February 4, 2013 | Tit for Tat

This blog is inspired by Nina, the main character in Offspring (the TV series mum and I are currently watching). When everything in her life was going wonderfully, she imagined that perhaps a bomb would fall from the sky and land on her. Do we live in equilibrium? Logically, I have never believed this, but I think on some level most of us think that life can’t go well for extended periods of time without something good happening or vice versa.

I write this as I am sitting here feeling fabulous, while I am ‘supposed’ to be feeling bad. Radiation has passed the halfway mark in week four. Yes, radiation to the brain is cumulative in it’s effects and I may well be regretting saying this soon, but I have to be honest and say that I worry that when James gets back in a few days time, I won’t be feeling as wonderful physically as I have for the last few weeks (By ‘wonderful’ I mean normal). I would love to have just a few days with him side-effect free, yet perhaps I should give up this dream for now and reserve it for after all this is over.

It’s that “supposed to” word that is strange there, though. No way, I don’t have to be miserable and in pain until this is over! I won’t be. The fact that the road trip we were on last November (that could have been labelled “the road trip from hell”) was still fun despite four different hospitals and the worst pain I have ever experienced, and walking out with a diagnosis of a brain tumor was still a blast gives me hope. It’s completely possible to enjoy life when in physical discomfort, provided it is not unbearable.

In my meditation class just down the road last night they were talking about how we can create our own happiness within regardless of external circumstances, my mind was racing with disagreement. While I agree that a majority of the time the common cold can be halted by the power of the mind, cancer is different, and whenever someone says something nice and airy fairy like, “you create you own reality” I can’t help but wonder if they’ve had an ailment (not ‘illness’) such as this. Probably not.

Back to the equilibrium thing. Yes, I do believe that the greatest challenges have the greatest rewards. But as we all know, there’s whole lot of choice left out of this equation. If you are happy in your life, you probably deserve it and have created it. I feel like I’m balancing on thin ice saying that I am truly happy at the moment, as I would feel like a fraud if I say that and then in a few days time am feeling down about some pain that nags my body. And then I remember that happiness is external from all that. It’s hard to express to everyone just how bursting with joy I have felt lately, as they assume I must be in agony constantly (I’m not blaming anyone for this – it’s sweet). I’ve been learning about how the quality of our lives is so much more of a choice than I ever thought it was, despite knowing that already at some level.

A ‘bomb’ did drop on Nina – her apartment burnt down. However, the handsome man she is with who treats her beautifully suggested they move in together, so all is well. Good will come from this. It has already. 

Here's my new hairstyle - thank you to the NZ government for giving $2300 for wigs and hair accessories! 

February 6, 2013 | Migration: A Letter to B, from James

Migration

Bethany, I think it's time I write you a letter. My Uncle Eric is deep in the South. His beard has grown thick and full. The grey mask reminds me of my father. He's working on a pipeline right now. Not managing it, not supervising, and not fighting fire. He's just working his aching bones into the ground. It's the kind of work usually reserved for strong backs just out of high school. Why is he there? Because life's messy. The retirement benefit for all of his years of breathing acrid smoke, smashing doors, resuscitating lives, pulling drunks from mangled wrecks, and grieving the innocence lost, is not enough for him to survive as an aging man. He'd love nothing more than to sip on a dram of Islay malt, taste Cuba, and watch over his black-land fields. Yet that remains an elusive dream. He wouldn't have me pity him though. He wouldn't have me pity myself either. And he most certainly wouldn't have me pity you.

Perhaps the thing I love the most about the old chess master is his undying love. His ability to smile a Texas smile at the sunshine before he puts his head down and drives a fence line. And he laughs. Babe he laughs so big, that big hearty bellow that could only be produced from the depths of such an immense heart. I always call Eric when I'm at my lowest points. I guess it always felt like his back was big enough for both of us. He rode his bike all the way from the Red River to Moscow just to see us on our proposal. He never complains. He's never lazy. And he's always a Southern gentleman. That good kind of Southerner, that maintains the old values but keeps a progressive mind. Maybe I love him so much because he always seemed like the version of my dad that I could be friends with. Anyways. The whole point of bringing him up is because I called him yesterday. He listened well and gave me good advice in that story teller way – unassuming yet relatable, with anecdotal advice from a life of adventures, riddled with failures in the midst of great joys. He placed a particular remark in the puzzles of my mind with poignant accuracy. “You're a control freak.”

I guess I am. I never really thought about it like that, but it seems to make a lot of sense. Wouldn't you agree? Although it may be nicely disguised, and there may be a good amount of leeway, it seems to make sense. Why am I so competitive? Why do I strive, sometimes at ridiculous lengths, to win any competition? Why did I care so much about my 4.0? Why do I still care so much about having the best grades? Not even content with A's, it infuriated me if anyone even scored a point higher on a test. And work, there it is again. I could have skated through and made similar money. Perhaps to some extent a healthy amount of a controlling attitude is a good thing. Yet, when it's not about grades, money, or making friends – when it's about something like feeling forced to move, forced to leave, forced to dismantle, then what? Why should it bother me so much? I should be thrilled to go to New Zealand. I should be thrilled to start a new adventure with you. To have a chance at something great, together. But perhaps it's as simple as choice. Even though I faked it well, I've been having trouble convincing myself that I want to do what we're doing. Unfortunately, my inability to cope with the ebb and flow of life catches you in the rip. I'm not saying that because of this new understanding I will be able to put all of my frustrations behind me and start thoroughly enjoying our situation. But I guess what I am saying is that I am able to start working on healthy decisions for the both of us. I've never liked being told what to do, and I hate being dragged into situations outside of my control. Yet, I realize that if I can't get a grip on the tangible in this scenario, I will most certainly make the situation worse for both of us.

The tangible? Well, I guess a lot could be considered tangible here, but a great deal of it is in my head. The loneliness, pity, regret, and sloth are not caused by our new found environment. They are caused by my inability to adapt. I'm not a happy person. In fact I'm incredibly depressed and bitter at the moment. But I do understand that it is up to me to make that a fleeting state, or a landslide. You don't deserve a man who can't be there to support you. And for that reason, I am dedicated to changing the man who writes you now. I'm sorry I've been falling apart. It's not fair to you, and it's not fair to our future. I love you more than anything in this world, and it's time I get back to showing you the truth in that statement. I'm coming home babe. XOXO

February 7, 2013 | James: A Godless Communist

A Godless Communist

There's something about home cooked meals, hours of sleep, and conversations with loved ones that resets an inner compass. This essay is no more political than a love note. Granted, love can be a controversial subject at times.

After a battery of debates with my father regarding different 'hot button' issues, the most recent of which was my stance against civilians owning military grade fifty caliber sniper rifles able to tear a hole through the side of armored vehicles. I was described in jest to my mother as a Godless Communist. Now obviously, there's some truth to his statement, despite the love backing this portrayal. Despite the brevity of my escape to the motherland of red mud, cowboy hats, and barbeque joints, I was able to pull to the surface some much needed strands of insight from their dormant abyss. Ben warned me about his trip back to Oklahoma. He said that it was the best conversations he had ever had with the parental units. In fact, it persuaded him to stop running – at least for now. It always seems that reflecting on my values, and seeing my roots, tends to make problems shrink.

My father and I went back and forth every chance my mother wasn't there to intervene. Father - son bonding time I reckon. Whether we were discussing homosexual rights in regards to the Boy Scouts of America, gun control, socialized medicine, homicide rates in the 'developed world', the importance of a standing army, abortion, or taxes, two themes continued to circle like vultures as we realized we were arguing in a similar direction, with different solutions. People should have incentive and accountability. Why is food service in New Zealand often abysmal? Because they don't treat front of house staff as well respected members of society. Commission and percentages speak a hell of a lot louder than wages. Why do you have to be extremely cautious when picking your favorite saltena vendor in Bolivia? Because you're not getting a dime out of anyone in court for losing three weeks of your life to the oral and anal flood that will ensue if you choose poorly. People must have accountability for their actions, and they need incentives to perform immaculately.

Of course it seems like I'm derailing this blog, but I can assure you there is a legitimate point I'm trying to build. Through the midnight hours of discussing possible solutions to the myriad of issues that are continuously thrown into simple yes/no bins of patriotic conservatism, or flaming liberal propaganda I began to realize this isn't so different from the issues I'm facing in my life. I don't honestly give a shit if someone wants to call themselves a member of the Tea Party, or a libertarian, or a progressive. It doesn't really mean much to me. Secondly, I don't think it really means much to the progression of solutions for our society. It's easy to get worked up about things that seem awful in our lives. It's easy to join the ranks of some new hope, fighting the villainy of past transgressions. It's easy to do nothing in your life while you scream bloody murder on Facebook. It's a lot harder to sit down and think about realistic options available in the wake of grief or chaos.

I've been trying to dig into my own issues with this affinity for accountability and incentive. There has to be a way to pull myself back on course. Back to the love I know is within me, and the strength to be a good steward, while maintaining an optimistic and realistic view of the future. Of course there is, and I believe, finally, I'm headed back to the right path. What is a Godless Communist after all? An indirect compliment? I think it's probably a way of describing my love for life on earth, and passion for strength in our families and communities. Obviously, it's a bit of a false moniker, as I would describe myself as more of an agnostic who finds serenity in the sacred tabernacles of nature, and a capitalist with heavy socialist leanings as far as community outreach and general standards of living are concerned, but I think he was on the right track. It has become clear to me that disappointment is directly related to expectations and goals. Bethany and my quality of life are products of our accountability to one another and the incentives to reach our expectations. Our incentive is a product of the expectations of our goals, which are completely up to us to decide. Furthermore, the accountability to remain dedicated to achieving our goals is also completely up to us. So perhaps redefining my goals is in order. I know I've convoluted a relatively simple argument for apparently no reason. But I suppose it's therapeutic for me to work out all of the little twists the rabbit takes in my mind. The elevator pitch of this entire essay is straightforward.

Bethany, I started to find myself lost without the clear goals we had spent so much time establishing, and subsequently eased my grip on my own accountability towards such goals, which threw me into quite a spiral. But I see once again, so many of those goals we once set are truly subsidiary. The only priority I absolutely have to work on right now is getting the two of us through this mess as smoothly as possible. Everything else can wait. And, in due time, bit by bit, we'll start building our empire once again. After all, as a Godless Communist, I'm only here to survive, there are no pearly gates for me. So I'd better make the best of it then, and I need you for that. So what do you say babe? How bout we get back to basics, and start focusing on just you and me? I'll see you in the morning.

February 14, 2013 | Flossing my teeth

Last night. I have finished brushing my teeth, paying particular attention to scrubbing up and down at the back after a dentist’s recommendation. I grin at my balding self in the mirror. ‘How wonderful to have clean teeth,’ I think. Reaching for the dental floss, I pause.

Why am I flossing?

A mass of thoughts flood through my mind, tumbling and churning. I am reminded of my own mortality. Why does it matter anyway? If I’m not supposed to be here in twenty years, what use is this extra time spent flossing my teeth, which will last that long perfectly fine with just brushing? If our long-term future is one that James will most likely carry, shouldn’t I simply be encouraging him to floss his teeth, considering mine are already better cared for? Am I wasting my time on all this irrelevant stuff? Am I losing sight of what matters?

It goes on like this for a while until I manage to stretch the grin back across my face. “It makes me feel good,” I tell myself, “that’s why.” I begin to floss, making sure to get between each and every tooth.

Yesterday I had written a quite serious piece about futility and purpose, and the role of the little things in life, and keeping hope. But I read through it and realized that it wasn’t a very accurate reflection of my life at the moment. You see, every day is a pleasure.

When I’m not throwing up (like I did in the car today) or entertaining headaches, or sleeping, life is brilliant. I’ve been able to continue as normal really – with the difference being living on the other side of the world and living a completely different lifestyle.

…improved, I could perhaps say. A little lacking in friends and those I love, I’ve had a lot of fun wearing wigs each day, to the point that I feel sorry for people who are always stuck with the same hair. How boring! Each day radiation is a delight – being greeted by Sharon at the front desk, receiving the “hello Darling, you are looking gorgeous today!” and going for little walks hand-in-hand with James at dusk. The small things in life like watching a carrot be crushed and squeezed in my juicer, or cooking a four-course Valentines meal with James for mum and Guy are perhaps more delightful than ever…as is the sight of a sunset and the lights flickering on in the city from our place up here in the sky. To lie down at the end of a day and know that it’s been a good day has an extra sweet feeling of success when you’re not supposed to be feeling good.  Ha! And while on the wonderful things in life, I can't leave out that wonderful thing called romance (can I say this is more fun with wigs too, or is  that too much for the public?). For everyone who was involved in the making of James and Connor's Valentines day creation - click here - I can't thank you enough. It brought tears to my eyes.

Today, however, has been a little more difficult. This morning at 8.45am I had the second egg collection procedure. I was worried about it due to the last one being so painful (for so little results) and had mentally, and physically, prepared myself. After eating ‘fertility foods’ for weeks, not doing any strenuous exercise and putting on a couple of kilos, I was hopeful. Plus, this time we weren’t dealing with defrosted semen.

The procedure was still painful, but much better. They gave me a high dose of sedatives (hence the nausea today) and had an expert find the vein to put it in, saving the six or so jabs they gave while trying to find the right one last time. From this point I don’t remember much, as I was rather loopy. James has been mocking me recently about my inability to act with any convincing emotions beyond happiness, surprise, and love (I fail miserably at ‘anger’). After the drugs had kicked in, I told him I was ‘just acting’ loopy, which improved my score as an authentic thespian.

Anyway, despite the higher dosages making today unpleasant, and the now familiar feeling of knives in my uterus each time I move, it was most certainly worth it. Although I can’t be too sure at this point how many will survive, they collected 12 eggs, which is at the upper end. Last time with six there was only one success, and so a moderate hope would be three more considering the better sperm situation. I admit I’m smiling as I write this. It’s weird how this sort of thing can make those innate ‘motherly instincts’ come out – we were laughing as I held my stomach last night to protect the eggs and said I was incubating.

I’m not sure how I get back to the flossing thing from this tangent, but I guess it all boils down to that all-important little thing called hope. I’ve had to make a conscious choice to live for the future and still make plans…albeit different ones to those before. It could be easy to give up the idea of a long-term future, and start preparing for the worst, but even if it is ‘logical’ to prepare for the worst, who really wants to live like that?

Tonight will be the first night James and I are able to drink (a glass of) alcohol, so I’ll leave you with a toast – here’s to the future!

February 16, 2013 | Little guys

I just wanted to share some good news - advance apologies if this doesn't interest you - but we had the regular call this morning from the embryologist and all seven of the eggs that fertilized have divided! Another one also 'came to life'. By this stage last time there were just two little dudes hanging on. I am being careful not to get too excited (James keeps me in check with reality) but so far, things are going well.

Aden is down for the weekend and the three of us are heading to Zealandia, the bird sanctuary nearby, for a couple of hours. It's the first time the three of us have been together since we went camping about a week before I left NZ. It's funny it took this to bring us back together again. 

February 21, 2013 | Hair #2

We had a rather special visit from Jenny Rankin this week. Amongst the delight of swimming naked on the beach where she and her husband lived 22 years ago with my parents (me growing in mum's tum) girly massage breaks and laughter over wine, Jenny encouraged James and I to begin the transformation of our words into images, both moving and still. Now me being a technophobe, I found this rather daunting.

The reason why I am excited, however, is the fact that I often find myself unable to adequately express the reality of our life here simply in words. Each visitor we had had here, including Jenny, has found it pleasantly refreshing to join us in the daily routine of radiation. While the machine is certainly space-age and a little intimidating, seeing the smiles on everyones faces and the evident support of all the staff, alongside our own happiness, the picture of treatment is a lot more encouraging than one may imagine.

It's entirely possible to be happy even when tired, or in pain. I know I've said this before, but now we will begin to show you. The first way in which I'll show you is displaying the issue of baldness and wigs. Now I know that the prospect of having permanent hair loss may seem a little depressing to some, but I've done a cost/benefit analysis and come to the conclusion that no hair is better than hair.

Here are my reasons:

1) You can choose the hair to suit your outfit/mood/plans, rather than having to do the opposite.
2) You will never have a bad hair day
3) If you want to change the colour of your hair, it's not damaging or expensive (or time consuming) to do so.
4) You can confuse people by changing hair secretly at a party
5) It's quicker to shower
6) You hair won't get tangled while sleeping
7) A wig keeps you nice and warm when it's cool
8) You are not defined by your hair
9) You can play different roles
10) You can try different styles and colours than you would usually be afraid to
11) It gives you a fresh perspective of what physical aesthetics really are, and what the value of hair really is.

James took these photos with our new camera that Jenny gave us:

The wig that used to be my cousin Evie's

...and her other one

The wig that the NZ government paid for (thanks!)

Cheapies from the US (everything there costs less)

Evie's again

I had the NZ one cut by a hairdresser as it was too similar to the other. 

Keep an eye out for more photos and eventually video - I promise they won't all be about hair!

March 3, 2013 | Age

Eighteen. It’s my second time visiting the bright lights of Wellington. Mum and I are visiting her new boyfriend, Guy. Guy is the first boyfriend she has ever had that I have thought was adequately suited for her. We’re visiting his house, a nice old villa like none I have been inside before. It seems fancy. We’re getting ready to go out, and my heart is beginning to race. I’ve only ever been ‘out’ in sleepy New Plymouth, which has about seven bars and one club. I’ve heard all the stories about Wellington nightlife, and I simply can’t believe that I’m going to be a part of it. I slip on a tight dress that shows off my summer legs. I’ve heard you have to dress ‘nice’ to get into clubs here, but I’ve also heard that if you’re a girl and show enough skin, it doesn’t matter. Whatever, I do look ‘nice’. I team the purple and blue flowers of the dress with some little black flats – ‘I’ve got to be able to dance,’ I think excitedly.

The drink selection is overwhelming at the first bar we go to. Guy tells me to choose anything I want. I'm baffled. I have no idea what to choose, so just get what mum gets. $15 for a cocktail? That’s ridiculous! How can prices differ that much between cities like that? I hope Guy is okay with that, although I guess he must be used to it. Looking out into the street, music blares from the clubs, smoke pouring out and lights dancing. The night is young. It’s another world, and I can’t wait to explore it. I’m eighteen and finally an adult, out on the town. Here I come!

***

James and I went out last night. It was my first night ‘out on the town’ in Wellington since I was eighteen, and a stark indication of the growth that I’ve been through since last being in the country.

“Isn’t the breeze cold, you should put some clothes on!” a voice says in my head as we wander past crowds of girls wearing dresses smaller than the one I wore over three years ago. I laugh uncomfortably to myself, wondering at how boring I have become. But no matter how I scoff at it, the voice won’t be quieted. I hold in my breath and squeeze James’ hand as we walk through another hoard of them squealing in pitches that transported us to a kindergarten playground. As a high-school aged girl stumbles past almost vomiting, the aged prude in my mind couldn’t help but frown inwardly. Who have I become?

The entire time I was in the US, I thought the 21-year drinking age was ludicrous, and made it known. I would tell people that a younger age limit teaches people to drink responsibly, and would be amazed to see 21 and 22 year-olds being excited about drinking to the point of endangering themselves. “That wouldn’t happen back home,” I ranted. Nowadays, Wellington has changed my mind. I do think that people should be able to drink at 18, even earlier, but binge drinking needs be discouraged and can be. James and I were talking about the options as we drove in to go to dinner before the concert. Perhaps if 18 to 20 year olds were only allowed to buy drinks at bars, it would fix some of the binge drinking problems here - at least they would be in a supervised place and couldn't purchase packaged drinks for their younger friends. Plus, a basic beer here costs at least $9 at a bar so cost would be a discouragement in itself for the young‘uns. There certainly never was a shortage of alcohol from when I was fifteen, as there were always plenty of people at school (we thought those people were lucky) who had older siblings who were eighteen. Or there were people who were friend with the seventh-formers. And then I was suddenly eighteen, getting together with friends to down cheap wine from a grocery store before heading into town. It’s what we all did. I guess upon reflection, I never saw the drunken twenty-somethings, as I grew up in a town virtually void of twenty-somethings.

As James and I sat in the old Wellington town hall before this adventure, watching the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain play and thoroughly enjoying it, we felt old. In a strangely wonderful way. I know sometimes the tinge of nostalgia can creep up unexpectedly for the old wilder days, as we drink tea after a night of a couple of drinks. In a way, we feel growing pains, but it’s not all that painful at all.

I used to say I felt like I had skipped my childhood, as I was forced to grow up with the death of my brother when I was four and the divorce of my parents at seven. I wasn’t even good at being a teenager – the party stage only lasted a few months before I was sick of it and hit the books again, on a continual and sometimes painful plight for self-improvement. And now I sit in the early days of my twenties and wonder if the typical 20-somethings are already slipping from underneath me. Truth is, I could happily be an 80-year-old, and simply can’t wait to get there. You can trust that I’m going to give it my best shot anyway. It just seems so blissful – a lifetime of wisdom and love behind you, license to do whatever you want, be it gardening or writing or reading. Maybe by that point the back of my hair will also be wispy so I’ll be all matching and could give up on wigs…or simply wear luscious ones!

I guess being forced to think about children in doing IVF and think about mortality more than I would have ever have had considered can age a soul. I know I’ve done a lot for someone my age, perhaps packed a lifetime of stuff into a short amount of time, but it was certainly interesting to feel disconnected from most of the females my age out yonder.

I’ve been thinking a bit about the fact that I did pack so much into my short lifetime, as that was one thing that would carry me into nightmares when I was first diagnosed. I could envisage my obituary – it just seemed to eerily make sense. I worried that perhaps it was my time… that I had had my shot at life and done it well, and now it’s time to move along. But I no longer think this. Sometimes I feel that perhaps my soul was tired. I’m not saying that the cancer was a lesson that I needed, but I do think that I had tried to pack in an incredible amount and I wasn’t stopping there, I had plans.

Perhaps I needed to stop.

***

My friend Nicola, who I will be seeing next week in my hometown of New Plymouth, wrote me a card with this quote on the front:

“Life is what we are alive to. It is not length but breath. Be alive to goodness, kindness, love, purity, music, poetry, flowers, stars…”

I’m sure I’ve already talked about life being the quality of what it’s made of rather than the quantity, but I guess this also applies to growing ‘old’ in soul. Taking a break from all the madness, being alive to flowers, music and poetry. And tea and baking. I think I’m ready to grow up. In fact, I don’t feel that we really have a choice in the matter. But of course, you can either age with sparkles in your eyes, or let them fade. And so, the image of the slightly frail man with long white hair rocking out to ‘born to be wild’ on the ukulele with his hair swinging is a good one to keep in mind. And, as it will always be important for us all to understand the screams and excitement, I now simply hold on to the memories of the days when the bright lights and beats would summon me into a tantalizing trance.

March 13, 2013 | Farewelling the Old Path

I guess when you look at the facts of it, my entire life as I knew it was suddenly gone.
Gone was the grad school application and plans to move to Maryland. Gone is the
wedding plan. Gone were the hours spent studying – they were suddenly rendered futile.
Gone was the sweet little house we planned to stay in until leaving Moscow, gone are my
friends. Gone are the late nights and crazy morning hairstyles.

With simply the bare facts, I should feel empty.

But I don’t.

There’s something about being home that makes one feel somewhat fulfilled. Wait, that’s
not quite the right word, fulfilled implies going off and following your dreams. Breaking
free. No, there’s something about home that makes one feel somewhat ‘filled’. That’s
better. Whole. Comfortable. At Ease.

James and I are staying at my dad’s house this week, the old country home with
sprawling flower gardens and multitudes of birds singing that I grew up in. That familiar
trampoline that I have spent countless hours flying high above the earth on, into the vast
blue sky that at night is speckled with millions of stars. The lounging cows out the front
that stretch their necks over the fence and nibble on dad’s native trees, the sheep named
Bruce, and my old grey cat daisy who has survived 18 years on only fish and refusing anything else.

While mum and Guy are holidaying at a beach paradise up north, Whangapoua, with it’s
golden sands and perfect weather, I couldn't be happier to sit in the living room writing
this with a few clouds floating around the mountain, black sands and rugged
coastlines just a few minutes away. I couldn't be happier to snack on toast as we always
did, daydreaming and cooking for the guys within walls brimming with memories.

Yes, that old life is gone. But in a way, I’m happy it has. Because it’s given us a clean
slate; a future which we can begin painting once again. It took me a while to come around
to it; for a month or so after surgery, still in a slight state of shock, I would smile and nod
when James would begin talking of future plans. But all I’ve needed was a dash of belief
and a dollop of hope, and we’re back on track. Now, the future is one of my favorite
topics.

I know when we’re on a certain trajectory, it’s so easy to feel locked into that and there’s nothing you can do about it. I wish I had known sooner that no, I didn't have to continue in Anthropology, I didn't have to be an academic, I didn't have to be ‘the best’ at everything I did. Everything was a choice. You see it so often – someone who followed that same trajectory until it wore out, then at 50 realized “I wanted to be a school teacher all along, who was I kidding?”

It’s as if we are laying our entire lives in the hand of the seventeen-year-old us (which we
would never do otherwise), trusting them and saying, “yes, self-conscious, confused teen,
I will follow this choice you made to study at university until it wears me down”.


For much of my degree, I considered myself more of a writer than an anthropologist. I
knew I would write someday, but I had to continue, I had to get a sensible, successful,
internationally focused job. I did all the right things – ticked the international experience
box, work experience, volunteering, grades, whatever they needed. All so that someday,
after multitudes of academic publications, I would have the freedom and respect to write
whatever I wanted.

I've enrolled for a journalism diploma beginning this July. It’s a one-year multimedia
course, consisting of writing, photography, television and film, and radio. I know, I’ll be
in the middle of chemotherapy, but with a cohort consisting of many high-school leavers,
I think I’ll be able to do it. Plus, the medical warnings of side effects are always the
worst–case scenarios. When I told my dad, he was pleased, saying that although
‘journalism’ seems a little below my capabilities and training, I’ll be able to do it well. It’s an
interesting stage in life, this early-twenties thing. Pick a way to go and you’d better hope
you've picked the right path…

Nicola and I were talking about an old friend of ours, Alice, who gave university a go for
a couple of years knowing it wasn't for her, but was too afraid to pull out. Nicola had
signed a lease with her, and a month before they were about to move in together for the
next year of study, she received a call from Alice, in tears. She told Nic that she
was so sorry; she was going to pursue hairdressing and couldn't come back. Nic was
ecstatic, as she had known Alice had always wanted to be a hairdresser, yet had been afraid of
the societal analysis of the job.

Aden never went to University, in fact, he never finished high school. Yet here he is,
doing his grocery shopping with us and talking about his saving goals in his job, which he loves.
Yes, he picked fruit and trapped possums for a while, but I couldn't have been prouder.
It’s so important to do what fits you well and not cave in to judgment, and my little
brother has taught me this.

We’re also working on a short film for a festival at the moment, which has a deadline of
just before the journalism course begins. I won’t give the plot away now but plan on publishing
the script and film here once we have submitted it.

With these new directions in jobs, plans and lifestyle, I guess ‘fulfilled’ is the right word
for this unexpected stage in life. Although not as 'successful' by societies standards, hanging out with my parents while on the sickness benefit and wanting to write, it just feels right.

March 26, 2013 | The Perfect Sunset

James and I spent the last week staying in a little bach[1] on the northern shores of lake Taupo. “This is the life,” George says to us honestly, as the three of us walked barefoot up the track that leads from the sandy beach to the house, with dripping togs[2] and once-bright 90’s patterned towels draped around our necks. “Get home, swim, have a hot shower, cook dinner, read, sleep…this is my life,” the man who introduced us back when the world was a different place said to us.

Kiwi George was working with a logging company in northern Idaho called Northwest Management back in 2011. Alone in a new world, 27 and free to roam, the adventurer decided that the hotel provided by the company was too…dull for him. One evening he found himself telling this to a young man he met at a party. Funnily enough, this young man was a traveler also, and had been taken in by many a person in his gallivanting days. And so, he offered to have George stay on his futon.

“James, do you remember when I was staying at your place and the only groceries I contributed was a 24-pack of Budweiser[3] cans, and a pack of rice crackers?” James laughed at Georges question as we were heading down to the beach the next evening. I quickly figured that the single, stale rice cracker that James kept in his cupboard and was going to keep it for years for sentimentality was the last of George’s household contribution.  He must have missed George when he took off to Europe – took off to work in various odd jobs, blow his savings, live in tiny apartments in France and eventually have to return. I chuckled, it was clear that these two guys like something about each other, despite their nonchalant masculine exteriors and being close to opposite in their mannerisms.

George is back in the land of the long white cloud,[4] now, and each night when he arrived home from work, James and I would have dinner all prepared and in the oven, and the three of us wandered down to the lake and swam the 200 meters[5] to the buoy as the sun set. Each night the sky was painted different colors; from bruised, blue-grey skies as we ducked through choppy swell, to the perfect pink skies that framed the halo of the sun on the other side of the distant hills in flat, crystal clear waters. We felt cold, tired, hungry and exhilarated. Bare feet up the path and we arrived to the smells of dinner oozing from the oven walls, and we cracked open the wine and dug in.

I can’t express how lucky I feel to have had these few weeks of normalcy between treatments. Even in the few days after radiation finished, while the fatigue still plagued me physically, I felt enthusiastic and like all this cancer stuff was just a dream. A simple thing like not having to go into the hospital each day made me feel like I was no longer a patient. As the days wore on, the hospital grew more and more distant until it was simply a half-bald head in the mirror.

I stand at the starting line of chemotherapy with swimmers legs and a singing heart. I’ve never been so determined to over-perform in something – and I’ve had my fair share of that pursuit in the past. The four-week gap was supposed to be physical recovery time, but in a way it’s also been a time of spiritual strengthening. I realize that things as they are at the moment aren't everything, only a bump in the road, and I am infinitely lucky to be in the land of the long white cloud and silent, saturated skies.

---

[1] A small holiday cabin near a body of water, generally the ocean

[2] Swimsuit

[3] A cheap, crappy U.S. beer

[4] The Maori term for New Zealand

[5] Or, ‘metres’

April 3, 2013 | To Jen

Oh Jen…

Here I am. You’ve caught me in a good time to write to you, because I’m feeling shitty. I know that’s a weird thing to say, but I know when I’m feeling good I have a tendency to glaze over things and tell you that life is wonderful and fabulous and every moment sparkles with the sheer joy of being alive.

But you deserve more than that. 

No, I am alone in this house I don't feel at home in, staring at my computer, and I had to force myself to open it to do things because all I really feel like doing is lying on the nice, big, fluffy rug. 

I know I should listen to music or something to uplift my spirits and chase away the silence that surrounds me, but honestly, I can’t be bothered getting up to get headphones or turn the stereo on.

So, silence it is. Sprinkle in some distant car and chainsaw sounds, people preparing for winter. Ralph just barked. Little laptop keys tip-tapping away to you. A bird just sang – they like to do that. (Yeah, I just said that.)

The ‘sickness’ I feel from chemo is so hard to describe. Usually when I’ve had something wrong with me in the past it was something you can put words to, you know? Like a sore stomach, or head, or itchy something-or-other, queasiness, or period cramps… but this is so hard to describe. My body just feels worn out, like it’s falling apart. It's an assortment of little complaints (the very word makes me wince): aching jaw when I eat, a bit of a headache when I move my head, some light sensitivity, feeling nauseous with sudden movement, tingly fingers, slightly yet eternally sore muscles, always being a little tired, mouth stinging from anything acidic, sensitive teeth. 
But everything is so minor they're not worth complaining about. So shitty will have to do as a descriptor. 

James is at work today – it’s his first day. Yes, he got a job!!!! I can’t explain how excited I am for him. It’s hurt me to see his frustration in being idle and not having a social life here. It hurts me because I see it’s hard for him, but I think the worst part might be my guilt. I’ve watched his struggle and my mind whispers to me “this is your fault”. Constantly. I don’t know what to do to remedy it sometimes. Being positive doesn’t seem to work, because who wants someone being smiley and upbeat when you’re feeling frustrated? It just makes me seem annoying and insensitive. I just don’t know what else to do or how else to be.

I got distracted. Sorry. I was talking about his job and thinking about when he didn’t have it. It’s so silly to mope about the past isn’t it? But so easy to do. Anyway, why I’m so excited about this job is that it’s his first serious job if you don’t include restaurants. I mean, not that I think hospitality isn’t very important (it is!), but I’ll admit to being a bit relieved that he’s not working late nights/early mornings, especially full time. He is working for the Ministry of Business, Innovation and Employment in the IT department as a Project Analyst, which sounds super technical but they say the most important thing is people skills, which fortunately enough he’s got! It’s not minimum wage either (minimum is $14.50 an hour here, so do come!), which is sweet, and there’s room to grow. Ooh, I’m so happy for him!

It made me so warm and fuzzy inside when you told me you had got to know James a lot better when he came back last time. It makes me think back to that time in Togo when we were staying in that weird house in Accra at the start of the whole thing, and you told me you were unsure about him not because you didn’t like him, but that you couldn’t help being protective of me. I get that. But I’m so glad you were finally able to experience how fabulous he is, and how you really can trust him to take good care of me while not taking me away from you and my friends. Well, I guess I am away from you and friends. :(

Did I tell you I have some friends here now? You can probably count them all on one hand, but still, it’s an improvement! James and I had a dinner party last weekend, and I can’t begin to explain how lovely it was. We had over Joe, an old family friend (he was one of the two brothers I was supposed to marry, but he's into boys so there’s a pursuit saved, haha!), and another couple of girls with a boyfriends who were from New Plymouth and are in the theatre world here. 

I didn’t really know them in sweet little NP, but I prefer being able to start afresh and not have to deal with fleeing the remnants of my old self. That's probably why I'm not in contact with many folks from the hometown. It was Easter weekend (well, obviously, you know that part) so we cooked a massive meal for them, and set up an Easter egg hunt around the house for between courses. We had the fire crackling and all sat around with wine on the rug by the fire…

Yeah, that nice big fluffy rug!! I just went and had a lie on it and talked to Kot (who is sad she didn’t get to say goodbye to you) on Skype (which we will have to do)…oh what a nostalgic, heart-aching day! I may talk about how much I enjoy dinner parties with new friends, but nothing can compare to the friendships I had in Moscow. I miss feeling like I’m part of a community. Talking of Moscow, you must have left by now… tell me all about it! How do you feel?

I know feelings are so fickle, but I think sometimes in our distrust of them we can overlook how much wisdom they actually contain. Like, if something doesn’t ‘feel’ right, it probably isn’t right, you know what I mean. Probably more than I do, as you’ve always been far more in tune with yourself and your feelings than I have. How does it feel being back with family? I wish it were as easy as it seems like it should be. On the surface, and to other people, it may look like it would be super easy for someone our age to re-integrate our selves back with our parents, but it’s not exactly an "aaaah, so good to be back" experience. It feels like it takes more effort to be ourselves, the selves we spent the last few years getting to know. I wish you and your lovely parents all the best (I miss them!).

Talking of family, how is Molly? You know, I have always thought of her and care about her. Like you with Aden! Who, I must tell you, is getting on fabulously in Stratford, as much as he can. I love him for the person he is and has become. I love that he catches up with dad all the time. In a book I was reading the other day (which you will like and relate to, it’s called ‘Sister’ by Rosamund Lupton) the older sister realizes that although she had always thought she was being the ‘responsible sibling’ by going off to the US and being the over-achiever, she realizes that her younger sister, an aspiring hippy artist who stayed near her parents, was really the one who was taking on the burden (in a good sense) of their parents. I can see now that it's not intrinsically glamorous to take off into the world. 

It’s funny how so often what society views as ‘success’ can be at odds with familial bonds. It's a great big balancing act, isn't it - happiness, values, community, success...

Anyway, I’ve been rambling. Sorry for talking so much. There’s just not much else I feel like doing today to be honest. I hope you will forgive me for posting this publicly. I know you said to me that I should be totally honest with you and say things I wouldn’t say on my blog, but as I was writing this I realized that this is just what I want to be sharing with people. I want to write honestly, in fact don't really see the point in anything otherwise, yet it's a struggle not to put on a brave face, and you know it. You’ve helped me immensely, in so many ways.

I love you and I miss you,

B.

P.S. Here is a picture I thought you would find funny. I saw it on the wall of a fish n' chip shop. I've been trying to do some push ups every day so this is what I look like!!!