are puzzled about a great many things in life. And usually they cease to be puzzled once they have some facts. So, Elsa has a girlfriend? Some women have another woman as a partner, not a man. Oh...ok.

But let's just dig a little deeper. What is everyone afraid of, really? Comments about kids keeping their 'innocence' in the face of a bit of benign Disney romance suggests people have fears about something else.

If I think back to when I was 'tsk tsk'ing about the gays in my church youth group days, what was it I was really tsk tsking about?

The sex.

Yup. 

We even had a stupid little hand signal that symbolised that two penises or two vaginas didn't belong together.

I don't remember a discussion about the evils of deep intimacy.
I don't remember a discussion about how filthy it was to wrap yourself in the arms of the person who knew you better than anyone.
I don't remember a discussion about how gross it was to share every day with your best friend.

Because everyone has fetishised the sex. 

We have to keep the innocents safe from the sex.
We can't have kids thinking that anyone has sex...let alone gay people!

I don't think kids are confused. Kids just accept things that adults accept. Two girls are the lead couple in a Disney film. Whatever. They probably will only care what colour the dress is.

When it comes to confusion, I think that comes down to the adults. Adults are confused about what constitutes a relationship. Adults are confused about how being gay isn't just about who you are having sex with. Its about relationships. Its about love. Its about boring shit like picking curtains and taking out the rubbish. Its about sharing things that nobody else knows. Its about trusting that person with that.

The more kids know that you can do that with a man or a woman, the happier everyone will be. 

War...what is it good for?

Absolutely nothing.



You know...I've been angry. So angry. But anger stops me focusing on what's really important.

My ever-sensible and sensitive partner pointed out that while anger is a perfectly legitimate emotion to feel, that when it leads to destructive action, its probably time to take a step back. A grown up time-out. Think about whether the action that anger led me to was wise. Will it result in enhanced relationships? Will it help us all move forward?

So, as much as one can on the internet, I take it back.

Raging and pushing against the waves just wears you out.

Sometimes its best to just float along with the current. Maybe it will take you to the shore.

Perfection.

In the soft light the clock ticks rapidly.

Ticktickticktick.

Reality television burbles about the super yachts of the super rich in Monaco.

She is tucked into the corner of the couch, a mending shoulder propped with pillows. I slouch with my book and she drapes her legs over my lap.  The weight of connection is comforting.

"I wonder if any of these writers are still alive?" I remark , running my eye over the last page of a book of short stories. I purchased it for four dollars at the second-hand bookstore and coffee shop that we visited on two days ago. It was published in 1977.

"Bub Bridger. I know that name."

She sends me a link to one of Bub Bridger's poems via Facebook Messenger. I tap it open on my phone. Its short. Sharp. Clever. Deep.

I hand over the musty paperback open at the page with Bub Bridger's story The Girl in the River on it.

"Its good. You'll like it."

She holds the book up to catch the light from the old standard lamp and speedily consumes the story.

She nods and raises her eyebrows in agreement.

We both pick up our phones and scroll through Facebook.

Happily Ever After

I have pondered before how it can be that I didn't realise I am a lesbian; how I ended up married to a man for seventeen years, and discussed the the social norms about how I ended up there.

Every so often I read things that seem to describe my experience with such clarity that I wonder why it was so hard to describe before.

This piece on the website Brainpickings so perfectly describes the strength of social norming, and even how I managed to end up somehow book ended into a very old fashioned concept of love.

Women’s social inferiority could thus be traded for men’s absolute devotion in love, which in turn served as the very site of display and exercise of their masculinity, prowess, and honor. More: women’s dispossession of economic and political rights was accompanied (and presumably compensated) by the reassurance that in love they were not only protected by men but also superior to them. It is therefore unsurprising that love has been historically so powerfully seductive to women; it promised them the moral status and dignity they were otherwise denied in society and it glorified their social fate: taking care of and loving others, as mothers, wives, and lovers. Thus, historically, love was highly seductive precisely because it concealed as it beautified the deep inequalities at the heart of gender relationship

Articles like this have my yelling at my computer 'This! This! This!' When you look at the historical and social history of love and marriage, it makes perfect sense how strongly socialised we are into the institution. I loved the idea of 'being protected and looked after' and constantly had externally reinforced the virtue in my role as a wife and mother. Interestingly enough, not by my husband himself, who now in his role of angry ex has reverted to completely denying the work I did in that role.

But this wasn't all I read today. There was also an article from Huffington Post about 'late life lesbians,' which tells a similar story about gender roles. 

“Sometimes people don’t understand how I could have been married for ‘so long’ without realizing that I was a lesbian. They often underestimate the power of cultural ‘norming.’ Cultural expectations can’t make someone straight (or gay or anything else) but they have enormous power in directing how people live their lives. I grew up in a fairly traditional (though politically liberal) family with clearly defined gender roles. What I learned from my family and from the larger culture (this was in the ‘60s and ‘70s) was that I was expected to marry a man when I grew up.”

What can be troubling is the idea that your prior life was a lie. This seems to come from people who don't understand that people change, identity evolves, and knowing more about the world broadens your idea about how you might live your life. Fortunately, I have not experienced that by most people who know me, but it does hurt me that my ex husband thinks that everything prior to my departure was an exercise in deception. He has forgotten that while I might not have been able to be truly vulnerable with him, I was always upfront about my actions. I am generally not prone to deception. When I revealed that I had kissed one of my female friends, his only reaction was that he was sorry he'd missed it.

“My past was not a sham. I truly lived my former life as a straight dedicated wife, mother, and friend. All I knew was that at age 40, something was missing. Many of us struggle for years and years and many maintain the relationship with their husband yet still seek a relationship with a woman. I’m sorry for the pain I caused my husband. I thought I could maintain a dual life but it simply wasn’t possible.”

And on sexuality? Its a vexed question. I still struggle with it. I tend to eschew labelling, because there are too many influences on how I lived my life and how I live it now for me to truly know. When I left, the question 'So are you bisexual now?' was spat at me. Which is the only obvious answer, seeing as how I'd had a bob each way, right?

 “Being with someone (sexually) of the opposite sex does not make that person heterosexual. It is all about desire and attraction, not simply the act itself.

Seeing as how I've had a go playing for both teams, you'd think I'd be able to make up my mind. Well, no, not really. Do I have to make up my mind? Its kind of irrelevant isn't it?

I was there then. I'm here now. That's all that matters.

The circle of loss (and learning)

I first met Nyah's Mum, Mrs P, in early 2014 when I went with Nyah to visit her at her rest home.

I had heard about her long before that, of course. Nyah's outpouring of stories revealed much about this woman's past. But I had no idea what the future would hold for the two of us.

I was Nyah's 'friend,' introduced anew at every visit.

"Do you remember my friend...?"
"Of course I do..!"

Usually that was on a Sunday when my children were with their father. We bought flowers from the market across the road from our house and included them in our weekly photo of our market produce. Nyah paid attention to their colour and scent, trying to find flowers that could be enjoyed by a woman with failing eyesight.

In September that year Mrs P needed to be moved into more specialist care due to her dementia. Myself and Nyah's son in law loaded up my car and his and moved her belongings three suburbs over.

Some days Nyah struggled with the person that the dementia had turned her mother into. She researched and talked to people about how to manage this for herself. Her mother's aggression. Paranoia. Despair. Some days I saw this when I visited with Nyah, and saw how this became so circular. I saw the skills that Nyah learned to help both her and her mother manage these distressing moments.

But at other times Mrs P engaged us with her sharp wit and brilliant sense of humour. Dementia had taken many things, but this showed through.

In December 2015 Nyah went on a week long trip for work and I said I'd stop by and visit her Mum. My first solo visit. And it was great. I, too, had learned how to chatter to her and we talked about the trees outside, the weather, where Nyah was.

"She's in Holland!"
"NO..!?"

There was some despair as Mrs P didn't believe Nyah would be back to visit. But then we got talking about cats, and she asserted quite convincingly that she had brought her cat out from England when she emigrated. I asked her how, and with deep earnestness, but a twinkle in her eye, she said "In my suitcase."

We both laughed the kind of laugh where you can throw your head back and revel in the moment.

That's when I knew we were friends. But only for that moment.

And the moments where I trimmed the flowers while Nyah and her Mum talked.

The moments where her and I would 'gang up' on Nyah in a conversation that was supposed to be too sophisticated for a dementia patient.

In the moment I brought my children to meet her for the first time.

"Haven't you grown!"

"She's a nice lady," said my daughter.

In the moment I sat and jiggled her hand to stop an apnoea episode in the emergency department of the hospital after she'd broken her arm.

In the moment she confused me with a female relative on account of my shape and stature.

In the moment I pinned up and rearranged paintings and photos in the room of the private hospital room that was to be her home for less than a week.

In the moment when I chatted to her, wiped her face and held her hand in her morphine haze.

In the moment I had the privilege of accompanying her daughter to say what would be her final goodbye.

I blew a kiss to my friend as we left. I'd never done that before.

Life is a knitting together of moments, but for dementia patients, every moment is the only one.

That is my loss. The loss of moments of laughter and joy.

But I've learned.

I've learned about love.
Devoted love.
A daughter's love as roles become reversed.

And I've learned how to be in the moment.
 Look at the trees.
Watch the people going past.
Make someone laugh
.

And hold onto that smile you see.

It may be the only moment you have.