The beautiful Danielle of Keeping up with the Holsbys sent me an email, notifying me that we were the lucky winners of four tickets to Erth’s Dinosaur Zoo at the Riverside Theatre, Parramatta. My daughter thought of inviting her young friend, Ben. He had a nasty fall at the playground and broke his arm so badly that he needed immediate surgery. She considered that it would be his bravery award. The Riverside Theatre is in a glorious spot in Parramatta, the lights from the theatre twinkling in the river, like water sprites beckoning to you. Erths Dinosaur Zoo was an amazing show, and the kids roared with laughter and gasped in amazement at the dinosaur’s they saw. The babies were so cute!
Photo by Jeni NagyPhoto by Jeni Nagy
It was an interactive experience and the children engaged with the lifelike puppets. One brave kid even agreed to put her head in a dinosaur’s mouth! A huge thankyou to Danielle and the Riverside Theatre for gifting us the tickets. I don’t know who had the most fun, the kids or mums! There are some fantastic productions coming up at The Riverside Theatre. Click on the link to see their website, and pay a visit to Keeping Up with the Holsbys for honest, entertaining and heart-rending content. Winning a competition shakes up your world a bit. There you are, ensconced in the everyday minutiae of living, and a lovely surprise lands at your door. It is a reminder that life can be thrilling indeed.
So many emotions swirl around when you discover you need IVF. You go in search of your tribe, uncovering a plethora of online support. I want to address what happens when-after a truckload of heartache- you fall pregnant. The IVF clinic were my family. I clung to them, and saw them most days. I knew all the staff’s names, and it was familiar and secure, this place of dreams. They celebrated along with me upon my positive pregnancy test. I had one follicle. It was a miracle. Upon discovering that my baby’s heart was beating soundly and I didn’t indeed have a chemical pregnancy, I was released. What the? I am not ready! I was sent off to find an obstetrician, to join the ranks of the fertile I had previously avoided and feared. I had been turfed out of my nest.
I found the same online. I was ever-aware that my friends were struggling, and pondered on breaking my news. Everyone was most joyful, but I knew I didnt have a place on the IVF boards anymore. Interestingly, being on the post-IVF boards was painful too. There were ladies falling pregnant again naturally, with their second and third children. I didnt feel like I belonged nor identified with the group gathered for the pregnancy classes at the local hospital either. They had all travelled extensively and then decided to fall pregnant. In my world, that wasn’t an option. I felt intimidated to be around couples who had timed their lives. When they complained about their pregnancies I felt indignant.
I didn’t belong anywhere in pregnancy. I lost contact with those still going through the process, just as those who had fallen pregnant whilst I was undergoing IVF were lost to me. It is such a painful journey, and whilst you rejoice in another’s success, it is a reminder of your grief. In my mother’s group post-birth, I didn’t feel as though I belonged either, especially when they went on to have other babies. I was in and out of hospital having surgery and tests, praying to have a second child. They were lost to me too.
Oh man, the injections and nasal sprays, pills and procedures, egg pickup and embryo transfers, the two week wait, who could I share this with? Only those who have been to this precipice to insanity could understand. Our bond is so strong that a woman I had never met in person called around upon hearing that I had endured more endometriosis surgery in the hopes of having a second child. She came armed with flowers, a meal and a huge hug for my daughter. There are another set of mothers out there, who have been through IVF and had to leave that world, though don’t fit in with mothers who conceived naturally. I am proud to be amongst their ranks. This journey isn’t for the faint-hearted.
So, my friend and I went to Vivid last Saturday night at Circular Quay. She is hysterically funny in that dry, laconic Australian way. I texted that my daughter and I were in the loos and wouldn’t be long. She said she would meet us there. I waited and waited and when she didn’t show, it dawned on me that perhaps she was at the facilities at the other end of the Quay. She was! We hugged, comfortable in our embrace as we are both under 5 feet tall. I gave her a birthday gift, which included size 5 (tiny), sparkly slippers. We walked around to the Opera House whilst it was still light and plonked down on the steps. Her daughter and mine got restless, so her husband offered to take them for a walk. We began a two hour chat full of enlightened dribble about my making a fortune off an upcoming YouTube channel featuring my guinea pigs, my filming her Tina Turner impersonation, and becoming her manager, and bursting into musicals whenever we heard key words.
Dusk was coming and the children and her husband still hadn’t returned. “I hope he hasn’t had a hypo,” she remarked. “Shit!” He is a diabetic and could well be disorientated. Fortunately, he sauntered over with the kids, and we went in search of food. We walked to The Rocks, and selected good, nutritious food from the market stalls, whilst the girls demanded pretzels. Us ladies all went to the loo, and took selfie’s (as you do).
My friend laughed, “we are here to see Vivid, this light festival… We haven’t seen a thing in three hours!” I laughed too, and said that when we get together, we have so much fun talking rubbish, laughing and taking bathroom selfie’s that we forget what we are there for.
She showed me these mints and I am now hankering after the tin.
We saw the MCA and Opera House Lights, and walked around to Customs House, where I captured this.
Our two IVF miracles adore each other, and were happy climbing trees and being together.
Thousands of people were trying to get through Circular Quay by 8pm. Someone sneezed and one of our tribe called out “bless you!” “Thankyou!” came the response alongside thousands of people laughing and smiling at the exchange. My friend’s husband needed something sweet to raise his blood sugar, and so he and the kids had ice cream. We saw hardly anything, but a festival is about the bringing together of people. That is what a ‘happening’ is. This is what Saturday night was.
Sugar… The issue is close to my heart. I watched my beloved Grandmother endure the horror diabetes inflicted on her. Her legs were eventually amputated. I was a healthy vegetarian when I fell pregnant, and I was then diagnosed with gestational diabetes. My endocrinologist and dietician looked at my food and exercise diary and could find nothing amiss, nothing that needed changing. I wanted to do the right thing for my baby so dutifully injected insulin and walked several kilometres after each meal. Diabetes runs in my family, so genetically, the gun was loaded. I have a little girl in love with sugar (as most kids are), and I was excited at showing her this movie. She had to see it for herself, rather than through a series of lectures. I am aware that if I become too much of a sugar-free officer, she will rebel, and gorge when I am not around. Everything in moderation.
That Sugar Film
Damon Gameau is the hero of That Sugar Film. He ate only (supposedly), healthier choices throughout his experiment. His weight shot up, he was well on his way to cirhoisis of the liver, heart disease and type 2 diabetes. Interestingly, his calorie intake remained the same, as did his level of exercise. The only point of difference was his sugar intake. We saw a young American man with all his teeth rotted from drinking ‘pop.’ Images that remain. My daughter ate an apple as a snack today and has not asked for anything sugary. I resent sugar’s inclusion in almost all processed foods. How can you have control over how much you are ingesting?
When I had gestational diabetes, I had to stop eating out. I would select the healthiest option on the menu, such as steamed veggies, only to have my sugar levels go through the roof. The dressings and seasonings they coated the meal in were often to blame. I make most meals from scratch in our place, and we have a big box of seasonal locally -grown produce delivered each week. My supermarket bills have gone down as a result. The film was an eye-opener as is the accompanying book. My daughter will still ask for fairy bread and donuts, but she knows she can’t live on them. The movie inspires critical thinking, and as a result, I owe Damon a debt of gratitude.
A group of home schoolers met up at The Opera Centre in Surry Hills this past week. I admired opera, though my knowledge was pretty basic. I have learnt that it isn’t really an elite art, as previously thought. It is a complex mix of drama and music, and expensive to stage. I was excited about taking my daughter to her first opera, Cinderella. Based on a score by Rossini, it had been condensed to suit children. The audience was enthralled throughout. We went to a nearby park for lunch, and I was welcomed into my new school family. Each parent had a back story as to why they started home schooling, and all were inspiring.
Afterward, we went on a tour of the Opera Centre. It brought to life the passion and dedication of everyone from the seamstresses to the design team. I can see why it’s expensive to bring to life!
Each wig takes a week to make. Every hair is hand-stitched.
The books for the shelves are ultra-light!Model for a production
Props for AidaOkay, not just children!
The children were allowed to try on some of the magnificent costumes, which was a real treat!
I am in awe of the opera singers. Their dedication to their craft is amazing. It takes vision to bring a production to life, much like individual dreams. An idea becomes a sketch, becomes a model and then a set. My daughter loves singing, and has uncovered a new way of trilling. I love that she was introduced to the many ways you can be involved in theatre. The world is yours, kid.
A woman with auburn hair was walking in front of me. She was holding the hand of a little boy. For a moment, I thought it was you… I kept seeing you everywhere. In the shops, in the park. You can’t be gone! The horrible realization struck me afresh.
You should be living in Balmain with your boys, your heart condition carefully monitored. I should be preparing to meet up with you, to share a meal for your birthday. The tears came as I sat in the park. Grief absolutely flattens you, like a tidal wave. It was a physical pain, so much so that I felt winded. What sets it off on any given day is a mystery. I went from weeping to laughter when I recalled you telling me about a party your eldest had attended. He was going to a religious preschool at five, and upon seeing the procession of fairies alighting from cars outside the venue, he hollered, “oh no! Not another #$%^&*# fairy party!” You were aghast, as all the mums heard him, though laughed uncontrollably on the retelling. Wiping my eyes, I went to get my daughter.
I was bemused to receive her worksheets. She had felt sorry for Dr Karl, as he didn’t have much hair, so she thought she would style him. She asked a lot of questions about guinea pigs which he answered concisely. When I asked why she had focused on guinea’s, she replied huffily, “they are a biology topic!” I took her for lemon gelato, and then she climbed trees in the main street.
We went home, and I received a message from Serena’s mum. She had sourced a Japanese Cherry tree. It became extinct in Japan and one specimen was found in an English garden in West Sussex. It was propagated from that tree (many more are now back in Japan due to this one specimen). Serena’s family were going to plant it tonight, and scatter her ashes around it. Serena was a world citizen and ardent traveller. She would have loved this. I looked through old photos, and lit a candle for my friend.
You said in your school yearbook that you wanted to be remembered for as long as possible. Oh darling, you shall be. Until we meet again, happy birthday Serena. I hope you can hear me sing to you.
The 15th May was your birthday, Serena. You would have turned 41. This time last year, I was wrapping your gift, and my daughter was writing in your 40th birthday card. Tonight, we were getting ready to take you out for dinner with the kids. There was no indication that you were sick at all. Six months later, you were gone. I wish I had told you how much I loved you, how valued you were. I hope you knew. What would we do differently if we had known? I was grateful that my daughter had a science workshop. It meant getting up early, and taking a train and bus to Balmain. It meant escaping.
We had breakfast in a dear little café.
I had wilted spinach and mushrooms on sourdough bread. It was spectacular. Serena, you loved Balmain. You loved the city. I took my daughter to her workshop, run by a wondrous educator called Luisa. Dr Karl Kruszelnicki was going to answer the kid’s pressing questions. My daughter gave me this look, as she ushered me out.
“You can go, mum!”
I was left to wander the streets of Rozelle and Balmain. It is such a happy place, filled with beloved dogs, families, musicians and art. When I was eighteen, I lived here, in an old stable. I lived close to the wharf, and remembered my first home fondly. There I was, living in a stable, and my landlord was named Moses. I wondered what it was like now? I walked down Darling St, until I came to the series of stables.
My former home.A beautiful idea for the base of a tree in Rozelle.
I moved one cold winter night into Balmain, and our neighbours greeted me the next morning with coffee and toast. They leant me furniture, and were so very thoughtful. I shuddered when I thought of the neighbour who had died after I moved out. She had been sitting up in bed, playing a computer game, when a person unknown had shot her through the window. I was devastated when I learnt of her passing. She had loved Balmain, been there all her life. She was her husband’s sweetheart, and he unabashedly told everyone he met. Grief, there it was again. Sorrow as I looked at the home in front of the stables, where she had lived for twenty years in a quiet street in a leafy suburb. She left a lasting impression with her kindness and warmth. I have told my daughter about you. Another neighbour, Sid, had hidden about ten wild cats in his stable, despite the fact we weren’t allowed pets. He gave me a television set he had fixed up because I was kind to his felines.
I wondered why I had ever left this gorgeous place. It still feels like home. I was uncovering parts of myself when I lived here, my fingernails cracked and dirty after digging through shattered fragments of my psyche. I remembered when I sat in the park, elated, after having gone to the shops by myself. It was a very big deal. Living in this little village had made me brave. I walked for hours, up and down Darling St, and through laneways groaning with greenery and flowers. I was trying to escape the heaviness in my chest. I knew it was only a matter of time before the heavy clouds released their burden.
We went on a tour of our town’s annual art show. It was a thrill to see the names of friend’s amongst the talented artists. My little girl was buoyant. She has settled into the new regime of home schooling superbly, and her confidence has been lifted. To be able to do things in her own time means so much for a dyslexic kid. The pressure has lifted. She ran in to find me that morning, squealing that we had new baby guinea pigs. We certainly did! Five in all.
They are a bit cute!
Snowball is the father. Here he is munching on a corn cob. He broke into the girl’s hutch, hence the surprise conception!
My little girl, I love hearing you read. I love feeling your joy when you “get” a word. I look forward to seeing what you are going to do in this world. I know guinea pigs, music and art will feature throughout your life, as well as birds and trees! I am delighted that you are coming into your own. You aren’t dyslexic. Rather, you have dyslexia. It is extraordinary how much music and art, compassion and strength can be found in one little girl. I am sad about the times you felt alone, frustrated and exhausted from the dyslexia. I will do everything in my power to make sure that is never the case again. We are able to sound out words, and spell them in a song. If you go to a workshop and are struggling, the teacher lets you use symbols rather than words. It is working.
I was asked to model at a Pink Lipstick function to benefit the excellent Mater Dei School. The clothes were exquisite, from a darling little shop called Sarita’s, A Collective Emporium. I immediately said “yes!” I then freaked out for about five minutes. The usual suspects of intruding thoughts rapped on my head. “Oi you! How very dare you think you can be a model! You are a short old boiler with a limp and cane! Sure, you eat your veggies (we know you are a vegetarian, duh), but you also drink wine, eat chocolate and have a penchant for salt and vinegar chips! How very dare you!” I told the usual suspects to bugger off. I was doing it.
Salt and vinegar chips
My daughter cheered at the rehearsal, enthralled and proud of her mum. If I want to set a good example for her, I have to live it, and not let silly thoughts dampen my life. The day came, and I went to the function centre with a fellow model.
My take on a selfieSharon’s Photography
The Green Room was filled with women of all shapes and ages. They all looked glorious. They were all celebrated. I felt myself tearing up when they walked onto the stage to rapturous applause. I was on three times. I tripped over at first, then got confused and instead of scooting around to the back of the stage, I ended up in the kitchen! Flustered, I eventually found my way. I had my own fan club in the audience, and was met with hollers of “go Raphie!” I didn’t know where to look, so did the model thing of gazing into the distance intently.
It was nerve-wracking, and a great deal of fun combined. I had to get over myself; celebrate who I am and the gorgeous hats, vests and cardigans I had been clothed in. It’s as easy and as hard as that. Nobody was commenting that I had a cheek, being on the stage. The critics weren’t shouting ‘how very dare she!’ So what if they were? It shouldn’t affect me, nor alter my world in the slightest. If I want my daughter to walk with her shoulders back and head raised, I need to lead the way. Even if it means leaving a trail of chips.
I met Serena when my daughter was a year old, and we always did Mothers Day together. When the Mothers Day Classic hit our town four years ago, we walked the track side by side. She was the first to bow her head and reflect when the minute of silence began. She was there last year, and now she is not. I saw her boys yesterday. Oh darling, they are growing up. They are being cared for and loved. I wish you were here. I always felt like I didn’t belong when it came to Mothers Day. Ten years of infertility and no family will do that. You helped me find my place. We would go to a local historical farm after the walk, eating gozleme, patting the horses and watching the kids on the rides. I would hug you and whisper ‘Happy Mothers Day.’ You were a superb mother, tending not only to your own children, but taking a real interest in your school and the kids therein. You were there more than you were at home. I hugged your little boys yesterday, talked to them and looked at pictures of what they have been up to. I still can’t believe you aren’t here. This morning, my little girl ran into the bedroom with gifts, cards and art. Expressions of love. My heart was with you. If I could have given you a piece of my heart so you could be here today, I would have. In a heartbeat.
My daughter’s art workT2 TeaPyjamas
I had my coffee and my little girl and I went to the Mother’s Day Classic. I was expecting to see you, and was bereft when you didn’t show. I kept seeing you everywhere. My beautiful friend Di, is undergoing chemo at the moment, and her little boy is unwell. She so wanted to do the walk this morning. We walked for the pair of you. Two girls from the UK, who made your home in Sydney. Serena, you loved this place more than most Aussies do, and I certainly know Di does. The sunshine means more to you, as does the scenery. You can become jaded when viewing the Opera House and Harbor every week of your life. You become spoilt. We bagged a medal for you both.
Your medal
Afterward, we tried to get into the farm for our traditional lunch, but the crowd was crazy! Instead, we went to a takeaway, and got potato scallops and pineapple fritters covered with cinnamon. Now, I am going to light a candle for you and Di. I will also light a candle for all those separated by death from their children; for those with sick children and those whom are undergoing cancer treatment. For those who are single mums, and those removed from their own. You are all remembered today.
Here’s to mothers, aunts and females. You matter, you always will.
RAPHAELA ANGELOU 