With the exception of sharing Bec's heartbreaking story last week, I've opened Blogger up and the screen has stayed blank. That little cursor blinking at me, MOCKING ME. Maybe not. Whatever. One thing for certain is that the excitement of this blog, this whole blogging caper, has faded.
I could regal you with stories of how funny Amelia and Oscar are or how much Abi's growing, or with quips about uni and work and balance and food ... but I'm just not feelin' it. I don't want to share the intimate details of home life here, and I don't have the motivation to share the tidbits I'm comfortable with.
I read this post by Veronica, and found myself nodding my head in agreement. Back in the day, the automatic thing to do when inspiration ran dry was to read other blogs. Be inspired by their words. My Google Reader is full, but none of it grabs me. The musings on daily life that I used to devour every day just seem to so .... for lack of a better word, petty. And I am pretty tired of brands trying to sell me shit through my peers.
I no longer read blogs, save for a post here or there. I don't think this is necessarily because the Australian blogging community is full of bored mothers, blowing rainbows and Thermomix prepared goodies out their asses either. I am more inclined to think this is because I've done the full circle as both a blogger and a blog reader.
Maybe it's time to call it a day? I battle with that one. Half of me wants to move on, but half of me can't bear the thought of no longer word vomiting on the internet.
So I don't know what will happen here, but I do want to thank you guys for riding this amazing wave with me. It takes a village to raise a child and all that, and you lot have held my hand for the past 3.5 years. Am so grateful and am going to bow out now before shit gets all mushy and gushy and vom-worthy.
And if I could only share one more thing with you guys, I'd share this:
Yeah, my kid's an enormous creep and we made a meme.
... I lay there, perfectly still. Numb. The screen turned, and I saw my babies. They weren't moving, so very still.
The Ob broke the silence in the room by muttering about "having trouble finding heartbeats" before racing off to find another doctor. The room went back to deafening silence. The midwife still sat next to me, hand on my leg with this look of concern on her face. Another doctor entered the room and after a few moments of fiddling around with the wand, he turned to me and simply says "I am so sorry Rebecca, there are no heartbeats." They left the room and the midwife was left to usher me off into a private waiting room so I could begin making phone calls I never imagined I'd have to make.
Aaron was at work, over an hour away by public transport. I had to call him and tell him over the phone that our daughters, his precious little dragons, had died. As soon as he answered, I burst out crying. I was inconsolable All I could stumble out was that the girls had died and I needed him to meet me at home. He simply said "I'm leaving now". He had to sit on a train for 45 mins, holding everything in! I had decided that I wanted to go home ASAP so I phoned my cousin to come and pick me up. Afterwards, I phoned my Mum to break the news. After our conversation ended, she thought she'd hung up the phone, and I heard her wail. I will never forget that sound.
I was sent home to talk with Aaron about whether I wanted to be induced immediately, or if we wanted to wait a few days to a week. As I walked outside, I was greeted by the sight of Aaron getting out of a car and as soon as our eyes met, he burst into tears and held onto me tight. It sounds silly, but I didn't expect so much emotion to come out of him.
Once we got home, we went through the motions of calling Aaron's family over in NZ. Word slowly spread to friends, and our phones began ringing with tears and sympathy from our loved ones. Aaron and I locked ourselves in our room and talked - We agreed that we would go ahead with the induction ASAP.
The night before the girls were born.
We had these plans of holding the girls were in our arms before naming them, to see if the names I had in mind suited them. Instead, we found ourselves sitting in our bedroom, in tears, agreeing on their names. It just did not feel real.
After a sleepless night, we arrived at the hospital at 9:30am with my Mum. They performed an amnio and discovered I was already 1cm dilated. Aaron's mum and her partner arrived from NZ, and together, we all settled into the birthing suite. We decided to go and have lunch before the induction began. It was so strange, eating together and watching the world around us just go on. I even had an old lady congratulate me on my pregnancy. If she only knew.
By 2pm, the induction was underway. Getting the cannula put in, and getting my waters broken was the most painful experience of my life. The contractions came on fast and thick, about 2 mins apart.The pain took over for about 20 mins before they administered an epidural for me - I was meant to get it right away so I didn't have to feel any pain. More family members arrived, including my dad and his wife who flew in from QLD as well as some of my closest friends. I was so grateful to see them. To their credit, they managed to make laugh on the darkest day of my life. Around 11pm, we asked everyone to go so I could manage a bit of sleep and as they all left, they all promised they'd be back the next day.
After another sleepless night, the time had come. In a situation where a baby has passed before labour, they let your body do most of the work, so I only had to push about 6 times in a row. At 8:53am on November 3rd, 2012, we welcomed Arlo. Aaron couldn't look, or cut the cord so my sister took over. When my midwife held Arlo up, I gasped. I was so nervous. I had a preconceived idea that she was going to look black and blue. She was actually quite pale, and she looked huge! She wasn't though, weighing in at 2170g, and 44cm long. Instantly, I felt an enormous wave of love wash over me. And I felt so sorry for her, she did look a little sick and different to a live newborn. I was scared to touch her much for fear of hurting her further. Aaron and I just cried and kissed each other, telling each other "I love you". She looked like her dad, with the same fingers and toes ... and my sideburns. Sorry kid! We called our friends and family to come in and meet her. Everyone got a cuddle.
An amazing photographer from Heartfelt capture these precious moments for us.
At 10:15am, it was time to push again. We asked everyone to leave the room (other than Mum, my sister, my cousin, Aaron's mum Pam, and her partner, Jo). After 2 big pushes, it was 10:17am and Evie was born. She was expected to be a lot smaller than Arlo but she ended up being 5 grams heavier - 2175g, and the same length, 44cm! Her appearance was a bit more of a shock to me. Her poor little head was very swollen, and she was a bit purple from congestion. Her head looked out of proportion to her little body, they both did in fact. And they both had blisters on the body with their skin was peeling away in some places as well as bleeding little noses and mouths. Evie looked like me, she had her daddy's fingers but definitely my feet. Oh- and the sideburns! Haha.
The room came alive as family and friends poured back in, cuddling us and the girls. There were so many tears. I am forever grateful the most important people in our lives got to meet our babies, with the exception of my oldest brother and his wife who were on their honeymoon at the time. That's been incredibly hard for the both of us.
Looking back, I wish I had held the girls closer to me too. The cannula in my hand made it hard to hold them, so I mainly just had them on a pillow in my lap and gently stroked their faces.
Aaron and our Evie.
With each minute that passed, we knew we were one step closer to having to say goodbye to our babies. We wanted to leave when we felt at peace and by 11pm that night, we felt it was time. It was so, so very hard to leave.
Being at home was a bit hectic. Aaron and I didn't want to do anything, especially arrange a funeral. But we had to, and 4 days later, we found ourselves at the funeral home, viewing our babies. As we walked into the room, I remember feeling so scared and expecting them to look worse. They didn't though, they look beautiful. They simply looked like they were sleeping. Oddly, seeing them there gave us better insight into what they would have actually looked like. I felt more of a connection to them, seeing that they looked like us and that they were sister. It was so sweet seeing them together too, looking so peaceful. I am thankful for those moments.
The funeral was the following day on November 8th. We played the songs that we played to them often, my favourite being "Come Away With Me" by Norah Jones. Aaron and I said a short speech, as well as our mothers. But we mostly just sat there, listening to their songs and grieving for what will never be. The girls shared a casket and at the end of the service, we opened it up so people could see them and say their final goodbyes if they wished. It was Aaron's decision for us to watch the girls being cremated - He said that even though they had died, it was still a hardship they were going through, and as their parents, we needed to be there for them. It was the hardest thing to watch, but I am glad that we were there with them until the very end.
The weeks after were hard. We cried at night together. Every morning I'd wake up and it would hit me all over again - I was no longer pregnant, and our girls were not here. This wasn't just a bad dream, this was my new reality. All I wanted to do was kiss their cold faces again.
We arranged for the babies to have a full autopsy and we also donated their organs for research. Within a few weeks, the results came back with confirmation that the girls had passed away from Group B Streptococcus. Normally a swab test is done at the 36 week mark. I lost the girls at 35 weeks 2 days, so I missed out on being tested by a mere 5 days!
GBS is a bacteria that's found in the vagina, anus or intestines. If you have GBS, you experience mild if not any symptoms, and it generally will not cause you any grief. For an unborn or newborn baby though? The risks are catastrophic. Currently, there is no standard screening procedures here in Australia for pregnant women. Some hospitals will test all prenatal women, but they are not required to. Information provided also is minimal at very best. I was completely unaware that I carried GBS, and I had no idea that it even existed! It's crazy! Why are we not informed about this? Why are our doctors so blase about it? It hurts me so much to think that something I had and was unaware of killed my babies.
Fast forward to now, 5 months on and it's definitely easier. You just learn how to live with the pain. These days, my aim is to spread awareness of GBS. Just because you have passed the 'safe' 12 week mark, unfortunately does not mean you are guaranteed to have a happy ending. I am living proof of that. Mother to mother, I am asking you to please listen to your body. Demand information, ask questions too - It's your right. I want Arlo and Evie's death to bring about changes. Especially talking about stillbirth, which Holly is going to make me come back and talk about another day (Holly may have added that last little bit in there!)
We will always have two big holes in our hearts.
We are forever changed.
We will always love Arlo and Evie.
This video on YouTube gets me every time. When I first watched it I cried and cried! Everything said in this clip is our life, our story. So please, watch it and remember Arlo, Evie and all the babies we had to say goodbye to before we said hello.
Some of you may remember posts from late last year where I spoke about my friend, Bec delivering two beautiful little sleeping girls. Bec has taken me up on my offer of using GGMH as a platform for her to share her story of pregnancy, stillbirth, and childless motherhood. I've split her story up into two posts and the second has Bec share with us photos of her sweet babies. That's just a FYI if stories of loss trigger your own experiences. In any case, have your tissues on hand x
So.....I'm not really sure where to start, so I'll start (briefly) at the beginning. I'm sure I'll forget a lot of things so Holly is free to fill in the gaps.
Aaron and I met on Booty Call .. I mean Myspace in May of 2006. I was 17 going on 18 and in Year 12, and he was 23 going on 17 (24), living a pretty cruisey life over in New Zealand. Total babe he was/still is, I was seriously giddy. We started chatting, which quickly escalated to every day chats that lasted hours and then phone calls where I would waste my $30 of credit in one night. We also spoke on webcam, even my mum got online and said hello a few times.
16 months later, in August 2007, we finally met face to face. I went for a 2 week holiday with a friend and we stayed with Aaron and a mate in Wellington. The best two weeks of my life! I flew home and within 4 months, I'd packed up my things and moved to NZ. I had $900 in my pocket, no clue on what lied ahead, but I had heart full of love.
Aaron and I spent two loved up years in NZ before homesickness got the better of me, and we made the move back to Sydney. Together. Who said internet romances would never work? We stayed with my Mum for a little while to save, and by November 2011, we had moved into a small Inner West apartment. After a couple of months, I scored myself my dream job as a makeup artist. Things were looking up for us, and we couldn't wait to see what the future held for us!
... Then I started to feel tired and nauseous. Stress, I told myself. But after two dodgy periods and witnessing my sister give birth to my beautiful niece two months before, I decided it definitely couldn't hurt to take a pregnancy test.
It was April 25, 2012. 9:50pm: Our roommates were out, Aaron was playing xbox, and I was armed with a Clearblue Digial. I remember waiting nervously for the results (my heart is beating fast even thinking about it now!). Then it pops up: Pregnant 3+. 3+ WHAT? Look on the back of the box and it tells me I'm 5 weeks pregnant or more! WHAT THE FUCK?! I took the test and shoved it in Aaron's face, he looked at it in all of his nonchalance and said "Cool" before going back to the Xbox. Cool? I need moral support, dammit! So I phoned my sister and bawled my eyes out to her - All I could think about was the fact this was all I'd ever wanted ... but not right now. At that point, Aaron heard me crying and came out to investigate - Turned out he thought I was just showing him what the stick looked that, and he hadn't realised the stick was telling us we had a bun in the oven!
The following day, we went to see my GP and he estimated I was about 9 weeks already. Whoops! I quickly booked in for an ultrasound and had my sister come along to hold my hand. On the day, I was a bundle of nerves and full of pee. The ultrasound was well underway when I noticed my sister was looking at the screen with a puzzled expression on her face. The sonographer took that as her cue and informed us "So everything is looking great. Two strong heartbeats. You've got twins"
HOLD. THE. PHONE.
My first reaction? "Um, were they conceived at the same time? This isn't possible" (after finding out they were fraternal, not identical) I then asked to go to the toilet. In the toilet, I proceeded to swear. A LOT. Then I phoned Aaron:
Me: So everything was great. The babies are nice and healthy, two strong heartbeats. Aaron: Oh cool. Wait. TWINS!? *laughter* I told you!
Yeaahhhhhh, Aaron joked around a lot, even before I got pregnant, that since twins run in his family, we would have ourselves a set. But what he didn't count on is the fact that I released two eggs, so I'm the crafty bitch, not him! SUCK ON THAT! ;) When we later told our closest friends and family the most common reaction was "FUCK OFF! YOU'RE LYING". Haha, loved it!
At our 18 week scan, we found out we were expecting two baby girls, and even though I developed gestational diabetes, I loved every moment of being pregnant - The feeling of being pregnant, watching my belly grow, listening to the babies' hearts beat through a doppler, and I adored my pregnant body. I've battled body issues my entire life so it was amazing to marvel off a belly full of baby, and not flab. Ok, maybe I didn't love the fat, swollen feet but a small price to pay!
Aaron was already a doting dad too - He had a little ritual of kissing my belly every morning before he left for work. He'd do a low growl voice and try and wake the babies up. He'd tell them to hurry up and grow and to be good for mummy. I couldn't wait to see him with our girls.
On Oct 31st, 2012. Aaron shaved off his beard to participate in Movember. We'd decided to pain mo's on my bump - A funny way to get the girls and I involved too. Oh man, it tickled! That night, I noticed the girls weren't moving around as much as they normally did, but because this was the first time, I didn't really worry about it. At that point, I was 35 weeks and I just put it down to the girls' movements slowing down because they were literally running out of room in there.
The next morning, I had an early appointment at the hospital for a GD checkup. On the bus ride to the hospital, I noticed my belly was really hard and that I still hadn't felt my girls moving. That 45 minute bus ride was the longest of my life as I sat there, waiting for the girls to move. When I got in to see my Ob at 9am, told him about what had, or rather what hadn't, been happening. He immediately sent me in for a CTG to have the girl's heart rates monitored. After a miserable two hour wait, I got in to see one of the midwives and she began hooking the monitors up to my belly. After a few minutes of fiddling and fussing, she confessed she was having a hard time finding my babies' heartbeats, which seemed to be pretty common with twins. She decided we would sneak into the ultrasound room so she could cheat and find the girls heartbeats onscreen.
But she still couldn't find them.
With assurances of her not using the ultrasound equipment often, the midwife took off to find a doctor who knew how to use the machines properly. It wasn't until that moment that I even entertained the possibility that something was wrong - It knocked me over like a tonne of bricks, and I began poking my stomach, desperate to get the girls moving. "Ok, wake up now!" I ordered them. A few moment later, the midwife returned with a doctor who quickly got to running the wand over my huge belly. Meanwhile, the midwife came over to the other side of me and sat down. She put her hand on my leg in a comforting gesture, and it was at that exact moment that I knew they wouldn't find a heart beat ...
This morning, a friend of mine shared this on Facebook:
I made the mistake on clicking on the photo to the original source and reading through some of the comments.
Responses to this post included:
"Hate to say it is illegal to enter another country without a passport, and this is propeganda generated by the people who want their cause to seem like its the right thing"
"What a load of shit. These people cost the tax payers millions, and ruin our country."
"1) there is a "queue"....what are the Refugee Camps for... 2) If you can afford to pay the $1000's that the people smugglers charge then you choose...."
"Asylum from what? Its a joke, money talks and indonesia is laughing there heads off..wake up australia..."
"FACT: If you are granted refugee status you are GIVEN a new car, government housing, $52K a year, Private Schooling for you children, and all household bills paid for by Centrelink. Also any crimes committed by your race in a certain area ARE NOT allowed to be covered by the local media. Get you FACTS right before spreading this shit! FACT! Australians with Disabilities are treated WORSE than refugees and people in third world countries. FACT! Australian Government spends more on refugee processing and overseas "Aide" than on hospitals and healthcare IN AUSTRALIA!"
"Your FACTS are not FACTS at all!!! NONE of the above 'facts' are true!! If you ever worked in those detention centers you would notice most of them are dripping in gold jewelry and boast about how they have enough money to buy an Australian house outright! Furthermore even while they have no expenses in detention the government pays them more than what pensioners receive each week!!!!"
Holy fucking shit, how can people be so clueless?
Could any of these wild claims be backed up by any reliable sources (ie: not on Facebook)? Doubt it.
Have any of these folks done a bit of research into living conditions in these refugee camps (the violence, the rape, the lack of basic essentials of living)? I'm going to hazard a guess and say yeah riiiight. You can take a virtual tour of refugee camps here on the Doctors Without Borders website. This is only a tiny insight into what life is like in these camps. Pretty sure I blame no one for wanting to live there.
Have any of these 'concerned citizens' looked into rates before making claims like asylums seekers are paid more than Australian aged pensioners? Doubt it. And just in case you felt that statement was indeed correct, here is the 411:
- An individual who is granted temporary asylum status is entitled to assistance from the Red Cross Asylum Seeker Assistance Fund for the amount of $442.33. I believe this amount does not increase if you are partnered/have dependents.
- This amount is equivalent to 89% of Centrelink's Special Benefit of $497 per fortnight for a single adult with no dependents. The Special Benefit is basically the same rate as Newstart, and available to Australians who are going through hardship and temporarily unable to support themselves.
- A long and drawn out process follows to determine if the seeker will be granted full residency. If they are granted full residency then they are able to access the same amount in benefits that every other Australian is entitled to. So for example, a single 28 year old Australian who receives the Newstart allowance at a rate of $442.33 per fortnight.
- For comparison purposes, a single Australian receiving an aged pension receives $733.70 per fortnight.
So tell me again how asylum seekers receive more money than our aged pensioners?
MYTH = BUSTED. BOOM!
Social media offers a dangerous undercurrent for the easily influenced and too lazy to critically think, by providing blatantly incorrect propaganda that can be shared to millions by the simple click of a button. According to Hoax Slayer, the whole 'receiving more than our aged' thing originated as a chain letter has also done the rounds in the US, Canada and the UK. Now, I wonder about the Australian who sat there and edited the Americanisms (social security to Centrelink, etc) out of that email - What happened to that person to make them so consciously hateful, so full of loathing that they'd spin so many lies to get more people on board with their bigotry?
For me personally, I'm more concerned about the generation upon generation of entitled fucks we're raising that have no idea about the privileges they enjoy as Australians than I am about people wanting to travel half the world on a rickety old boat to share a slice of a nation that, for the most part, cares for its people.
So to all the bogans carrying on across the various social media platforms about ... well, anything, in the spirit of not making yourself look like an ignorant fuck`, get yourself informed or sit down and STFU.
I am ashamed to admit that once upon a time I thought rape culture was just something for the diehard feminists to get worked up about. It was more naivety than ignorance on my part. I mean, who would seriously be ok or turn a blind eye to the normalisation of something so awful?
The older I get and dare I say, the more aware I am about human nature, I realise that just how fucked up humans can be. How backwards society can be. Victim blaming, slut shaming, excuses - What the actual FUCK?
A few months ago, the whole world was shaken by the young woman from India who was violently gang raped on a bus and beaten within an inch of her life. We asked ourselves. We comforted ourselves with "Well that would never happen here in Australia while asking ourselves "How could someone so heinous happen in 2013?"
But it's not how could something like this happen that we should be asking ourselves. It should be what are we going to do to stop it. No human being with any shred of common sense would condone the rape of another human, right?
The thing is, I'm sure if you asked 90% of the tongue cluckers if they condoned sexual assault, they would vehemently say no. Because no human being with any shred of common sense would condone the rape of another human, right?
So why the "Oh those poor young boys" sentiment?
Is it because we picture a rapist as a creepy middle aged man who lurks in darkened alleys, waiting for a helpless young woman to stalk? Why does society balk at the notion of a celebrity, a female, a hero, a 'promising young man' being a rapist? A rapist is just that - a rapist. Social status, age, ethnicity, gender, sexual orientation, career, anything really does not deflect from that fact. Nobody accidently finds themselves a rapist, and if you find yourself sympathising with one, you really need to stop and take stock of your beliefs.
Or are they clucking perhaps because they believe she was asking for it by getting so shit faced and hey, she has no recollection of the actual assault so she'll be right. Victim shaming is ... well, I can not even articulate how wrong it is to blame a rape victim for his/her own rape. You just. do. not.
A while back on Pinterest, I saw this and it really struck a cord with me:
The excuses and the rationalisations and the whole "She was asking for it" mentality - It is so ingrained in our culture. Rape is the black and white issue of someone forcing them self onto another. And that is the actual crime here people, not the length of a skirt or the shattered career of a teenage sexual predator.
If you want to do your bit to end rape culture, do not buy into the shaming and blaming. Just don't.
Holy shit Batman, I could talk about this shit until the cows come home but really, I'm beginning to bore even myself.
My ass. The ass. Food. Binge. Chocolate. Amelia asking me when am I going to stop looking like I have a baby in my tummy. You've heard it all before, I've heard it all before.
A fortnight of riding the oh so draining cycle of binge eating, skipping meals to compensate and then beating myself up senseless over it, I'm kinda done.
I don't want to regal the internets with amazing pledges and promises because I just can't. Who wants to publically break out with vows and pledges, and then fall down and fail? And as much as I'd like to console myself with the fact that at least I continue getting back up and not giving up, the fact that this latest binge brought a 1.5kg of fat with it tells me that cottonwooling the issue is doing me no favours.
At 169cm, I weigh in at 84kg. For those of you playing at home, that is a gain of 16kg in the 8 months that have followed Abi's birth last July. 16. I can't even think of something witty to cover up how alarming that is.
But do you know what's even worse about weight gain and the ensuing self loathing? Not fucking doing anything about it, and continuing to wallow and bang on to all and sundry about how you need to do something ... and you know, not actually doing anything.
According to Mish Bridges' BMR calculator, my body burns around the 1643 mark each day based on my height, weight and age.
Based on my weight, height and age, My Fitness Pal tells me that I can consume 1500kj each day and lose around a kilo per week.
Given the fact that I'm still feeding Abi 6-7 times a day, I'm hesitant to shave that number down.
So, this is my new norm. Bring it.
Do you know what the real kicker for me is though? I took a few photos to document my body as it looks today.
Besides the initial shock that I am boasting some back cleavage there, it's not as bad as I envision it in my head. So why do I feel much heavier and unattractive? Hmm. That seems to be a complete (and trickier) kettle of fish altogether.
P.S: You know I love comments and all that shiz, but please don't with the "But you look good" comments. I don't mean to sound like an asshole, and I know you say it with the absolute of best intentions but I'm not sharing this sorta stuff for validation or compliments. More I'm musing outloud ... and maybe trying to convince myself to stick it out and keep digging xx
I don't know about you, but all the stupid in the world is making my head hurt at the moment.
Politics, protests, shitty celebrities, chocolate that makes you fat, having to hand express into a plastic beer cup in a damp, dingy staff room last night. It's all doing my head in, and meh mojo has gone AWOL. Cue the playing of the world's smallest violin here.
In any case, to lighten the mood here is a few photos of Justin Bieber without his shirt to make you laugh ... then despair for the stupidity of the next generation. Note, if you find these in any way arousing then we can no longer be friends ok? OK!
Good lord, with all that money you'd think the little douchecanoe could afford himself a shirt!
And just in case your retinas are burning from that piss weak excuse for raw sexuality, here is a shot of how running around half nekkid is supposed to look:
At 15 odd years of pretending that I don't have a father, there's been a shift. There's been a few occasions where I've found myself wondering what he was like as a person. You know, when he was sober. If he were alive, where would he be now?
I still remember some things about him like broad shoulders, a comforting hug, his voice. A sleepover here, a visit to my Nan and Pop's there. The rest of the memories are pretty fucked up. It's kind of hard to remember things from back when you were 5 or 6, and the bad ones always remain sharper than the good.
But still, I am by nature, half of him. Blessed to be 100% of my Mum, by nurture.
Today, my cousin made a comment on a photo of Abi that she could see a resembalnce to my Dad. And my heart skipped a beat. In a nice way. A little part of him, living on the grandbabies he never met, from the daughter that he hardly knew. A happier kind of ending, right?
The problem is though, I have to hold him the bad guy in my mind. I have to. Because if I don't, I leave myself open. Too fucking raw for my liking.
If I could have one more conversation with him, I wonder how it would play out.
So. Many. Questions.
Didn't you love us, or even yourself enough to want to change?
Why didn't you treat Mum the way she deserved?
Did you think about us at all before you died?
Did you see me that day in Liverpool? I saw you. It was the last time I saw you too, maybe a year before you died. My heart began to pound, and I felt sick. Did you see me put my head down, and quickly walk in the other direction? I'll always feel guilty for that, though damned if I would have been able to say anything to you. Or even pretend I could handle being in your presence without being blinded by anxiety.
If there's an afterlife, are you looking down to see me flinch as I stumble out the words "My dad" in casual conversation, two words that feel foreign coming from my lips.
And then the sadness swells to anger.
A girl needs her Dad, where the fuck were you?
I have children of my own now. I understand the enormity of the love a parent feels. That beer, that syringe, that anger, HOW COULD YOU HAVE NOT WANTED TO CHANGE?
My mind, it goes in circles while I try to understand. But I can't. It's so conflicting to despise someone so much yet feel some sort of affection toward them. I've felt that way about you for as long as I can remember. It confuses me. Kids aren't meant to feel like that about a parent.
Hey Dad, one more thing - Fuck you for bowing out and leaving me with a lifetime of questions I'll never get the answers to. Didn't you realise there aren't always second chances? Was it worth it?
Today marks one week since my return to hitting the books, and hit them hard I have. Like as hard as I hit a block of chocolate after a week of eating clean (which I still can't master, but continue eating the chocolate anyway). Except the former is wayyy more stressful and not as endorphine inducing as the latter.
There's no fanfare or streamers or titty flashing celebrations (maybe flashed out after Mardi Gras?) when you go, or return to uni. None. The lecturers do not care about your struggles, your lack of sleep, or the fact that you are having social media withdraws after sitting through a two hour lecture. Instead, they sharply remind you that it is not their responsibility to baby you and you need put your head out of A and get to it. As awful as that may sound, it's refreshing - and beneficial for someone like me, who would routinely use excuses such as "The dog ate my homework" if I thought it would be get out of watching a snoretastic powerpoint presentation on the biological motherfucking processes of the plasma membrabe. Did I say snore? Zzzzzzzzzzzz.
It's not all twenty letter words and periodic tables though. It can kinda be fun too. For example, I got to have a conversation with Mrs Springer today.
Mrs Springer sounds an awful lot like my middle aged male lecturer but hey, whatevs. I resisted the urge to ask her if she was related to Jerry, and after making her confirm her name and DOB, informed her that I would be back later to check her daily obs. I gave her a reassuring pat on the hand afterwards and the bitch didn't acknowledge my presence. People these days ...
My lecturer promises me that by third year, I will be ridiculously comfortable with conversing with mannequins. I informed him that I have a kindy kid and a preschooler, and conversing with both is exactly like conversing with a mannequin. You know, because you all have their ears painted on and don't acknowledge a damn thing you say. Am I right, or am I right?
Apart from having to heavily rely on Ryan and my Mum on juggling school drop off/pick ups and the ensuing mundane that follows, I am really enjoying being back. I'm going the part time load I was doing prior to Abi's surprise (and therefore immaculate) conception, and even though it's going to take me 72904783 years until I'm finito, I'm ok with knowing I am one step closer to catching dem babies.
... And that's a big thing for me because Abi is 8 months old now, and I need some newborn goodness in my arms, STAT!
