Oh dear… I’ve been tagged. And not in a tagged-and-set-free-into-the-wild kind of way, rather in a way almost akin to a chain letter. Oh, except there are no promises of love, fame or fortune for responding. But then again, butterflies will not die and bad luck will not ensue if I fail in my task. Or so I assume!

I was tagged by a blogger who was herself tagged by someone who had previously been tagged. And so on and so forth. Much ado about tagging I realise. Hee hee!

Here are the rules:
1. post these rules.
2. you must post 11 random things yourself.
3. answer the ques tions the tag ger set for you in their post.
4. cre ate 11 new ques tions for the peo ple you tag to answer.
5. go to their blog and tell them that you’ve tagged them.
6. no stuff in the tag ging
7. don’t talk about the fightclub

I must confess, I don’t quite get No. 6, and I quite possibly added No. 7 myself, but I’m pretty sure I can handle the rest.

So, first for some random things about me (which will be hard, as I’ve shared pretty much every single little thing in my life on this blog, plus I’ve done something similar before!):

1. I did jazz ballet (badly) for about seven years while in primary school
2. I broke my arm aged 8 when standing on a baby’s tricycle to look at my neighbour’s budgerigar in its cage
3. My favourite subjects at high school were maths (of various kinds) and accounting
4. I used to drink instant tea at every meal before I hit my teenage years. Often two cups
5. The first ‘record’ I owned was a single of a song called Elizabeth by Oz artist Normie Rowe (in 1975, I discovered following extensive research – aka Google). The second was ABBA’s Tropical Loveland
6. As a kid we had a boxer dog called Digby, who I named after seeing a Disney movie called, Digby the Biggest Dog in the World. He replaced an ill-fated briefly-owned boxer called Dino (who moved to a farm in the country. Speaking of which, I wonder how he’s going.)
7. I loved Tang (the sugary orange drink, which I think I assumed to be healthy until I learned to count calories)

8. As well as Australia, I’ve lived for some time in Mozambique (Africa), Cambodia and East Timor
9. At one point in my life I wanted to be a sports psychologist
10. I grew up loving movie musicals – anything with Doris Day, Judy Garland, Debbie Reynolds etc
11. My first car (while at Uni, in 1986 or 1987) was a bright yellow Holden Gemini. His name was Bevan.

And now my responses to the questions Karen posed for me:

1.        What is the most memorable meal you ever ate?
It would have to be a (shish) kebab I ate at a favourite cafe while living in Africa. It resulted in the first of four times I contracted salmonella poisoning and the only time I could pinpoint the illness’s origin. As I later writhed about in pain in between dashes to the loo I remembered that I’d come across a kitchen hand in the (waterless) cafe bathroom who was sick (from every orifice) and later I realised I’d chosen something which someone had to thread onto the skewer by hand. BIG MISTAKE! (And one you only make once!)

2.        What TV show(s) are you embarrassed to admit you watch?
As it happens I have impeccable taste in television shows (ahem). Well, mostly. HOWEVER, I must confess to a few ‘tragic’ faves: firstly I used to LOVE ‘Murder She Wrote’, plus the Agatha Christie Ms Marples, with the really old Ms Marple. I own the boxset of ‘As Time Goes By’ starring Judi Dench, along with every season of ‘Buffy’. (I actually own A LOT of boxsets!)

I mostly refuse to watch reality TV shows, though do partake in ‘So You Think You Can Dance’ and watched the last series of ‘The X Factor’ on Oz TV. 

3.        Would you rather hire a trainer, chef, house cleaner, or personal shopper?
Most definitely a house cleaner. And I already do. Next would be a personal shopper cos I hate hate hate shopping of any kind, but particularly grocery shopping.

4.        Share a favorite childhood memory.
In winter during school holidays, my brother and I would watch Sesame Street, Magic Roundabout and Play School (the only kid shows on TV before lunch in regional Australia) wrapped in blankets and eating off little Skippy serving plates that also held a space for our hot drinks. (We normally had to eat at the table!)

5.        What destination would you love to visit?
I’ve always dreamed of going to Italy and hope to soon. (I keep deferring because I’m apathetic, plus don’t want to go while I feel fat and revolting!)

6.        What’s one food you think you don’t like but you’ve never actually tried?
Umm… let me count the ways…. cauliflower, broccoli, eggplant, lettuce (etc)

7.        What modern technology that you didn’t grow up with could you now not live without?
Hmmmm…. computer vs mobile telephone. It’s a big call. Probably the mobile phone because it makes EVERYTHING so much easier. Particularly now we have Smart phones and can do almost anything on it!

8.        List the 5 websites you visit most often.
Facebook, Twitter, Google Reader, Hootsuite, My Fitness Pal

9.        Who would you like to meet (living, dead, fictional character, blogger, anyone…)?
Aussie bloggers Mrs Woog and Kerri Sackville; TV personalities Graham Norton, Craig Ferguson and Chelsea Lately; authors Agatha Christie and Jane Austen. Oh… and some hunky actors like Richard Armitage and… umm…. I should probably stop there.

10.     What’s your favorite spot in your house and why?  Where in your house do you spend the most time?
I love lying in my bathtub reading as it means I’m completely at rest.
But I probably spend equal amounts of time: sitting in my lounge chair in front of the TV; at my desk on my iMac; and sleeping in my dusty pink sheets. (Note that the sheets aren’t actually dusty, that’s the name of the colour… just in case you were wondering!)

11.     How long on average does it take you to write a blog post?
Eek. It very much depends. I write quickly, but then I rewrite and rewrite it to death. More so in my other blog. A first draft takes less than 30 minutes, but I come back to it and edit it a few times, so it’s hard to work out. I also have MANY half-written draft posts floating about at any one time.

So, there you have it. Some stuff about me you really didn’t need or want to know – but now that you do, I’m sure you are relieved and will sleep better at night. Plus, there’ll be a test later!

* Here in Oz (well at least when I was a youngster) the game ‘tag’ was called ‘tiggy’ so I decided I should try to remain true to my cultural heritage. Or something!

Nevertheless I made it there on time (unlike their other 8am client. I know, I know… no need to boast and all that; but, I’m just sayin’…) and settled in for some costly hair therapy.

Now I know my hairdresser isn’t one of the more expensive around. I read the articles and know that those-who-can-afford-it pay exorbitant amounts of money for someone to  play with their hair for an hour or two, but the $255 I pay for a cut and colour, given my hair is 2-3cm  long all over is quite enough thank you very much.

As I go every six weeks, I occasionally ‘do the math’ and contemplate the notion of ‘leaving’ my beloved hairdresser for cheaper pastures. But then I go elsewhere and something scary happens, tears ensue and I go running back to my (obviously-bereft) Ex, all apologetic for my infidelity. She forgives me and we continue to coast along… until the next time.

In case you needed it, here's definitive proof I've not had botox.

Occasionally though, in those moments of infidelity, I’ve discovered places who give good hair. Of course they are usually even more expensive. I’ve luxuriated during lengthy scalp massages, relaxed in vibrating chairs, dined on cafe-prepared food, and lolled about in thick fluffy gown thingies (as if I was at a spa rather than a hair salon).  But none of these were able to permanently tempt me away from my beloved.

My hypothesis goes like this: there’s some median range on a bell curve* (representing the cost of hair appointments) where you get some personalised attention. If you pay too little, you are akin to a can of pineapple on an assembly line and the person affixing the label frankly doesn’t care if they ever see you again. But if you pay too much (unless you are sufficiently famous or important) you are expected to fall at the feet at those wielding the scissors as if before God. Or Lady Gaga. Or similar.

Not 8am Saturday morning. Obviously.

My hairdresser mostly does a good job and despite my occasional waywardness, I continue going there because I know what I’m getting and she loves me (and why wouldn’t she?!). Like the bar in television’s Cheers, everyone knows my name (well… she does, as does the poor trainee responsible for washing my hair and massaging my scalp).  Given my over-sharing habit, my hairdresser has been (undoubtedly) a most-willing confidante over the past ten or so years. And she remembers the important things. She knows I like wine or champagne if I have an evening appointment. She knows I prefer WHO Weekly magazines to Vogue. And she’s never surprised when I’m sucking down diet coke at 8am and lugging my new laptop so I can tweet and blog while she’s painting my tufts of hair.

I try to think of my visits, less as appointments, but more as little 2-3 hour ‘outings’ involving a lengthy (and delicious) head massage, some salacious gossip and the opportunity to debrief with someone who really only has to give a shit about my life once every six weeks. And all for the princely sum of $255. Priceless.

* My scientific prowess amazes even myself!

I could possibly blame the ungodly hour, as I sat slouched on a hard metal seat at a train platform waiting for a 6am express train to speed me back home after Christmas with my mother. Or I could blame the trauma of having my early morning diet coke spill throughout my satchel thingy and soaking everything in its path, although thankfully only slightly dampening my (brand new) Macbook Air. Either way… I discovered (yet again) on the trip that the internet connection is very hit and miss throughout regional Australia and the inability to pfaff about on Facebook and Twitter while awaiting the train meant that I was forced to entertain myself by examining my fellow train passengers (well, those at the end awaiting the business class carriage!).

And in doing so, I smiled to myself at an older woman nearby clutching her bag, as if one of the other passengers was going to snatch her knitting or Women’s Magazines from her at our first opportunity.

So, it was with some surprise that (once on the train) I watched her delve into the ugly patchwork bag pull out a Kindle, fire it up and start expertly flicking through controls to (presumably) open her latest book. I mean, WTF?! What’s the world coming to when the grey-haired brigade are reading eBooks and playing Suduko on iPads and the like?!

I must confess that I’m a bit behind the times when it comes to online ‘reading’. I’ve raved on a bit about my new Macbook Air; am a ‘mad’ blogger; and rabid user of Facebook and Twitter (etc) on my iPhone… but I’ve only downloaded one book EVER (which was something I won from the delightful, Rebecca Bloomer).

The only other thing I read online (which is even more embarrassing) is the draft fifth instalment  (Midnight Sun) from Twilight author Stephanie Meyer, who released an electronic copy of the first few chapters after they were leaked; and I must say I found it most perplexing that I couldn’t print the bloody thing and had to read the PDF document on-screen!

So as digital literature garners more and more support across the globe, I can’t help but wonder if I’m behind the times when it comes to eBooks and readers and the like.

Although… I must confess, the bigger question is: Do I care?  I mean, I’m obviously not (COMPLETELY) technologically unversed. And I don’t think I am e-Book-phobic; although I’m sure a well-train psychotherapist could uncover a few neuroses through only superficial probing of my psyche! However, I am loath to move away from the tangible hard copy option to something more virtual… and I’ve decided it’s something to do with the comfort that books offer me which I think comes from their physical presence.

Over the years I’ve gone through stages where I’ve purchased many-a-book although I’ve cut down considerably over the past 10 years. After moving back to Australia a decade ago I made the conscious decision to reduce my book-purchasing habit in favour of paying the mortgage! And I’ve been pretty successful; only buying books I really really want; those which are part of a collection; or something a tad crappy but allowable because I’m on holidays. I’ve done two big culls twice on moving, although even then I’m reticent to get rid of things that I really shouldn’t be seen dead with. Just because… well, because… they’re mine.  But don’t get me wrong; I’m not a hoarder, in fact my mother will vouch for the fact that she’s practically forbidden from buying me ‘stuff’ as I like clean surfaces and am a bit of a minimalist in nature.

I am, however, inordinantly anal about my books. My best friend will attest to that fact. I’d trust her with my life but just recently she was staying with me and asked to borrow a book. Because she knows me well, I’m sure she chuckled at the fact I had to take a big swallow before saying, “Yes, of course!” Similarly my mother keeps diligent records of the many books she takes away from, and returns to, my shelves.

I read a lot. Like everything else it’s something I occasionally do quite obsessively racing through a half-a-dozen books a week.

My highly organised and technical borrowing system

I’ve always loved reading and both my brother and I had HUGE collections of everything from Little Golden Books to Trixie Belden to Enid Blyton to the Sweet Dreams teenage romances (well, that would be my collection rather than his). And, even then I was a tad obsessive about my books and I suspect it was more the need to ‘keep them close’ rather than any librarian aspirations that had me set up a borrowing system used by local libraries at the time, for when my neighbour wanted to borrow a book.

Many who favour hard copy books over the electronic versions talk about the smell and texture… but it’s hardly like I’m talking about first editions and leather-bound tomes here (as I glance at my myriad of paperback novels occupying my bookshelves!).

I joke that I do most of my reading while lolling in the bathtub – an environment not exactly conducive to non-water-proof electronic goods.  But, in all honesty, I don’t think that’s what prevents me from downloading the virtual versions.

I think it’s because my books are ‘precious’ to me. Even the crappy ones, as they offer a glimpse into my life.

While at University with short bursts of available time I devoured Agatha Christie and the like. Just after Uni and as a youngster, I liked Patricia Cornwell (before her books really started to piss me off!), Elizabeth George and Thomas Harris. Then in the early 90s there was my spy and espionage phase and I still have almost all of David Morrell’s and Robert Ludlum’s collections (and a few John Le Carre) from that era – which I delve into every so often for something different.

There was a brief foray into Anita Shreve, Jodi Picoult, Alice Hoffman before going through my “Literature-with-a-big-L” phase in the late 90s and early 2000s. And no, I don’t mean Dostoyevsky and Tolstoy. Rather just those books you find on the ‘You Must Read’ lists rather than the Oprah or Women’s Weekly Bookclub list.

And since then it’s been whatever takes my fancy but again I tend to latch onto an author and read everything they’ve written while waiting on their next installment.  I’ve already blogged about a few fetishes, including Jane Austen, Robert B Parker and JD Robb, but there’s also Martha Grimes, John Sandford, Karin Slaughter and the like. I even seem to have accumulated quite a few James Pattersons though I will swear to never having bought any!

SOME of my Golden Books

Books offer me solace in the way certain television shows or movies give me comfort. There are many I’ve read again and again. In fact I can see similarities to my blog reading habit which I was describing to a friend recently. I explained that there are some I read because the content is of interest to me. And then there are others that I read because I just LOVE their writing. They could be writing about anything… I don’t care… I will read it anyway.

Perhaps things will change and I will be ‘turned’ into a lover of the electronic word… or perhaps I will adopt some hybrid of the two whereby I download things I want to read and buy books I want to keep.

However at the moment, having my books in a room upstairs or down the hall gives me a level of comfort I cannot explain. It’s not like I visit them, stroke them, or worship at their altar (*ahem*). But, ask me to part with them and it will be like a little piece of me has died.

“A room without books is like a body without a soul.” ~ Marcus Tullius Cicero

The year for me started with a new job at a slightly higher level, although still in government (ish). Amazingly for the first time in a while I found myself enjoying the place and the people. There was / is a passion and energy and I’ve felt appreciated and respected by those arounds me. It was a feeling I hadn’t experienced for quite some time and it’s made me think more about what I want from a workplace and my colleagues.

Of course, good things never last. My position is a short-term one and due to finish up in February next year. Fortunately I still have a few months, but am already filled with dread at the idea of returning to my former less-than-fulfilling job (which has had to hold my position open for me). I’ve started looking around at other opportunities, but am a tad unsure what I am looking for. On one hand, I have been considering getting back into work of previous years which may (or may not) involve living overseas again. On the other hand, I love my settled life and can’t even motivate myself to travel away on a holiday, let alone move more permanently.

Another positive from 2011 has been that I’ve lost weight. After feeling like I was spiralling out of control, I commenced Michelle Bridges’ 12 Week Body Transformation Program in May. Being the ‘all or nothing’ type of person I am, I mostly embraced the calorie limits and 6 days a week of exercise. I went from doing no exercise, to rejoining a gym and classes for the first time in many years. I ended the program 19kg less than I started, however with still some way to go. Sadly I haven’t fared as well in my second round of the program and am only a few more kilograms lighter. I’m trying to take some positives from the experience – that I’m still exercising and still healthier and certainly 24kg or so lighter than I was earlier this year.

After some building issues, and the impracticality of my current apartment given my father’s ill health I decided to put my tri-level townhouse on the market in May/June of this year. Alas, despite some initial interest it was passed in at auction. But then I had an offer which almost met my asking price and I signed a contract and started stressing about finding a new place to buy. And then…. two weeks before I was due to move (without having found a new place to buy) the sale fell through. In all my place remained on the market for three months.

At the time I withdrew it, I planned to rent it out (the rental market being far healthier than the rest of the Real Estate market) but factors conspired to prevent me from my plan of buying something new to live in and renting my current place. The idea of two mortgages resting on my shoulders wasn’t too overwhelming, despite my aversion to financial risk, but my indecisiveness, family issues and lack of clarity around my work future meant that the plans have been put on hold for some time. I must admit, I cannot understate how stressful it was, having to keep one’s apartment clutter-free and spotless for three months; and spending four months of visiting Open Houses EVERY Saturday.

I don’t talk about my personal life a lot in this blog, but figure no annual recap is complete without this one… My dreams of having a family were quashed in 2011. Having tried to conceive a couple of years ago (through assisted means, given my single status), I discovered early this year that the IVF route I’d embarked on had minimal (almost no) chance of success. It was a fairly traumatic time, as I was (am) 43 years old and had always assumed I’d have a child/children of my own one day. Of course I also assumed I’d meet the man of my dreams and we’d live happily ever after, but that hasn’t happened either. (Bugger those childhood fairytales for setting up false expectations!) I’m still trying to reconcile what this means to me, for me and for my life. As others around me achieve their own dreams of partners and families it’s increasing hard not to feel bitter and twisted that karma hasn’t bestowed on me, something that is taken for granted by so many. (And there endeth the lesson in self-pity!)

Dad & I (in 1968)

Finally, after a long (but brief!) illness my father passed away about two months ago. I’ve written about him before in this blog: his heart transplant (11 years ago this month); his dementia; and his love and passion for his family and friends. I’ve always been close to my father and it’s always felt as if we had a special relationship, but perhaps that’s just a father-daughter thing. Over recent years he’d become a very different person to the father I grew up with. Once, he was larger than life. His personality filled rooms. He was a joker, a tease and often, a big kid. But he did things passionately and with strong morals: I was only allowed to learn to play solitaire as a child once I promised I would never cheat.

He was quick to become angry, but was also sentimental and steadfastly protective and loyal. In his later years he joked less, he teased rarely. He willingly became the follower, not the leader. He was passive and apologetic. My mother said he’d become increasingly affectionate and constantly declared to her, his love and devotion, wondering aloud, how on earth he’d been so lucky to have snared his beautiful bride some 48 years before.

I was in my hometown when he was first hospitalised, six weeks before his passing. He was in great pain and I watched as my mother gently comforted him and kissed the hurt away. She had often become frustrated by his lack of short term memory and I know she felt guilty for this, but her compassion and her own love and devotion to him towards the end, was so evident I often had to look away lest they see my tears – at a stage before we knew tears were inevitable. She sat devotedly by his bed hour after hour, day after day, week after week.

Once he was moved into palliative care for the last week and a half of his life he started slipping away from us. Day by day he faded away. Before our very eyes. Mercifully he didn’t know what was happening and didn’t wake for the last six days. Although he had no food or water during those days, he kept breathing. Just. “He just doesn’t want to leave you,” the nurses would tell my mother. As his final days drew closer my mother said to me, “This is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.” She was with him at the end, just before midnight and heard him take his last breath.

A friend left a comment for me via Twitter, about the loss of her own father, “It left a hole in the universe,” she said. I couldn’t put it better.

People suffer through far worse things than I have this year. People live through trauma, devastation and tragedy every day. Some people never experience the highs, just the lows. But after I look back on the year that was, I can’t help but quote HRH, Queen Elizabeth II, in her 1992 wrap-up. I realise there could be worse to come, but despite the occasional highs, 2011 was MY annus horribilis.

Merry Christmas and happy holidays to all; and I hope that 2012 is a great one for all of us!

I’ve written about it before, so I won’t go over the detail, but essentially 11 years ago at sometime around 9pm (on the 10th of December) my father rang my mother where she (and I) were staying at my brother’s. His news was both amazing and shocking. He was calling from his hospital bed to tell us that they’d located a donor heart for him. It was the start of a tumultuous night, day, week, month and year. At the time and for the years that followed we rejoiced in his revival, but also acknowledged someone else’s sacrifice. In fact, my father found it almost impossible to speak of his donor; overcome with gratitude, questions of worthiness and constantly reminded of the fragility of life.

There were the obligatory downsides… after all, nothing in life comes without a price tag – not even life itself. There were no deals with the devil, but there were other challenges – all of which I like to think we faced together, but most importantly my father faced them head-on with his wife of (at that stage) almost 40 years.

My father passed away almost exactly six weeks ago. I still can’t think of him being ‘gone’. But I think of him often.

This past year was the first that my brother and I also attended the annual Thanksgiving ceremony for donor families and recipients. My parents go every year, but this year they were visiting us so we all went to the service in our capital city. Other than the day before my father’s passing it is probably one of the single most devastating events I can remember. The collective sadness, graciousness and gratefulness in the room that day will stay with me. Forever.

This time 11 years ago someone else’s family was suffering a great tragedy. But… because of their generosity I had my father for an extra quarter of my life. And that – I have to say – is priceless. Whoever you are and whoever you were…. I cannot thank you enough.

To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die. Thomas Campbell

http://www.donatelife.gov.au/

Of course the local Council must divvy them out in some orderly fashion across its 30-odd libraries so there aren’t multiple copies in one location and so nearby library collections complement each other. Sometimes I get to my local library and there’s nothing that jumps out at me, and other times I’m overwhelmed by the dearth of options before me. The Saturday before last was one such day as I found three new releases and one other book I wanted to borrow.

I now only have one thing to say: FAMOUS LAST WORDS! Because…. as it happened, life intervened and I ended up running out of time to get my books read. Ahhh… the value of hindsight!

I must confess to having started the week’s reading with the latest JD Robb. I know, I know… it’s hardly literature with a capital L, but I love me some future world crime solving…. And – despite other things on my agenda (including a ballet concert and visiting mother), I’d easily read the first book over the weekend.

Robb out of the way, I’d prioritised the remainder of my books as I was particularly looking forward to the latest PD James. It’d been a while since I’d read one of her books, so when I saw it on the shelves I grabbed it eagerly. It wasn’t until I got home that I read the back cover and I was almost overcome with excitement…. THE NOVEL WAS BASED ON THE CHARACTERS FROM PRIDE AND PREJUDICE! OMFG!

I think I’ve confessed my love of the BBC miniseries (and NOT just because of Colin Firth!) on a number of occasions. In fact, I almost knew the Pride and Prejudice (P&P) screenplay by heart by the time I actually read the complete works of Jane Austen, and was surprised at how much I loved all of her work.

So, the notion of a crime writer (who I quite like) intersecting with some of my favourite characters was too too good to be true. (Again… one word – hindsight!)

It was halfway through the week before I had time to gingerly open the book, expectations high. And it started off okay. In fact, I thought the first few pages provided a pretty good summary of P&P, although as the CliffsNotes version continued I started getting increasingly frustrated. There were many quotes and lines taken directly from P&P (knowing it off by heart as I do!), which felt a bit overly obvious and clumsy to me.

But I hung in there… after all, I was waiting for the story to begin. I knew from the dust cover that it was set at Pemberley – where P&P devotees would be aware, our hero and heroine (Mr Darcy and Lizzie) were to settle after their wedding. I also knew that it centred around a murder, which the dastardly Mr Wickham is accused of committing (couldn’t happen to a nicer bloke, I’m sure!).

But drama and mystery writing aside, I was looking forward to meeting our beloved characters six years after the weddings that ended P&P.

And I found myself thoroughly disappointed.

From www.faber.co.uk

Although it is (slightly) implied that Lizzie’s affection for Mr Darcy grew after seeing his Pemberley Estate (in P&P), I suspect, the romantics among us believed that his subsequent behaviour and gallantry won her over. But Ms (Baroness?) James’s Lizzie all-but confesses that she would not have married a poor man (although of course, Lizzie scoffed at the notion of ‘not marrying for love’ in an early scene in Austen’s P&P); and where I was expecting passion and intimate banter between Lizzie and Darcy, there only seemed to be a distant mutual respect.

Perhaps I expected too much. I wanted my P&P characters and – although Ms James captured most their voices – it was the two central characters of Lizzie and Darcy that disappointed me.

Perhaps if I’d had more time to continue reading, the book and its characters might have grown on me. I’m not sure. But I don’t think I’ll go back for seconds, as I’d prefer to keep my favourite literary characters in my mind as sketched by Ms Austen, rather than Ms James.

This morning I opened one of the news’ sites and scanned down the page. My eyes immediately went to a photograph of an incredibly handsome man. “‘Cor blimey,” I thought. Well, I would have if I was English. Instead I thought, “Phwoar!”

And then I got to the headline under the story and, rather than be relieved the gorgeous man in question was about my age, I was saddened to see that – despite his good looks, fame, fortune and family, he had – in fact – apparently committed suicide.

His country is shocked. “He had everything,” said one of his colleagues and friends.

I’d never heard of this person before. I’d never seen his picture. I know or knew nothing about him: just that I looked at a photograph and thought he was one of the sexiest, most beautiful men I’d seen. In a while. And despite that…. he’s gone.

Although I want to make a joke about him missing out on my fleeting obsession with his masculine good looks, it’s obviously no joking matter. It appears he was – at least for long enough to follow through on his actions – so unhappy with his life (or despondent about his future) that he only saw one way out.

Just a week or so ago a trainer from the UK Biggest Loser also apparently took her own life. Again – from the outside looking in – those of us yearning for a better body and good looks would wonder why on earth someone who we think ‘had it all’ would be desperate enough to take such action.

We really only ever hear about the celebrities and actors who take their own lives. Not about Fred Smith from down the road, who’d been battling with his own demons for years. We don’t see his friends and neighbours on television shaking their heads in disbelief and wondering what signs they missed, or how someone… who seemingly had so much, could think they had so little.

We don’t know what goes on in people’s lives. Behind closed doors. Or in their minds. We can’t walk in others’ shoes. But what we can do is play a role in not stigmatising mental illness and depression; and in not judging those who seek help. We can encourage friends, family and colleagues to seek help if needed and offer a sympathetic and understanding ear.

We can ensure our family and loved ones know we love them ‘no matter what’ and we can probably even stop idolising and envying those we believe ‘have it all’, as it seems that no one does. Not really.

That is all.

Bizarrely I didn’t drink while at college (yes, I’ve certainly made up for it in the ensuing 20ish years!) so I was never in need of the ‘recovery’ but hung out there with friends nonetheless.

Today I participated in a recovery of a different kind…. well, sort of.

My mother is currently back in Brisbane for a long weekend in honour of my niece’s end-of-year ballet concert today. She’s actually staying with my brother, sister-in-law and niece for a few nights – given that she recently had over a month with me here; and the fact that they jet off to the US next week and will be away for Christmas. But… I was blessed to have her company last night and some of today. Naturally I had many-an-exciting activity planned.

Umm… no, actually that isn’t true. We had dinner down the road at a semi fast food place last night and today (after she attended church) we breakfasted at Cinema Cafe in Oxford Street at nearby Bulimba; which is where she and I brunched five or six weeks ago. It’s strange to think it was so long ago, because it seems like yesterday. But it wasn’t. Sadly.

Action photo of my plate from brunch today

At the time mum was staying with me while my father was in hospital (initially) and then palliative care, for just over a month in total. My mother spent all day by his bedside, but on weekends my brother and I forced her to take half-days off while we sat with him instead. Just over a week before dad passed away, my brother did a morning shift and my mother and I went to Bulimba for breakfast. It was delicious and it felt decadent. Neither of us had done anything remotely ‘frivolous’ for several weeks and taking time to dine out felt a bit strange. And also liberating.

As a coeliac I was excited by the most-delicious gluten-free bread I can remember having. (I did ask where they get it – thinking I could visit their baker – but sadly it is made for them specially!) 

And today we returned to the scene of the crime. I’m not saying it was cathartic and we are ‘all better’ for having done it, but we did talk and reminisce a bit about our last visit and about dad. The most important thing, mum said, was not to think about the last six weeks of his life as he faded away from us, but to think of his preceding seventy years, over forty of which we were privy to.

We’ll have many ‘firsts’ ahead of us: first Christmas without dad; New Year; birthday(s); Father’s Day; anniversary of his passing. And so forth. So, while I cannot think of him ‘being gone’ I will continue to try to think of him ‘having been here’.

I’m starting to realise it doesn’t happen that way.

It’s almost exactly four weeks since my father passed away. I’m still having problems with the ‘d’ word and – in all honesty – it’s still not very real…. but it hits me when I least expect it.

I had a pretty big meltdown last Monday as I caught the train to my workplace. It came from nowhere. One minute I was sending a self-satisfied tweet about the fact I’d risen early and completed that day’s blog post, and next minute I’m a sobbing mess on the train, doomed to wiping my tear-soaked and snotty face with a t-shirt I was to wear to a lunchtime gym class. Once at work I calmed down. But the melancholy stayed with me.

I’d been slowly slipping deeper into a hole since the previous morning when I went to a bootcamp at the ungodly hour of 6.30am (yes, on a Sunday!). It’s a class I go to infrequently and I hadn’t been for a couple of months. It was just after 6am that I drove through the relatively new (toll-controlled) tunnel which costs a hefty sum if used regularly, but which shortens the journey considerably. Of late I’ve used the tunnel but rarely, but this time last year I was a relatively regular user.

In November last year my father was diagnosed with a particularly aggressive form of cancer, Merkel Cell Carcinoma, which attacks those with compromised immune systems. My father, as a heart transplant recipient on immune-suppressant drugs had been plagued by skin cancers since his transplant, despite diligently avoiding the sun. Treatment involved 25 separate sessions of radiotherapy delivered over a five week period – which spread across November and December last year. Fortunately both my brother and I live in our State’s capital city and my parents alternated between our places; with dad’s treatments in the evenings, so we were able to drive them to each appointment.

My father’s dementia meant that each trip was a first for him. So, on my weeks, each night as I drove him through the then-even-newer tunnel his comments were the same. He was surprised at its length. Then he would wonder how much it must have cost to construct. And, just before we passed through the automatic toll sensor, mum and I would prepare him for the beep of electronic tag indicating I’d been charged for the trip.

Last Sunday, as I entered the tunnel my mind immediately flashed back one year. I could hear dad’s comments coming from the seat next to me. I could recite them word by word. The shock was such that I almost had to turn around and go home. I had to blink away the tears to see the road and I felt numb with sudden grief.

Later that day my mother called. We’d already had a conversation about the fact that I needed to change the contact details on my mobile phone from ‘Mum & Dad’, to ‘Mum’. But it felt wrong. It felt too soon to be erasing him from my life like that…. the man who’d raised and loved me for over 40 years. But, as the phone rang and I looked to see who the caller was, for the first time the ‘Mum & Dad’ was too confronting. Although I’d initially resisted the change, I realised that it was becoming increasingly shocking each time I saw the name(s) appear.

My mother and I have talked A LOT about our grief; what we’ve experienced to date, what we expect to experience, as well as what others expect us to experience. When I first returned to work a week and a half after dad’s passing and just a few days after the funeral, many asked me if I thought it was too early to be back there. “Was it?” I wondered. Was I not honouring his memory enough by not staying away longer? Was my devotion not sufficiently evident enough to others?

Those who know me well, know we were close; my father and I – throughout my childhood (as my mother and I clashed more then, as Freud predicted), but later my mother, my father AND I. I have to confess that when I was younger, I sometimes looked upon adults’ over-closeness to their parents with some disdain or pity. “Losers!” I would think. And yet that’s been me. I suspect some of my continued dependence on them (for my emotional support) comes because I don’t have a partner or family of my own. No one has usurped their place in my heart, or in my world… which is what often happens once someone partners up and has their own family. With only two children and one grandchild and a lot of love to give, my parents have most certainly remained devoted to my brother, his wife, my niece and I.

But… prone to over-analysis, I have pondered on my thoughts and feelings over the last month. I know there are resources out there. I could read about the stages of grief; or how to deal with it. But – at the moment, anyway – I’d prefer to just live it. My mother has been ‘keeping busy’ and completed a plethora of tasks rather than wallow. I have mostly avoided thinking too much about ‘the event’ at all. Living three hours away from my hometown probably helps feed my denial. Sadly my mother doesn’t have that luxury as she is (I suspect) both comforted and haunted by 48yrs of memories as she passes through each room of the house they shared.

A couple of weeks after dad’s passing it occurred to me that I had cried a lot more for him before his passing than after. It was hard to watch as he faded away mentally and physically over the last couple of weeks of his life, but at the same time I found myself more and more compelled to be there. At the end.

I couldn’t stop stroking his face as his cheekbones became more and more prominent and experienced shocked at his appearance each time I left the room and returned – as if seeing his fading body anew. In the last few days my mother, brother and I sat beside his bed listening to his breathing. There were long gaps and we would count the seconds. After reaching 20 or so, we’d catch each others’ eyes in fear and uncertainty, just as he’d take another gasp. We didn’t know how his story would finish. Just that it would.

In the week or two after his passing, the notion that I would never stroke his face again, something I’d probably never done before he’d lay waiting in his hospital bed, was one of those thoughts too painful to consider and needing to be pushed out of my mind as soon as it entered.

Last night I was sorting through electronic files on my computer. And there he was. Photographs from years gone by and some from just a few months ago. Again I was struck by how little I’ve really considered his passing. I realised I expected to see him again. Sometime soon. Suddenly the notion that I was never going to see him again hit me. Fuck! It didn’t seem possible. It didn’t seem right.

I try hard not to think about what dad was, or wasn’t aware of in his final week or so, or of what came (comes) next. I won’t say his passing was futile, because he lived a long and fulfilling life and was loved and liked by many. But it just seems wrong that he won’t play any further role on this earth and it doesn’t seem right that the world continues without him.

It just seems wrong that he will never again call me Snugs and ask me the same questions – again and again. It just seems wrong. For him and for those of us he left behind.