How to embarrass your teenage son...

Okay—back to the pressing question of “Do I take the anti-cancer drug Tamoxifen for the next five years or not?” Yet again one feels very much alone and somewhat abandoned since –well put it this way-- God forbid there could be any CONCENSUS OF OPINION ABOUT TREATMENT WHATSOFUCKING EVER !!. These days I think of doctors like face creams—most are expensive and full of shit. Which one do you trust ? Total crapshoot! As for the insurance companies …not unlike an expensive matchmaking company I checked out a couple of years ago when I first arrived back Stateside (I love that silly expression- so outré but am citizen –can say what I like) from Melbourne. At the urging of a friend I went in for a consultation, lied about my age and worried desperately that I looked old in the nasty sunlight streaming through some dull conference room in a tedious Century City high rise. Point being—they asked way too many personal questions, had countless nosy forms to be filled out, were refusing to guarantee anything AND WERE asking for A TON OF MONEY.

My original oncologist—the one who looks like Morticia with her perfectly groomed long black hair and suits and high heels , has said that I need to start the anti-cancer drug, Tamoxifen. She’s the one who half scared me to death with her dire predictions of what would happen if I did NOT have chemo (and yes, I immediately SIGNED UP for it because I was terrified and my daughter was in the room softly weeping and I knew no better, too panic-struck to do my homework and waste another minute waiting for appointments with other specialists.)
Two months ago she told me to start Tamoxifen right away. She claims that somehow it will reduce the ‘original risk of recurrence’ by 75%. The good oncologist definitely favors the BIG statistics which are confusing and according to Ralph Moss, the famous cancer researcher, misleading and not remotely ‘honest’.
BUT, I try to do my homework these days. I have a friend Carrie, diagnosed just a few months ahead of me, who had a very similar breast cancer profile though she went the radiation route. Before the surgery I call up to see how she’s doing and she tells me that she’s taking not Tamoxifen but a newer drug called Arimidex.
We have the SAME oncologist. So I email the doc asking why she didn’t prescribe Arimidex for me. I wait a few days, email again ---but NOTHING. I have noticed now time and time again that doctors are not very partial to questions asking them about their opinions/actions. TWELVE days later she finally responds to my third email and says she thought she had already responded and promises to check my records. Hmmm. Wildly unacceptable. Two days later she emails that she has phoned through a prescription for Arimidex instead of Tamoxifen. In other words, she had MADE A MISTAKE but HAD NO INTENTION of admitting it or apologizing. Not happy Doc. Even unhappier when I hit Rite Aid the next day to collect my anti depressants. My Arimidex are there too. IF I fork over $320 since I’ve not yet met my Anthem Blue Cross deductible. I tell them “no thanks’.

So I go to see Dr John Glaspy- the oncologist at UCLA.
I had imagined, and hoped, that since he pooh-poohed the chemo when I first met him and inferred that I HAD JUST POISONED MYSELF COMPLETELY UNNECESSARILY with it, he might just say take some DIM (broccoli extract pills that health gurus are very high on) and live your life---but no, I discover that he is a big fan of Arimidex and he says there’s NO question about it – Arimidex is the way to go. And if I’d gone to see him after first discovering cancer, he’d have suggested Arimidex INSTEAD of CHEMOTHERAPY since it’s his firm opinion that it staves off a recurrence far more effectively than chemo and that that is ALL he would have given me. (But I didn’t hear of him till after chemo was over and thus it was too late.)
Yes, he admits, it can cause bad joint pain on account of it squeezes very last drop of estrogen juice out of you---but he says NOT everyone suffers the join pain and you’ll know in about a week. He finishes by saying that I have a 10 % chance THAT THE CANCER WILL RETURN but if I take Arimidex it will be cut in half to 5%. And following the unwritten rule that the longer you wait, the quicker the consult, he’s gone in five minutes.

I now have a 10% chance the cancer will come back? But when I first went to see him for his opinion about surgery, he’d promised that a double mastectomy would reduce my chances of recurrence down to well under 2%. I loved his conviction and his adorable smile. I had been warned and it was a fact. He was Mr Charm and he even seemed to like women. There and then I made the fateful decision to go ahead with the surgery. I even went back with my dear pal Richard and he repeated his opinion once more. Never once mentioning that I would then need to take a strong drug for five years.
So I email and ask why the number has risen from 2% to 10% in just seven months. It takes a couple more reminder emails before he finally realizes I am not letting it go and his response, just a tad patronizing, finally arrives stating that “there is no difference between these two numbers. 2% and 5% are the same number” he insists. Well fine. I get it—they are just statistics. But it has gone from 2% to 10 % according to you--not five, so just stay CONSISTENT for fuck’s sake. CLEARLY, BEING TOLD THE DOUBLE MASTECTOMY would lower recurrence to 2% or less was pretty PERSUASIVE. So again---do me a favor and don’t be so cavalier now. I listened to you—put my trust in you, had the double mastectomy and endured all the crap that followed. Maybe I should have listened to Morticia, skipped the double mastectomy and just opted for radiation.
As I am waiting for his email response, I decide I should seek another opinion and go to see Dr Watson, the gyno/wholistic doctor in Santa Monica, who gave me Vitamin C infusions during chemo and the staph infection phase to build my immune system. She says “Weeeell, Arimidex will rob you of those precious estrogen elements and leave you dry as an old pile of sand up THERE. You could take the DIM”---or, she muses, as if this really might appeal to me –“What about just taking it two or three times a week..? You’ll still be getting a dose but not the full one.”
Excuse me? This seems like odd advice. I’m all for alternative but her complete lack of conviction either way doesn’t strike me as the best way TO FIGHT SOMETHING LIKE CANCER which has defied a CURE from smart folk around the planet for a good SEVENTY or more years.

I mean how does that work? Take it on Tuesdays and Fridays? Or just when I remember to do so? And does it mean that because of my MASSIVE AMBIVALENCE ABOUT ANTI DEPRESSANTS, I should start taking them every third day –or just on high days and holidays?
“NOT HAPPY, DOC! “ I find myself wanting to scream from the rooftops, a la William Holden in “Network…”NOT HAPPY!!”

Now this ‘due diligence’ all took place BEFORE my surgery on March 11.

About five days after the surgery I’m still wondering what to do and decide it’s time to go higher up on the alternative chain so I visit Dr Charney, my lovely naturopathic/muscle testing doc on Robertson says “OH NO…let’s do a Complete Hormone test this week to see where your levels are and then we can determine how to proceed and if you do take the Arimidex (which she is open to) then at least we can see what EFFECT IT IS actually having on your estrogen levels”…Makes sense to me.
And I have faith in her. Not only is she incredibly informed and able to explain cancer and its progression well but she was testing Vitamin D levels – all the rage now- and giving it to people four years ago—as was Dr Watson—so basically you can assume they ‘re about four years ahead of the curve and in a few years even oncologists will be doing Complete Hormone Level Tests to get a sophisticated and accurate level before proceeding with drugs that can leave you with brittle bones, osteoporosis and a dried-up fanny.
A word of warning –Do NOT bother to check the Arimidex website. Firstly it will SCARE THE SHIT OUT OF YOU with its list of about 900 side effects---everything from bone loss and joint pain to depression, weight gain, blurred vision, nausea, chest pain, swelling, insomnia, nausea, racing heartbeat and yet MORE hair changes. Whoopty doo---MORE hair changes.

This dull big Pharma website then proceeds to treat we cancer folk who’ll be helping ASTRA ZENECA get RICHER and RICHER (they’ve made well over two billion bucks so far)as if we’re sub-human simpletons and under the heading “HOW TO COPE WITH BONE LOSS” suggests that we ‘consult with a doctor before starting a regimen of walking.’ You got it! I would never take a stroll without consulting the medical profession first.
It gets better. If you’re suffering from WEAKNESS OR FATIGUE, they confide that you might want to try the very novel concept of eating nutritious meals, plenty of water, and restoring your concentration with a little gardening!!
No, no. That’s not all !! They then generously share yet more nuggets of riveting, life-changing information. Here’s one. Wait for it…..It suggests that when the drug’s side effects have left you wimpering with exhaustion, barely able to move a muscle, you should try to ‘PACE YOURSELF.’ And if that doesn’t do the trick, and you’re still unable to get out of bed or think straight–then their cunning plan is to either ‘ask friends for help’ or ‘RESCHEDULE YOUR ACTIVITIES’.

They stop short of suggesting that perhaps the NEGATIVE side effects of the meds are perhaps outweighing any benefits and that you might try to STOP taking them!! FUCKING BIG PHARMA FUCKS.
Oh no wait, I’m sorry. They do take pains to say that if you’re unlucky enough to have NO health insurance to help pay the $400 for the 30 pills you’ll need each month, you can try to contact them to ask for financial help. Good luck with that.
So I take the pee test for the complete hormone profile and send it off and the plan is that we will wait for the results Dr Charney and I will CALMLY decide TOGETHER if I should take this cancer drug or not. Yes, good to have a plan.
And yet ..and yet…like the best-laid plans, it’s doomed. . Two or three nights later I wake up with serious pain in the middle of my back. I’m not imagining it. Three Advil have no effect. Two hours later I take a Vicodin. The pain continues and then I lie there, silently weeping. I know what’s happened. I am convinced of it and the idea that I won’t see my daughter’s children or be there for my darling fatherless son is just excruciatingly upsetting.
For a start, because of all the surgeries, I realize that about 6 months have been wasted when I could HAVE been taking the Arimidex. Re-reading Astra Zeneca’s Website for Halfwits again the next morning, just confirms my fear…
“During surgery, doctors try to remove as much cancer as possible. Still, it is possible that some cancer cells may remain in your body and could continue to multiply. Recurrence is the term used to describe the return of cancer following primary treatment (for example, surgery), either in the same place as the original tumor or somewhere else in the body.”

… Basic, simplistic stuff---but for anyone who has been diagnosed with cancer, they are HORRIFYING WORDS….I decide it’s a good bet I’ve given some of those stray cancer cells a REAL BREAK by not being on the drug and that WITHOUT A SHADOW OF A DOUBT, it’s growing up a storm. As soon as I get home from dropping the teen at school, I email Dr Glaspy and simply say “I‘ve had a lot of back pain and am worried I may have bone cancer.”
I’m relieved to report that this email attracts a very speedy response and just two days later I’m at UCLA having a full body scan.
Tightly swaddled in sheets to stay warm, even my feet are taped together so they don’t move at ALL. The full horror of thrusting myself into this alien universe where only dangerous rays-killers in themselves- can detect the dreaded bone cancer hits home and any moment one expects some scary drugged-up Dick Cheney look-alike radiologist to appear who will absent-mindedly ZAP me with double or maybe TRIPLE the dose—as they recently discovered was occurring for---ohh, let’s see—about a year and a half with incorrectly-programmed machines at Cedars Sinai .
As the gurney starts its journey, I’m tempted to do a runner but the NEED TO KNOW is fairly strong. I stay put and shut my eyes, only opening them when I’m sure about twenty minutes have passed and I should have entered the tunnel and come out again. But no, I AM fully ENCLOSED and the top of the tunnel is just about three centimeters from my eyelashes. FUCK! Adrenaline-pumping fear floods one’s body despite the warnings and even knowing in advance from last time that claustrophobia is inevitable and deeply unpleasant. But I try to think of worse things that could be happening. Like water-boarding.

No actually, I tell myself not to be a pathetic whining wimp and think about people a THOUSAND times worse off—like THOSE who are paralyzed from the neck down or blind or trapped in an underground mine or wrongly sent to jail for life. That helps. (And I promise myself a half Vicodin and a vodka in bed later when the teen’s homework is completed.) I finally dare to open my eyes and there’s nothing but a ceiling about 8 feet above me. Bliss. But then the kind Indian technician comes in, asks exactly where the pain has been and I tell him that it was the middle of the back. Annoyingly, not the remotest twinge right now.
But he says I must now lie still again while the machine does an extraordinary 360 right around my body—focusing on the middle of my back for another forty five minutes. In what may qualify as the dullest ninety minutes I’ve spent all year, I decide my future may lie in inventing a sort of exhilarating 3D light show/movie experience for those who must lie still whilst being tested and scanned, x-rayed, given chemo or IV infusions. Bed-ridden hospital patients –from kids to old folk- would love it. Couldn’t I invent something like that and make millions? If only I had follow-through.

Next day as I wait for the results I learn about a friend who took the drugs for just one year after her breast cancer and then stopped. Five years later the cancer returned. In her bones. I run to the kitchen and tear open one of the trial packs of two weeks worth of Arimidex that Dr Glaspy gave me and swallow one. My plan to wait for the Complete Hormone Test results are out the window. Fear has taken hold.
And now it’s ten days after the surgery and I have very cunningly booked tickets for myself and Nick to head off to Europe for a skiing holiday in Italy leaving in three days. I would have preferred it to be two days later but flights are crowded and it’s either now or never since Spring Break begins in five days and Nick has been wanting to go back to my best friend Gael’s stunning log cabin-style ski chalet in the Italian Alps since he was six when he first learnt to snowboard. I’m too nervous to ask Dr Bob what he thinks – and too horrified to even think about telling Nick that the trip is off. His giant snowboard bag has been packed for a week with the multitude of long johns I’ve insisted on buying and snazzy never-worn white boots plus the precious virgin snowboard that he’s painted pink and green.
And lest anyone rush to judgement let me make it very clear that I had no intention of hitting the slopes. My plan was to chill inside and read a thing called a book. But I am still shattered and so very, very tired. I have to lie down at least twice a day and the thought of packing and vile economy travel via Chicago to London fills me with such dread that even I come to my senses and realize perhaps he can go alone. The giant teen already flew back from Australia alone when he was about 8 and wearing the unaccompanied child tag will mean he’ll be helped with connecting flights and almost certainly make it to his destination despite the horrors of Frequent Flyer travel. When I deliver the sad news that I may not be coming, his obvious joy and excitement are downright unseemly. Not a whit of disappointment. The little bastard’s deliriously happy and I hear him telling a friend that ‘it’s so stressful traveling with mum. It’s gonna be great going on my own.”
By the time we’ve made it though impossible lines just to check in—and reached the Departure Lounge, he’s complaining bitterly that he looks ’like a retard’ wearing the Unaccompanied Child Info in a pouch round his neck and livid that I’m trying to sneak extra water and bananas and cough drops into his backpack! As he puts the ipod earphones into his big manly ears and tries to ignore me, I suddenly realize I’m sending my darling only son off on some ancient American Airlines plane on his own and what if something was to happen…I SHOULD BE GOING WITH HIM! Needing a distraction I whip out my iphone and start to take some photos. He ignores me as I ask him to smile about 7 times and then finally turns and gives me one of his big goofy adorable grins. That’s all it takes. I’m now in floods of tears and Nick, used to his sentimental slob of a mother weeping at the drop of a hat is merely amused. Just as he tells me he’s starving and dying for a double whopper from a Burger King he’s spotted in the distance, there is an announcement demanding that Unaccompanied minors who are being sent off alone by their callous, uncaring mothers, must board the plane immediately. I’m allowed to bring him right on board the plane which he keeps insisting is NOT necessary but I see him to his seat, try to hug him about five times – and finally, weeping again, take my leave. But as I’m working my way through cranky passengers all heading in the opposite direction, I hear an announcement that cash is no longer accepted on international flights and that meals can only be purchased with credit cards. What ??

My poor son, THE only child traveling without a mother on this flight, has NO credit card. He will starve to death. I have no choice….I make a mad dash to the Burger King, and after anxiously waiting what seems like hours (desperate to cut the line, but not quite bold or insane enough to try at an airport )I order some whacking great Double Whopper burger that upsets me a great deal having just seen the documentary Food Inc- but a starving credit card-less teen must be served and soon, holding the burger, fries and a truly massive Coke that could strike diabetes into a giant, I’m dodging cranky travelers in a mad sprint back to the gate- terrified it will have closed and I’ll be forced to consume it all myself.
The woman punching in the boarding cards, the one who took us on board earlier, is very, very busy and so I just I run on through, down the tunnel and up to the plane door. The stewardess there sniffs enviously at the fries and sweetly offers to deliver them but a pilot appears and she’s immediately distracted. Don’t want the lad to get cold fries and so off I dash, past dull folk who spend hours stowing bags in the overhead bins, past lots of jokers asking if I have a spare grub for them and finally, I spot MY BOY!
I stop a few feet away and hold up the burger and drink in triumph…Several passengers break into a spontaneous cheer but Nick’s expression is one of utter horror. Did I change my mind? Is HIS MOTHER NOW COMING WITH HIM? Reddening with humiliation, he whips ipod wires out of his ears, and gives me a beady-eyed stare that in an ideal world would make me invisible but luckily, the smell of fries and burger reaches his nose in the nick of time and he manages a small smile as I hand it all over and reassure him “Just delivering honey. Don’t worry, I’m not staying.” He manages a “Thanks mum. Love you. Bye” before popping in his ipod and starting to inhale the grub.

I take my leave, politely asking a passing stewardess if she could possibly give the teen without a credit card some free food on the flight. She kindly agrees and I make it off the plane and out of the terminal before breaking down sobbing as I realize that yet again, cancer has won out. It’s robbing me not only of a long-anticipated holiday with my best friend but of precious time with a son who’ll soon resist even the idea of holidays together. It’s robbed me of memories that can’t be repeated. It’s also taught me that airport security is pretty darn slack and that one surefire way to annoy a teenager is to appear on a plane with food when he thinks he’s already escaped his mother for two weeks.

Fuck the cleanse-vodka, a stale fag & sardines on toast!

Now there are some people who thrive on the discipline of diets and fasts. They truly function better when told what to do and when to do it and it’s funny. ….they actually see results and have something to feel proud about. Smug bastards. Then there are those of us---and I personally blame the Aussie convict gene—who are shocking scofflaws. I’m not proud of it but it’s a fact and I must learn to live with it and more importantly come clean. About ten minutes, for instance, after vowing to commence a healthful regime of avoiding all white and fried food for the next two weeks, I will be MOVED by some invisible spirit force with the strength of a thousand horses, to CHEAT and whip up an Elvis Presley special---a fried banana, peanut butter and bacon sandwich.

YES, I admit it. In the spirit of that good ol’ AA introduction, I would like to say here and now for the record, HI, MY NAME’S LYNDALL AND I’M A CHEATER. Which makes it all the more moronic that I thought I could handle five food-LESS days. But I am a silly old Pollyanna, hope springs eternal and if it wasn’t for the midnight meanderings I might just have swung it. My nocturnal wanderings are not sleepwalking exactly—but I do seem to behave like a zombie in a trance.

That is to say I wake up, at least two or three times every night, and immediately head straight to the kitchen, knowing that trying to get back to sleep without popping something in mouth will be useless endeavor. So I slide in to the kitchen and try to eat something simple and not calorie-laden. Rice cakes and peanut butter, a handful of almonds, an oatmeal cookie, a tangerine—or more often than not—dark chocolate in any form. If especially peckish (hungry where I come from) I will even go as far as Vegemite on toast. But the salty yeast extract that is our beloved Vegemite requires an extra large glass of milk and that will ensure having to get up and pee in about 30 minutes so I try to limit toast and vegemite to Friday or Saturday nights when I can sleep in.
So on night two after surgery, as I automatically stagger to kitchen like poor old Pavlovian dog, I find myself popping salty chocolate almonds (try them- Trader Joe’s—brilliant big chunks of sea salt on the choc almonds) before I even REMEMBER that I am meant to be cleansing my temple/body. I could spit them out and pretend I didn’t swallow two already but it’s a tough decision…and what a waste. So it’s decided then and there…this will be a semi-cleanse. Or half-assed –whatever you wish to call it. From then on ….. just a little benign nibbling at crackers and nuts…oh and the odd apple slice with big fingerfuls of peanut butter and apricot jam right from the jars.. plus plenty of that anti-oxidant packed dark chocolate….not so bad…and I shan’t bother to mention the midnight snacks—since I have decided they don’t count when your skin suddenly starts to ITCH AND BURN LIKE A CRAZY MOTHERFUCKER !!

Wondering if it’s some dangerous allergic reaction to the foul, poisonous Chinese tea crap that I‘ve been bravely continuing to imbibe, I consider putting in an emergency call to the man who runs the cleanse but cannot remember where I put his number and so I stumble round the apartment looking for Benadryl which I find about two hours later in the carefully labeled clear plastic box -MEDICINES ETC -under bathroom sink. Have no idea when I organized such a brilliant thing and in fact don’t remember it existed—so what exactly is the point of being organized when you can’t recall that you got organized in the first place??

But Benadryl doesn’t work and by about 6 am I am ripping off the stretchy bandages that my tits are wrapped in….as I peel it off great big patches of oozing sweaty, blistery skin peel off too, leaving gaping areas of red raw epidermis. Niiice. Time for some more Vicodin which despite my greedy snack addiction, I am always very moderate in taking….and because I am a drug lightweight, leave me completely stoned within about ten minutes. That in turn leads to some slightly impulsive emails to my good pal, ol’ doctor bob. I temporarily forget I am to suck up to almighty surgeon no matter WHAT, and I tell him I am in agony, ask for an apology for hurling me out of hospital the same day, and generally try to convey how traumatized and upset I am. This does not go down well.

Popular surgeons do not seem to appreciate constructive criticism. And he leaps into email action and is frightfully mean and bangs on about wanting to save me money cos Blue Cross consider major reconstructive surgery an outpatient procedure! And if he had kept me overnight at St John’s they might have objected and charged me a quick $20, 000. Oh really? Not what happened the last two times you operated on me….and how much more could St John’s charge ??

I just saw the bill ---$58,000 for the whole procedure with a mere $24,000 for the pharmacy bill. EXCUSE ME?? For what? Some Propofol?? That’s it. I paid for own Vicodin and antibiotics. How about the pharmacy try to act less like criminals and charge a smidge less and let me stay overnight! The whole thing is too infuriating for words. Thinking about health care could make one very ill. (Note to self—query the 24 grand fucking pharmacy bill!)

I make sure to have a friend meeting me there the next day when I go to see Dr Bob since I now sense some unfriendly vibes after committing medical treason and questioning my standard of care. Sure enough, a very chilly atmosphere. I don’t dare say a word about anything and try to be very polite. He coldly says I have had an allergic reaction to the adhesive bandage and after I am inspected and re-wrapped, he launches into a seemingly very rehearsed defense, once again, of his actions. I very simply point out that he told me I would be staying about ten minutes before the operation and he denies it. But why would I want to wake up in recovery and have no one there to take me home?? I swear on my children that he told me I would be staying and even let him off the hook by saying “Perhaps you were just very focused on the surgery and didn’t remember what you said…” In some sort of roundabout way I THINK he finally concedes that it’s conceivable – but NOT likely.

Anyway, I’m over it. I’m over it ALL. Sick to death of my health and talking about my health and the whole friggin box and dice, I drive on home and crawl back to bed for a few hours, utterly exhausted by the trip and ready to weep that, as some sort of punishment I suspect, he ordered me to stay on antibiotics for TWICE as long as originally planned. Within the hour trusty Rite Aid are on the blower telling me that my meds await me.

Day Four. I realize I ‘m weaker than I’ve been in over a year but by this point, everyone, quite rightly, is bored out of their minds by my endless surgeries. The fact that this is the worst I’ve felt throughout the whole ordeal, is unfortunately, not something one dares mention to anyone. Except one very, very old friend, a dude, who emails and asks how the surgery went. I email back a day or two later that I simply feel like crap and that this has been the worst recovery ever. To which he replies, as if I’m the whining nightmare patient from hell…”Be grateful you’re not six feet under!” Oh gee thanks.What a sweet, empathetic thing to say. I loathe 'friends'(who haven't actually visited one single time in 15 months!) like that.

And now it’s time to put on my happy face, my Uggs, a hat on the dry, frizzled up old white bleached hair and get me to school to pick up the gorgeous great big teen of a son who’s been staying with friends and seems to have grown a good inch in the last 5 days. I’m so happy to see him that I try to ignore several facts.

1It looks like he may be wearing the same t shirt I last saw him in..

2.I’ve already had emails from two teachers about missing homework..

3.Teeth look a lovely shade of yellow under the braces and it’s funny how I noticed his electric toothbrush still in his bathroom..

4.He left his novel at home and clearly is now even further behind with reading…

But instead of nagging, the mother who has been out of action for 5 days nobly takes him to his favorite Cactus Taqueria on Vine and get him 2 fish tacos and whatever else he adores…some odd milky drink and a huge bulging burrito that must be about 1000 calories. He wolfs it all down before we’re even home. Once in his bedroom, we finally get to hug, though he knows he can’t really give mum a big bear-hug. Just a very gentle one. I suggest oh so sweetly that he get down to homework soon since mum needs to drink a foul version of a protein drink on my cleanse and then go take a nap. He promises faithfully that he will. Everything is hunky dory. I vow not to fight with him all week.
I wake up over two hours later and he’s under the shower. He takes showers that last forever. What do teenage boys do under the shower for that long? Exactly !!Let’s not dwell on it. And there’s his huge whacking great school bag on his bed, yet to be unpacked. That means ZERO homework has been done during my two hour nap. He is SO not to be trusted!! I take the Playboys from their hiding place in his third drawer as punishment and chuck them. And the yelling begins.
But the bathroom door can be locked and he hides in there for hours with his computer and cell phone and knows I can do nought about it. (Not until late at night when I stealthily creep into his room and take his computer and hide it in my room. But the truth is he’s way sneakier and smarter and should seriously consider a career as a spy. He senses missing items and before I know what’s happening, has crept up behind me, stolen my cell phone and then refuses to give it back till I tell him where his computer is. You can perhaps sense what exceptional control and authority I have with my teenage son---but you try it. They’re relentless, stubborn and always up for a good battle –and these mad chases round the apartment are oft before we’ve left for school and I’ve made it to Starbucks.)
So, as the shower drones on, I drag a chair into the kitchen to search the top cupboard where I sometimes throw the American Spirits in disgust. Eureka !! I find them and light up a lovely stale fag and open the freezer for the vodka. Well it is meant to be the purest of alcohols so that fits right into my purifying cleanse. Then it’s half a xanax in a noble attempt to stay calm and not fight with the teen. And since I’m such a cautious soul, drinking on an empty stomach is unthinkable and thus it’s time for my version of cooking—opening a can of sardines and the making of some toast. And VOILA---the FEAST fast is over!

Juice FEAST my ass...

Sunday 21st march
Well I truly don't wish to sound like a sniveling, whining jerk, but I do suspect that the bastard cancer –or at least its repercussions -has finally beaten me into submission. It has had its way with me and I now officially feel—as my old mum used to say – like I’ve been hit by a ten ton truck. I am also somewhat gobsmacked by what happened just a few days ago after my major reconstruction surgery. Yep, there I was, regaining consciousness and entering that netherworld state that, for a little while, resembles a bad trip with nausea, dizziness and just plain terror mixed in for good measure. (“Where am I ? Am I alive? Did I lose any limbs?? PLEASE DON’T TELL ME THEY HAD TO AMPUTATE!”) when a cranky, business-like nurse appears and asks, as if she’s just finished my leg wax and now has another client waiting, “Is somebody picking you up? Your daughter is listed to call but I’m not getting any answer.”

WHATTT? I look about and notice that I am not in nice cozy hospital room of own but on the factory floor-like Recovery Room.
I try to focus. “My daughter’s in Bali. Why would you call her?” I ask but the penny is starting to drop. I’m being hustled the hell out of dodge and good old Dr Bob has outdone himself and somehow forgotten or not bothered to sort out whatever the hell needs to be sorted out with Anthem FUCKING Blue Cross. Because the bastards at the preposterously profitable Anthem, who, what a SHOCK, have just seen fit to raise my monthly premium by 40% due to my unfortunate cancer episode, don’t let double mastectomy reconstruction patients stay for several nights in hospital as is de rigeur in civilized joints like England and Australia, it means Dr Bob is meant to put in a request. At some point on the day of the op he just tells them I need to stay. Seriously. That’s how it works. (In the UK reconstruction surgery patients are kept in hospital 3-5 days though that may be gilding the lily somewhat.)

So when Dr Bob finally appeared that morning prior to surgery to start carving me up with his permanent marker, I pathetically and very sweetly ask him once more, (I’d casually called, texted and emailed him about it in recent days) if I will be having a sleepover at St John’s or do I need to desperately text up my friend Andrew to be on call to ferry me home later ? It takes him a good thirty seconds of concentrated staring to decide where the middle of my torso is before starting to draw from my collarbone on down. It seems I’m assymetrical. (And I could care less at this point about being naked from the waist down. It’s having your bum flapping in the breeze that really bugs me- as the security guard hovers behind me writing down endless receipts for my belongings)
“No, no, you can stay” he finally says, in a monotone faintly reminiscent of Yul Brynner in The King and I. (As in -I am a surgeon, I am God. You may stay.)

And yet and yet. Here I am, nearly five hours after being knocked out with a good old dose of trusty Propofol and I’m racking my brains to think of whom I can call. By the time the OCD security guard shows up with my wallet and phone – the same fool who insisted on counting every dollar of my money and then separating the credit cards and receipts before putting everything into separate clear plastic bags, I grab my phone and call the first person I can think because I feel guilty about the friend I already told I would be staying overnight… …and….she’s getting dressed to go out to dinner…and then I call an old boyfriend and it goes to voicemail---and sobbing hysterically by now, I call poor Andrew who thought he was off the hook and he foolishly answers the phone and yes, he very sweetly agrees to come get me.

APPARENTLY, I managed to get dressed and into my pal’s car and home though I have, literally, NO recollection of this. (I’m sorry Andrew—I still appreciate it so much!!) I must have also turned on the TV, taken off boots and gotten into bed but alas, did not manage to empty those dreaded drains because I woke up at about 4am and saw that the stopper to one drain had accomplished amazing feat of escaping and was dripping out onto my ---LUCKILY !!_identically-colored red cotton jersey sheets. (For the uninitiated …it works like this---they somehow thread a tube from inside your tit, up inside the body and then it appears in the armpit where it then extends for about 15 inches down, draining the excess fluid into a big plastic bulb, safety-pinned to some part of clothing like your sweat pants or bottom of bra and the bulb MUST be carefully squeezed in tight whenever you empty so that the pressure or something makes ‘em fill up again. )

Okay. So I wake up at about 8am and any semblance of numbing medicine has gone from my system, leaving me in SEARING pain. Not totally surprising since yet again my tits have been sliced open, right under the nipple again, expanders have been dragged out along with scar tissue and brand new gel implants have been whacked in. And this is where it is stunningly upsetting to realize, once more, that had I been still in hospital I would have still been hooked up to an IV and I would have simply squeezed a button, thus releasing pain medicine into my system for a day or two.. Like last time.
But nooo, I now have to swallow Vicodin like crazy for relief—thus ensuring a sure-fire state of constipation for a week at least. (The IV meds bypass your stomach and thus—no constipation). I walk like a hunched-over snail to the kitchen to start guzzling both the pain-killers and the dreaded antibiotics I have on hand, and realize that to avoid nausea one should eat something with them.

And THEN IT HITS ME. Despite being quite convinced that I am of reasonable intelligence –except when Buck Henry points out my grammatical errors in the most annoying, schoolteacherly way imaginable, it seems I was wrong. Apparently I have gone along , erroneously thinking I was fairly bright, cheered by school reports and teachers who noted that “Lindy is very intelligent. If only she could settle down and focus she could go far” Yes, reasonably on the ball, I thought... Not emotionally smart or even cunningly intelligent in a way that might have somehow hooked me a man or a job –and yet, when some CNN dude asks his guest why they think so many Americans are terrified of Obama’s health care bill, it’s only right that I condescendingly scream at the TV –“BECAUSE THEY'RE COMPLETE MORONS, THAT’S WHY !!”
But if I am so fuckin’ smart, how come, in my infinite wisdom, my smart-ass clever clogs self thought it was a nifty idea to choose THIS precise day, after yet more traumatic surgery, to start a cleanse …A JUICE FAST THAT CONTAINS NO ACTUAL FOOD, FOR THE NEXT FIVE DAYS???!!!

I imagine you see where I’m heading with this. The sad truth must out that I am in fact a complete and utter fuckwit with the common sense of a senile slug. Why today?? Must I deprive myself of some wholesome goodies and treats the day RIGHT after surgery? In my own defense, it did, and still does seem smart to do this (a gift from a friend who had signed up for 14 days but gave up after 9—thus passing the five day credit on to me) with both kids away. Lola still swooning about in Bali with her young Aussie stud and Nick Hobbs away with dear pals in Cambria till Monday night. Much the best time to suffer through the horrors of a cleanse whilst no eggs and bacon or delicious pasta are being whipped up by my clever kitchen kiddies. And God knows, someone who’s had the toxic load of IV antibiotics, chemo drugs, Vicodin and anesthesia that I have in the last fourteen months could do with a nice healing cleanse. But the day after surgery??

In a state of horror at my ludicrous lack of timing, I stagger to the front door where a cooler of liquids should await me. I pray that they’ve screwed up and nothing is there. I could swing back towards the kitchen , swallow some gorgeous organic minty dark chocolate and stuff almond butter on toast with sliced bananas on top down my throat before having a nice 4 or 5 hour nap.
I open the front door but I’m outa luck. IT ‘S RIGHT WHERE IT SHOULD BE. The black cooler that weighs a ton and must now be gotten to kitchen somehow. I manage to inch myself down to get the strap and then drag it behind me, feeling like an ancient wench dragging some rock to Stonehenge. Me and the cooler make it to the kitchen. But it’s still on the friggin floor and I have to get it to bench. Wishing I had paid more attention to Nick’s current science studies about inclines and levers, I try to think what could help raise it four feet. But I’m hardly up to devising some cunning lifting apparatus in my state and so I pick the bastard up and heave it onto kitchen bench and unzip it. There’s an annoying letter welcoming me to this crappy cleanse and I see that it gives you the order in which to ingest your ten bottles of liquid. It starts off with a half jar of ANU water. Not even a freakin juice. Just some really hearty, filling, satisfying hyper-mineralised WATER. Does the fun ever stop ?

So I manage to unscrew the top of this annoying jar, drink the water and PLEASE, you have to believe me when I tell you this water tastes bad. I spit it out and check what’s next on the list. Should have guessed. My least favorite thing in the world. Super green juice. I despise green juices. They annoy me almost as much as people who don’t drink coffee. I have a swig, spit that out, feel guilty, swallow some more and try to keep it down. The gag reflex is strong but I fight it, whilst vowing to never let the “plethora of synergistically bound, organic green nutrients” touch my lips again.
I stagger back to bed, and pick up the 3000 page Izocleanze intro that I downloaded from the internet and printed out. No wonder it tastes like crap. It contains, amongst other things, Barley Grass juice, Oat Grass Juice, Broccoli juice, Alfalfa juice, Parsley juice, Moringa leaf, Nopal Cactus, Nori, Alaria, and Bladderwrack .
BLADDERWRACK, you ask? What dat? Oh for heaven’s sake, it’s that well-known member of the “Wild-Crafted Aquatic Vegetable Family”. Huh?

Time for a Xanax and a nap. I wake up around two. Not really hungry to be honest but bored out of my mind and in need of soothing treat. Gosh, I wonder what the Juice Feast (I swear- they call it a FEAST!) has in store for me now. Could it be that a genie will suddenly slip out of one of the bottles and whip up some steaming hot raisin toast slathered in butter? Perhaps he’ll appear with samosas and mango chutney … or will it be chicken pot pie with a crisp flaky crust?

OR… it COULD be a Chinese herb tea called ACTIVATE that enhances metabolism by way of “tonifying the spleen”. With things like Codonopsis, Proia, Jujube Date and Lo Hang Go, it’s a humdinger. Bitter, acrid, stinky and utterly foul. (I later read the directions properly and see that I could have actually heated it(ideally by putting it outside to ‘catch the blessed rays of the sun’ says the brochure) but like that would have made a difference !! I force myself to swallow at least half the bottle, freezing cold and realize that it can ‘tonify’ my spleen, purify my aura and metabolize my digestive system all it wants BUT how do you control the urge to SHOOT YOURSELF or at least shuffle one block to the scarily close 7/11 for cigs, a couple of the new dark chocolate Snickers bars and a Starbucks mocha iced coffee from the refrigerated section. Will I last the 5 day-distance? Wildly unlikely!

"God is our employer and he can't fire us" .. WHAT?????

Two Weeks later.
How the hell did it get to be February again ?? In twelve days it will be March.
Okay—so going blonde may have been a teeny bit rash. While it has indeed lifted my spirits a little – there is a price. The good news of course is that a body that only six months ago shed every hair on its head and elsewhere —is now growing excellent quality new shoots of dark brown hair rapidly and efficiently. As I say to my body, when I infrequently think to do so – “Good job, body!” BUT, the bad news is that just about ten days after the dye job, those bloody roots pop out of my scalp like determined little killjoys and just ruin the whole look. It means maintenance every three weeks and my rapidly-growing arsenal of new skills (leg waxing with strips from Rite Aid and clothes dyeing to name just two) is now going to have to include learning how to mix a mean bleach.

But looks aside, there’s the spiritual side that’s also in dire need of a massive makeover. And whilst at it, I wouldn’t mind if my empathy levels could be ratcheted down a notch or two. I find myself identifying with any sad soul I see –from the man who sleeps on the sidewalk in a big cosy mess of duvets outside the Papa John’s Pizzeria on Beverly and who, upon waking, then sits all morning in a camp chair across the street right outside the Starbuck’s. I wave every morning and smile sweetly but can’t help imagining I AM HIM and what it would be like to bathe in public restrooms and sleep outside in winter.
I also think I am every sad little old lady sitting at a bus stop or schlepping big grocery bags back to her lonely cold apartment. And if I believed in reincarnation and had a decent voice, I could almost believe I’ve come back as a poor relative of Paul Robeson as I find myself driving round moaning (it definitely could NOT be called singing) that old song from Showboat- “I get weary and sick of crying, fraid of livin, but scared of dyin’….but Old Man River just keeps rollin’ along.” I do. I spend long periods in the car alone. Who’s to know?

But I truly do wish I COULD sing. I’d like to be known as “one of the Gospel Greats” and be able to belt out Amazing Grace with enough soul to make Mahalia Jackson look lame. That would reboot my anorexic spiritual side. Give me a center. But, devoid of any musical talent WHATsoever, and pretty light on emotional intelligence as well, I find myself heading off to the La Brea Showcase Theater where Marianne Williamson is once again, after a long absence, lecturing on the Course of Miracles every Tuesday evening. I had never seen the New Age guru the first time around so I was keen to check out her spiritual evenings which are half lecture, half Q&A with the audience, plus two prayers and a quick ‘imagine you are bathed in golden light” meditation.


Meditation, Marianne tells the standing room only crowd, is the key to EVERYthing. She says that a mere 5 minutes of meditation in the mornings is enough to raise your thought patterns to a higher vibrational level to put “your thought forms in the care of God” for the entire day. Jesus. How hard can that be? And if it’s really that easy, why the hell have I never been able to focus for five measly minutes in order to meditate. It’s a tragic indictment of that dark, scary swamp known as my mind. I go from feeling elated to a loser in an ADD flash.
But wait—it gets even easier and more seductive. While meditation is the way people listen to God, prayer is the way they talk to God. Williamson says that “prayer is the medium of miracles”. She explains that there is no order of difficulty in miracles. All people have to do in order to receive a miracle is be willing to ASK.

Not very hard. Just ASK. Got that? I plan, from here on out, to meditate and pray. I may have the two words tattooed on my arm since I don’t really trust myself to remember.
No, wait. A third word might have to be added. LOVE. “Love is to fear what light is to darkness,” she explains “Let the love in and fear disappears.” Yay. I am up for that. And I can see it on a bumper sticker. Can I make money with this? But just as I’m beginning to think this might all be a teensy bit simplistic and too easy to be true, Marianne swings into Question time and somehow love flies out the window.


She’s very crabby and wildly impatient with anyone who asks a dopey, annoying or long-winded question. “What are you asking?” “Get to the point!” or “Do you actually have a question??” are snapped at dull folk with her rapid-fire delivery and one guy who dared to mention his theory that a “mafia of women” was refusing to hire him for a job was leapt upon with just a hint of glee. “You’re not getting a job because there’s a MAFIA OF WOMEN? Is that what you actually said? Are you SERIOUS?”” she demanded, to peals of laughter from the largely female and gay audience.


She’d been talking about career on this one particular night and she managed to lull us all into some mass feeling of bliss as she explained that our careers were really to act with LOVE and that all would follow from that. If only we LOVED, the gig would follow. “And when God is your employer, you can’t get fired!” Yes, but what if you didn’t get hired in the first place, I wanted TO SHRIEK ??? Huh? What then?
A jolly-faced blonde of about 25 suddenly stands, is swiftly handed a mike by one of the scurrying nervous assistants (MW has made it crystal clear she doesn’t like to wait for those radio mikes) and she beams at Marianne as she says, with the Aussie twang of someone just off the plane, “Hi Marianne, since you’re talking about career, I thought I’d ask you for a job. I’m a singer and I’d like to join you on tour. I’ve got a tape I’d like to give you.” Another huge innocent expectant smile and a nervous laugh.. Well, let me tell you- our guru is not amused. She immediately launches into a very put-upon moan about not having enough time to listen to tapes and how she’s not even ON tour. No, sorry. No time.


But our intrepid gal is not put off and with the smile at high-beam she says “Well let me just sing you TWO lines” and astutely not waiting for permission, she begins to sing with enormous gusto—in a truly stunning big, soaring voice that sends shivers down the spine. I adore it and could listen for another hour. But she politely sticks to the two lines and then sits –to raucous cheers and applause. But does Marianne even acknowledge the girl and her lovely voice with a “Well done—great pipes. If there’s anyone here who is in music, perhaps you could give her some advice”.
Nope. No acknowledgement whatsoever. She turns on her heel and heads up the aisle with her mike and picks on – sorry, picks- the next questioner. But having now dished about the ‘cranky mean bitch’ side of Ms Williamson, let me just say that I’ll be back. Definitely. She is very entertaining, smart as a whip and let’s not forget – as my pal Brooke reminds me on the way home, it’s the message—not the messenger that counts here. I could sure use reminders to meditate and let the love in – especially if it does send the fear packing. I need a cheap life coach—even if it is a group session with 800 others.


So in an effort to put it into practice and SHOW the love, I decide that despite one of those torrential downpours of late, I must show up at the soggy ceremony as my dear friend Anjelica Huston gets a much-deserved Star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. I do so and am glad. It’s not every day a pal gets a star. It’s very, very wet but we feel very intrepid and rather selfless and fabulous as we stand listening to speeches by Danny Huston, Wes Anderson and the gorgeous, talented star herself under a tiny dripping tarp.
Unfortunately,at the risk of sounding tedious, I must note that the love comes back to me in the form of a foul cold/flu that descends a day later and lingers a week. Right through another breast-draining session courtesy Dr Bob who still won’t agree to schedule the next surgery due to this fluid build-up ! Wait—is he in love with me ?? Does he want these charming sessions where my left tit is swabbed with betadine before being assaulted with GIGANTIC needles that would scare a liger to go on FOREVER and ever and ever? Apparently.

Jan 1 through 4
A few more days of peace and quiet down at gorgeous unspoilt Whale Beach(about an hour from Sydney) with Rachel and a dear friend Lydia and on my last day in Sydney I actually wake up feeling somewhat refreshed and not unlike a human being – but no rest for the wicked. One hour later, after a lightning visit to a fabulous local artist Bruce Goold, I am heading back to Sydney to pack. Me and my boy wrench ourselves from the sultry Sydney summer back onto the plane and a few hours into the tedious flight back, memories of penguin watching at twilight and xmas lunch with all the cousins and the dinner party of oysters and artichoke pasta at frank’s and vegemite on toast at Janey’s are beginning to fade.

By the time we're waiting for our luggage at LAX (why does your life flash before you in such a deeply depressing way as you wait for luggage?), it’s hard to believe that we were in another hemisphere and another season this very SAME day (due to the 19 hour time difference) with lovely folks we won’t see again for a good long spell. Traveling is very fucking weird and I am thrilled that Lola is in fact still there – having decided to stay on for another ten days to go on a road trip to Queensland with her bff Matilda Brown.

Jan 5 –Next day.
The alarm goes off at 7am after what seems like ten minutes of sleep- and I wonder for that weird couple of moments where the hell I am but I look down at the floor beside my bed and it all comes back to me… a frenzied session of unpacking Nick’s bag at 3am resulted in a sandy pile of stinky damp clothes on the floor which I step over as I stagger to his room and try to wake him. And it’s now that I remember the poor child has a science test today and yes, the relevant pages from his science text book that I conscientiously Xeroxed for him are still packed neatly in his back pack – having naturally not been perused by student ONCE during entire vacation. What a shock. I feel genuinely sorry for him and it’s tempting to say “Go back to sleep honey, you can skip school today” and run back to bed myself. But he’s already missed a day of school so, setting a dangerous precedent, I take him Weetabix and hot milk in bed along with his Adderal and beg him to sit up and eat.

As we drive to school in the biting cold we’re not used to after a spell of summer downunder, I try to jolly up the sleepy teen with thoughts of how cool his new buzzcut is and how his pals will probably like it. (Blow me down if after two long years of unsuccessful threats mixed with cash bribes if only he would cut his shoulder length hair, he doesn’t slip out one morning three days after arriving in Melbourne with cousin Jane to the same barber my dad used to go to and get his hair buzzed within half an inch of his head!) Well, the bad news is –he failed the Science test. The good news is that YES, his pals dug his hair cut and by Friday, not one – but THREE of them had followed suit and gone from long flowing locks to short, crisp crew cuts! My son the trend-setter. I was disproportionately proud of the giant child who grew half an inch over Christmas. But trying to keep some perspective, made him retake the science test and after long nights of jetlagged study, we got a C.

Oh my God. The jetlag. Ferocious. For days I could not stop myself from running to Starbucks after dropping him off before falling straight back into my bed. The guilt, the self-loathing as one finally comes to at 1 in the afternoon realizing there is a good two hours to get anything accomplished before picking up child and starting the tedious homework/dinner routine all over again before another night of tossing, turning, getting up for snacks (Janey—desperately need more Vegemite!! PLEASE SEND MORE!) and finally, more often than not, taking a friggin half an ambien at about 3am.
Oh, an update on the tits.

So the first day back I am down in Santa Monica seeing Dr Bob at 10 am sharp. He’s not too thrilled with the amount of fluid he has to drain from my left breast. Nor am I for that matter as despite an almost complete lack of any feeling whatsoever, one feels the dragging and sucking as the giant needle ‘vacuums’up the liquid. He tells me to try and do NOTHING strenuous before coming back in a week—and when I return, it’s the same story. There is a large fluid build-up which is of some concern and this time he tightly bandages me up to try and stop fluid from collecting. He explains that he can’t pump the expander with any more saline to fill up the breast as it is already twice as big as the other. I could have told him that. And then he informs me that not one but TWO more surgeries will be needed in trying to replace the expanders with permanent implants and get it looking half way decent. Two, if we’re lucky. Could be more. Greeeeeat.



The combination of realizing that I have two more surgeries, an immune system to repair, five more months of 8th grade homework, no job, no money AND mouse shit brown hair leaves me, along with the jetlag just a tad depressed. Oh- and the lovely Tamoxifen waiting for me at the local Rite Aid which my oncologist says I need to start taking now FOR FIVE YEARS. An anti-hormonal drug that “is for the risk that anything could microscopically have spread and adds to the chemotherapy to give a combined 75% reduction on the original risk of spread of the cancer” is how my oncologist put it to me in an email last week. But it also can lead to bone aching, joint stiffness and soreness, endless hot flashes, uterine cancer and should “be avoided at all costs” according to my homeopathic doctor. What to do???? I make an appointment with the UCLA oncologist I have been meaning to switch to –but exhaustion, reluctance to drive so much further to UCLA and fear of asking my current oncologist to send all the records have so far stopped me. But this is a fairly crucial decision. I need more input. And that means more than talking to one or two friends—both of whom refused to take it for fear of just ‘putting more chemicals “ into their bodies. And so –a teeny bit low and weary that I have to make more drug decisions as I gear up for another surgery, I DECIDE TO CUT MY HAIR EVEN SHORTER AND GO WHITE BLONDE.


It was a rash, somewhat impulsive move– but hideous hair and an invitation to the G’DAY USA awards for FAB AUSSIES WHO’VE DONE A HECK OF A LOT the next night calls for tough decisions and I’m pleased to say I was up for the challenge. I made the call at 11am friday. And was with my old hairdresser pal Mario by 4pm that same day. And by 6.30 Saturday night I was heading—alone of course- to join some Aussie pals at the big black-tie bash promoting OZ/USA relations in trade, showbiz and whatever else they can think of—to honor my friend Simon Baker (star of The Mentalist) along with Toni Colette and Greg Norman the golfer. And shallow old tart that I am, I gotta say I felt a hell of a lot more attractive as a blonde than as Ms Mouse Brown. A tragic attempt to recapture my youth when, a mere quarter of a century ago, I cut my hair and dyed it blonde ? Yep. A toxic overdose of chemicals onto my poor old scalp that burned like hell as said dye did its thing? Perhaps. Although both oncologist and homeopathic docs said to go ahead and do it! So what the hell?


My kids both approved wholeheartedly and at least heading off to the Hollywood Highland center to celebrate the Aussies, I felt like I’d made an effort and could hold head up high. And it was a ‘bloody good night’ as the very sweet and mighty cute Simon Baker was introduced by his old friend Nicole Kidman who clearly felt comfortable surrounded by fellow countrymen and she proceeded to tell us all that she took pride in being the one who had convinced the young jack-of-all trades but generally unemployed Simon and his wife to come over to LA about 15 years ago and ‘give it a go”. They followed her advice and some good parts finally followed. But then, about three years ago, they felt it was time to head home to Sydney and they sold up here and bought a house there. But six months later they were all homesick for LA – and they headed back-three kids in tow – to LA at which point the again-unemployed actor got a new gig and hit the jackpot. As lead on the top-rating show THE MENTALIST. Niiice.

Nic and hubby Keith Urban then serenaded Simon with a fabulous version of Men At Work’s “A Land Downunder” singing witty new lyrics of their own all about Simon and his wonderful wife Rebecca and their three kids. It was a revelation to see “Nic” kicking off her shoes in gay abandon as she danced around behind her hubby and rather touching that so much effort had clearly been put into the very personal new words.
"He's got a plan this quiet achiever.
And Becca is his dream believer."
Simon blushed adorably -as did Rebecca when the lyrics focussed on her- but it was an amazing tribute and certainly had a verve that the globes and oscars can only dream of - and I was thrilled to be there amongst the fun-loving, irreverent, champagne-swilling aussies till I looked up and saw myself on the two mega giant screens televising it all. At first I truly thought – ‘who is that sheila smiling goonishly behind Simon with a very shiny forehead and something resembling a wig hat on her head?’ before realizing it was me. I then tried to hide behind Simon but kept dodging in the wrong direction. Mortifying. Though by the time I woke up late the next day there were some nice emails from Australian friends saying they had seen it all on Channel 9 in oz and how much they liked the new ‘do’. Almost certainly fibbing. But it’s a funny old world. Hard to keep much to yourself.

Christmas/New Year with my people....

Dec 28th
Loyalties torn and divided, we sadly leave Melbourne and cousin Janey's cheerful face at breakfast after a fleeting 9 days and head to Sydney where there are more lovely friends, warm breezes, cockatoos overhead and the heavenly smells of all the Frangipani trees. Our stunning hostess Rachel Ward (she of Thornbirds fame and more lately a fabulous director) decides we should stop on the way back from the airport at the Fish Market and check out the huge whacking great barramundi and gleaming freshly caught snapper and all manner of Aussie seafood – some still alive and kicking, freshly arrived here at the wharf. Minutes later we are lunching on fantastic sushi and then we buy fresh prawns and oysters and sardines to eat the same night under the Sydney stars in her beautiful old sandstone house right on the Harbor before retiring to my own little guest house at the bottom of the garden just feet from the Harbor itself and their own jetty for speedy morning getaways by boat to nearby cafes for more lattes or a swing past the Opera House. It’s some sort of extraordinary flexible jetty that sways with the waves made by adorable little tug boats and swanky lit-up cruisers that pass all through the night. My first night in Sydney-a full moon, a Southern Hemisphere sky that is ablaze with stars and the softly-twinkling lights of the famous Harbor bridge Not too shabby.
The next morning I discover I have moronically packed just one of my weekly vitamin boxes with the anti-depressants, antibiotics and all manner of supplements to restore my immune system. Must have left the other two behind in my rush to get out of the USA to my mother country. Ah. This is dull. I’ve taken 10 days of antibiotics in Melbourne and that should do the trick, topping up the staggering amounts I’ve swallowed for four months. (Never did believe in the theory that you must finish every single course. WHY??) Anyway—no sign of infection. All seems fine down there as long as I wear baggy tops to disguise the fact that one boob is twice the size of the other. But another week with no anti-depressants? Now that could be a problem. Ever tried quitting them cold-turkey? Incredibly inadvisable due to nausea, shocking dizziness, headaches and major urges to go to bed and never get up again. But a good friend (and this is surely the definition OF a good friend) suggests she pop in to see her pals at the neighborhood chemist and get some more of her Effexor and switch to those immediately. It does the trick beautifully and soon Rachel and I and Lola and heading over to my friend Nell’s house in Longueville, a North Sydney suburb where Nicole Kidman grew up. (Rachel’s gorgeous daughter and Lola’s adored lifelong pal Matilda, 22, is editing her short film for the Tropfest- which is a film festival for short films under 7 minutes that gets hundreds of entries a year. She has written, directed and starred in it—as twins-and it is fantastic. If she gets to be one of the finalists, it will be shown at a wonderful evening under the stars in Sydney’s Domain- an inner-city park and it could jump-start her acting or directing career. There’s such a can-do spirit in some aspects of Australian life and young filmmakers are encouraged in all sorts of ways by both their peers and the government –with endless grants and tax brakes for writing and making movies that simply don’t exist in America.
We arrive at Nell’s new digs- just a teensy bit far for me from the city proper –but discover she has moved back after thirty years in New York where she acted and ran restaurants and her own wildly successful nightclub NELL’S and embraced a whole new life. The house is a true haven, backing onto gorgeously green bushland and is totally surrounded by a virtual forest of trees and kookaburras and her own pet water dragon Jimmy who appears daily now for raw carrots and any tasty leftovers. She has done a spectacular job of renovating what was a simple brick house and added verandahs, an amazing kitchen and, like a girl after my own heart, has cunningly installed all Ikea cabinets and sliding drawers and roll-out closets with custom made door fronts. And the garden is brilliant with native plants she has hauled from miles around. And so, I kept thinking over the home-made hummus and the roasted snapper and heavenly salad …why couldn’t I make a go of it in Australia ?? Why did I spend four years there and then rush back to LA ? Well, unlike Nell who has an adored mother and two sisters and a brother in Sydney, I had family in Melbourne, most of my pals in Sydney – but most importantly, my dearest daughter in LA. It made sense to return, didn’t it? My second-guessing of myself and the constant recriminations and regrets must stop soon. They must. Memo to self. Talk to LA therapist about my endless lack of feeling good about my decisions, restlessness and underlying flat-out panic about the future. Just because I’m a single mother and have no job, no prospects, no savings, no pension to look forward to and no partner...
And I keep thinking back to Mandy, my childhood best friend from our all-girls school Firbank who I’ve had fun with on every trip back home – at least thirty of them, since leaving Australia at 20. But this trip was very different. I visited her twice in Geelong, about an hour out of Melbourne and after two years of pancreatic cancer, she’s not a well girl. Every fiber of my being wishes I had the money and resources to somehow magically produce the perfect holistic team of acupuncturists, reflexologists, chefs, and yoga teachers on her doorstep, easing the need for painkillers and anti-nausea drugs and giving her a life and immune-enhancing concoction of food, drinks, meditations—and the STRENGTH to keep fighting. I’m sure the Aussie oncologists are as good as any in the world---but that basically means well-meaning folks who are trained to prescribe toxic drugs and nothing else in the way of complimentary treatments, nutrition or supplements. No one had ever even mentioned the concept of smoking or somehow ingesting pot to help with the nausea. Her weight is very low due to endless vomiting caused by the acute nausea and she should at the very least be trying out SMOKING SOME WEED !! I told her how I had been convinced by Melissa Etheridge talking on Ellen or Oprah about pot helping with it---and she seemed open to it – but in Australia no doctors can prescribe it and she said none of her friends partook of same. It’s tough to be a know-it-all bossy boots caretaking type but not live in the same country and unable to come by more often for a fab barbey(BBQ) of snags(sausages) and chops thanks to her darling hubby Graham and just two days after weepily waving goodbye to her I was far away in Sydney. But wishing her the very best in her struggle as I realize how lucky I am.
And just a few days later another year –a challenging one– was about to bite the dust. New Year’s Eve day in Sydney was a flurry of activity as the perfect hosts, Bryan Brown and wife Rachel are preparing their house for their big bash that evening on their verandah and back lawn overlooking the Harbor and thus we, the guests are thrilled to help in anticipation of yet another of their famous NYE bashes with the fantastic free view of the amazing fireworks show that Sydney puts on for it’s inhabitants each year now. It’s a bloody beauty!
There’s a lot to be done….no lolling about reading novels or watching dvd’s today…We drink lattes and as the caffeine kicks in, we rise to the occasion. Suddenly gorgeous Turkish rugs and oversized cushions are being flung onto the lawn, verandahs are swept, bushes are pruned, fabulous throws and Indian quilts are put over outdoor sofas, tables are laid, lanterns and candles placed, incense is lit and within a couple of hours we have ‘staged’ the joint beautifully. The blokes (Nick and Joe Brown being directed by the very bossy but witty Bryan Brown) have been doing bloke work—carrying boxes of grog all over the place and putting out big bins lined with trash bags to hold copious amounts of beer and wine…and now it’s time for some food prep before joining Lola and Matilda for a fun, old-fashioned massive trying-on of frocks session.
Hard to remember ever being that young and gorgeous as they inspect themselves in a full-length mirror and reject one fantastic outfit after another. I borrow a long arm and leg-covering dress from Rachel and try to not look in the mirror more than absolutely essential. And then suddenly, as the wind dies down to nothing and a stunningly warm evening presents itself as the last of 2009, we realize we have about ten minutes to get dressed as folk appear, champagne corks start popping and the party has begun against one of the best backdrops in the world. Well certainly in the Southern hemisphere. (This spot is such a hot ticket that the entire neighborhood is blocked off by police so that people wanting the view in nearby parks have to come by foot so that bedlam does not ensue).
Lola and Matilda appear looking like the exquisite young things they are – each wearing one of the other’s outfits. And it’s startling to realize they are no longer awkward or shy but totally confident and charming young women able to make small talk with the best of them and welcome guests like old hands. They no longer need us for practically any bloody thing and in fact would not even notice if all we oldies snuck out of the party right this minute. And if they did notice, they'd be deliriously happy. For a few moments there I start to wallow in the tragedy of getting old and redundant and not having a hope in hell of ayone flirting with me tonight (as if ) but try to pull myself together as an old Aussie pal I dated in London makes his way towards me and announces, very loudly, "You're alive!! I'm so pleased."
But most people downunder, though candid, are also discreet - and no one else has even alluded to the Big C. Or else they don’t care. But I think it’s the former - a natural tendency not to pry or invade anyone’s privacy which is a giant relief. Though I realize they can lie through their teeth with the best of them when they tell me how swell my stunningly dull, mouse shit brown hair looks….about an inch and a half all over and now with an unmistakable wave that it never possessed before. “Wow, it looks FANtastic“ they splutter as their eyes bulge in shock and horror. But it’s okay. The last year has cured me of pretty much all but a shred of vanity and it’s such fun to see folks I haven’t seen in well over two years…AND we get to see the fireworks TWICE…there is a 9pm show for young kids who can’t stay up- and then again of course at midnight. We’re riveted both times ---nothing like watching them from the comfort of our own party as we eat sushi and garlic prawns. At midnight a lot of us head down and watch from the jetty as the water reflects the flaming lit-up sky and suddenly lots of the young folk—led by an inspired Matilda Brown, jump into the Harbor, clothes and all. Shrieking, laughter and the roars and whistles of the fireworks. Such fun. Yes, my two leapt in too and were extremely pleased with themselves. We oldies mutter to each other about sharks but the young ‘uns are having a blast and certain daughters even have a first kiss with a very cute local right there in the harbor as the fireworks explode overhead.

But it’s funny how things can change in the space of a few days. One minute I’m thinking how cute and adorable it was to see Nick walking round the block in Melbourne to see the pals he’s known from the third grade—reverting to the childhood habits of cruising the neighborhood on bikes and then a few days later he’s a drunken oaf throwing up like a great big revolting teen who, to my horror, admits as he hangs his head over the toilet for about an hour at 3 am, that he’d downed TEN beers—apparently between midnight and 2am when I saw him heading for bed. I am shocked and very upset to think that had I not gone up to check on him – only to discover him lying in a huge pile of vomit on the pillow — he could have choked to death! It’s frightening and alarming and I berate myself for not keeping a closer eye on him but when a shitload of free beers are lying in bins all over the place waiting to be drunk, what can you do? I truly pray that it taught him a lesson and as I watch him like a hawk all night and put my hand on his back to make sure he's breathing –as he snores happily in my bed- I remind myself to tell him, about fifty times over the next few months, that shockingly, teens die of alcohol poisoning all the time.
As he happily tucks into bacon and eggs the next day at noon with the rest of us, (after a lot of hosing down outside on the lawn of the stinky sofa bed he slept on) and silly, somewhat inappropriate tales are swapped of the first time others got drunk, I know it’s a New year’s Eve he’ll remember for a very long time.

I bloody well am going downunder--good move!

Few hours Later- dec 16th
I’ve gone home, collapsed on the bed amidst all the half- packed bags and chaos of wrapping paper, presents that are not nearly good enough for cousins and adorable old pals I’ve known for thirty years and wallowed in the guilt and panic of not even having found a single present for my best and only daughter. I lie there and a vision of the next 18 days alone, with not even a plan for Christmas day, flashes before me! Self-pitying sentimental slob that I am, I just can’t bear the thought of it. I simply can’t. And my oldest best school friend, who’s had pancreatic cancer, which has spread to liver and lungs, is expecting to see me and I would dearly love to see my favorite uncle who is not AT ALL well. Fuck. It doesn’t seem wildly indulgent to wallow in self-pity for an hour before school pick-up. But suddenly I remember I am in possession of a letter from Dr Sam who HAS said that if I can put the flight off till Monday, he might be able to give me the go-ahead. I call the travel agent and tell him I have a letter from my infectious disease Doctor saying I should not travel till the 21st and could he please see if there is a seat then. He practically snorts with derision saying that unless I have an immediate family member who has died- and I have a DEATH CERTIFICATE ON MY PERSON, tough titty.
Over dinner I tell my kids I probably won’t be joining them again this year and they are sweetly sad but it doesn’t seem to occur to them to say they won’t go either and I can’t blame them –nor would it make any sense for us ALL to sit around feeling lower than a snake’s belly. Or some such local expression from downunder. I never get them quite right. That’s because I’m a disenfranchised bloody aussie with an American passport as well, not to mention two American children who no longer has a place she calls home and despite loving and always weeping when I hear Peter Allen’s stunning anthem “I Still Call Australia Home”, I’m afraid it’s been about three decades since I felt that to be true. I have no place to call home. It’s true and it sucks. It would be nice to feel one belongs somewhere.

24 Hours Later
I lie in bed wide AWAKE all frigging night wondering if I should just defy doc’s orders and jump on that plane but it’s hard NOT to imagine the nightmare of fifteen hours in the back of the plane. Something about staggering up for the ninth time of the night to pee and feeling the deep, deep fatigue of a year of chemo, surgeries and crap make the thought of same flight seem utterly horrifying. I’m TOO OLD for fucking ECONOMY, I tell myself sensibly. It’s just plain wrong.
But by next morning, after dropping the teen at school, I know that staying will be too wretched for words and so, I give it another try. I call to see if there are any labs back yet from the fluid tests they did yesterday and blow me down if Dr Bob doesn’t call right back and say that preliminary results indicate there may not be any infection but best to wait till Monday so I can come back and be drained again and get the official results. I tell him that it will cost $1700 to change my seat and start to cry. Basically resigned to stay, I blurt out that the left breast is twice as big as the right today anyway but he explains that it was like that yesterday because he filled it up SO much so that no more fluid could enter.
“Well it’s your decision. It’s up to you “ he announces…
“I can GO?”
“Double the dose of antibiotics and take them for two weeks-not just one and jump on a plane and come back if anything starts to look weird”
Having one breast twice as big as the other is already in the Weird department but clearly not what he means. What DOES he mean? Who cares at this point?
“So, just to be clear, you won’t disown me as a patient if I go to Australia? I ask
“If I was going to disown you I would’ve done that a long time ago!” he laughs.
“God that is so MY line”, I want to yell---but give an already smug surgeon an opening and suffer the consequences.
“Thanks so much Dr Bob “ I say—and actually mean it.
Well it’s four hours to go till my ex-husband’s very sweet third wife and Lola’s second stepmother arrives to take us to the airport. BETTER GET MOVING.!!!!! And so follows a wild few hours of all the manic packing I should have done over the last 48 hours. I try to pretend a camera is recording every move so that, with laser-like efficiency and focus, I will stick to the tasks at hand and manage it all—passports, both aussie and American, my son’s packing which is to include rash vests for surfing, his acne medication, rubber bands for his braces, swimsuits, flip flops, his skateboard and thoughtfully Xeroxed pages of his upcoming science and history chapters so that he will be a step ahead when he arrives back at school a day late, jetlagged, with a science test in the first period and a history one the next day. (Mothers must be optimists..…but yes, a MASSIVE waste of time.) And then I nimbly stuff three weekly pill boxes to the gills with all the supplements and antibiotics and anti depressants I am meant to take, hurl about twenty tank tops, 4 winter jackets and two pairs of jeans into the case with my usual lack of flair for packing and pretty soon, after weighing and reweighing all the bags till my head is spinning, I am sweating and fretting, and desperate to find something to wear for a New years Eve bash we are going to in Sydney but too late- our ride has appeared, and we’re off to the airport via Otis College to pick up Lola who is meant to be giving an end of year Performance Piece for her teachers in about ten minutes. But some people don’t bother to read the itineraries their mothers send them on repeated occasions and thus have to skip out of school a day early. Soon we are delivered safely to LAX. Okay- so we’re on the wrong floor at Arrivals and it’s also the wrong terminal. But we’re close and after a frantic 15 minute schlep we are in the correct LONG line. And soon it ‘s time to stand by as my fabulously strong son heaves bags on and off weighing machines, not letting his dear ol mum lift a finger.

As we hit the first passport checkpoint, an immigration officer looks at me, looks at my passport picture and then back at me. “You looked better with the long blonde hair. You might want to grow it again, “ he offers as he snaps it shut and takes up the next passport. I am gobsmacked. Rendered temporarily speechless, especially as Lola who often thinks she’s the bloody grown-up, has ordered me just moments ago to be polite to everyone. I am known for a certain lack of finesse at airports where my colossal impatience has been known to rear it’s ugly head- especially when power-crazed women start ordering you to take off not only shoes, but belts, scarves, sweaters, beanies.” FUCK! Should I JUST STRIP OFF COMPLETELY? Look, under my beanie –what am I hiding ? NOTHING! ” I seem to recall shouting last time I flew in June, still bald.
But Lola is incensed and jumping to my defense, immediately pipes up with “Well you know, it’s funny but when someone has chemo and LOSES ALL THEIR HAIR, they don’t have much choice about their hairstyle for a while!” That’s my girl.
The moronic officer is not remotely embarrassed and responds “Well I wouldn’t know about any of that!” before waving us on and shouting “Next!”
“Dickhead” mutters Lola and Nick sweetly puts his arm around me as we march on with the eight pieces of heavy hand luggage I vow to eliminate each year. Unsuccessfully.
Three pilots then hover next to us, trying to jump the queue as we approach the x-ray machines.. I politely ask if they’d like to jump in ahead of us and they accept the offer and walk through without taking off their shoes. I decide to leave mine on and casually walk on through before a cranky female screams at me to go back and take OFF THE SHOES! “Well they didn’t “ I reply indignantly pointing to the pilots hurrying away. The woman’s partner, packing heat, booms out “When you learn to fly a plane, you can keep your shoes on too!” I’m tempted to snap back that I have a flying license too but sensibly decide to resist my juvenile anti-authoritarian urges.
And then, naturally, I am taken aside to some holding area after putting same hand luggage through the x ray machines because I have idiotically packed three expensive green drinks from the health food store into one of the bags. The female recovers all three drinks plus a gorgeous hydrating face spray and holds them up as it was a cache of heroin and a home made bomb. “Well can I drink them now? I plead as Lola hisses “Jesus mum, they’ve only had this law for about ten years. What is your problem??” Feeling utterly brainless I respond loudly with “Well what the fuck do they think will happen? I’ll drink them and blow myself up on the spot?” Lola yells back and soon she and Nick and I are all shouting at each other. Another gun-toting dude then tells us all to pipe down or we’ll be taken “to another area”. That shuts us all up.
As we wait for the flight, now laden down with even more bags of magazines, sweeties and water, my cousin from Melbourne calls me on the cell to say, without even a hello, “Well I hope to God you’re not coming!” She’s just read my latest blog and apparently feels I should get a grip and follow doctors’ orders. “Janey, don’t be mean, the doc changed his mind and we’re about to get on the plane. Sorry!!! “ She sighs and says she’ll be at the airport to meet us. Dear cousin Janey. I do love her.
The flight is in fact even more horrendous than I anticipated and after watching four films in a row suddenly realize that both my right leg and arm are completely numb. Seriously without feeling. I manage to stagger up and head back towards the toilet where I shake and rub and suddenly remember cousin Jane’s warning that I could get a BLOOD CLOT after all the surgeries. None of my doctors have ever mentioned such a possibility but I suddenly panic ever so slightly and ask a stewardess what the symptoms of DVT are…
Well to cut a long tale short, within minutes I am surrounded by about five airline personell, my blood pressure, temperature and oxygen levels are taken and a Medivac team in Australia are called for their advice. I then excitedly overhear one steward whisper to another “Are there free seats in Business or First?” and my spirits momentarily soar as I imagine a good lie down for the next eight hours. “NO, nothing at all” comes the reply and by now I am over it all. Feeling has slowly returned to limbs and I’m ready to go back to my seat. But now they’re checking the manifest to see if a doctor’s on board and failing that they promise to make a loudspeaker announcement to see if any doctors present themselves. Jesus wept. I insist they not bother but sure enough, a few minutes later they locate a nice Asian doctor who questions me endlessly before I am finally allowed to go back to my seat. That’ll teach me. But very nice to know that apparently about 95 % of the time there’s a doctor on board any and every plane.
An ambien, an ativan, 8 Melatonin and still not a WINK of sleep – so another couple of movies, a couple of weepy moments from Lola who is so overtired after her week of work and exams and BOB’S YOUR UNCLE, (one of my favorite local expressions meaning ‘it’s all okay’) - we’ve landed in Oz. Well in Sydney—so just a few more tedious hours of recovering luggage and checking in again before a bus from the International to the Domestic terminal and then another plane ride and we’re in Melbourne. We grab a latte—even the fabulous airports in Australia are full of fantastic stores and juice bars, sushi cafes and the BEST COFFEE in the world and then out into the stunning fresh Aussie summer air and a ride with dear Janey back to her place in Sandringham, a few minutes from Port Philip Bay and the beach in groovy, hip Melbourne.
Within about ten minutes Nick is off on foot to walk round the corner and look up some of his old school mates from the primary school, a stone’s throw away, that he attended for three years. Five minutes later Lola is sunning herself by the pool in the back yard with my gorgeous 18 year-old niece Nikki who has completely grown up in the two years since I last saw her. Already I’m feeling sad as Nick loved Melbourne and the genius aspect of having pals a few blocks away. He would have been very happy to stay and live here. But I decided to return to LA and Lola after spending four years in my home town looking after my dad. It’s my first trip back in just over two years since he died and it’s odd not to feel the constant guilt I experienced whenever I wasn’t by his side. So we tuck into our favorite charcoal grilled chicken and gorgeous salad and fruit that just tastes so much better I’m afraid to say than American salad and fruit. The mangoes, the passion fruit, the pineapples—just utterly delicious and sweet and fresh. Dunno how or why—but they’re simply superior. Go figure.
For some reason the jet lag is almost non-existent and when one does inevitably wake at some ungodly hour there’s always the comfort of a glass of Milo and Vegemite on toast. My brother Geoffrey kindly lends me back my ancient old Ford Falcon station wagon- and since I was safely back in the USA while my license was suspended for 12 months, I’m free to thunder round again in what my kids called The Moose. (Only lost my license for chatting on the cell phone a few too many times- they take a dim view of cell phone use here and made it illegal about four years before America did the same thing. Oh and then I was wicked enough to drive WITH a 6 month suspended license and that’s when a judge decided I should be deprived of driving privileges for 12 months. At least they didn’t fine me as well. Once, driving from Sydney to Melbourne, I was wildly unlucky. Caught for speeding twice in six hours and given on the spot fines that you need to pay ON THE FRIGGING SPOT. As in – hand over cash or a check. The first was for $200 and then a few hours later, I rolled through a town and some rogue cop with a thick Scottish accent, possibly a plumber posing as a copper, insisted I was going 85 in a 50 km/hr zone and demanded FIFTEEN HUNDRED SMACKERS. I wrote a check- and it was good. Annoying since I was trying to be thrifty and not spend dough on airline tickets.
So naturally despite endless pacts not to buy each other xmas gifts, we manically run around buying far too many last minute pressies. And it's a treat to see nephews and nieces and their gorgeous offspring. And have endless Australian lattes. I cannot get enough.(Apparently the head of Starbucks flew to Sydney to work out why they'd had to close down all the Aussie Starbucks. Apparently he had a coffee at the airport and immediately understood the problem. Aussie coffee is sublime. On EVERY corner!! In the cutest, hippest cafes and bars and restaurants everywhere. In many, many ways,(food, design and coffee to name three) Aussies are so beyond hip and stylish and way ahead of America. And then,it’s already Christmas day. Very confronting to realize we are the grown-ups now. No parents are there. The last Christmas in Melbourne there was my dad, cousin Jane’s parents- my dear Aunty Pat and Uncle Ab- and my cousin Rick’s wife’s mother Dorothy. They would trundle round on their walkers barely able to move or speak and clearly making the most tremendous effort ever. But it made it worthwhile. They probably all wished to God they were home having a nice nap but we would get them into the cars, put on their best sweaters and their arrival would be met with much fanfare and kisses from grandchildren whose names they could barely remember. Beers and shandies and wine were brought to them, chips and dips offered and over their heads we would exchange meaningful, anxious glances. But now Dorothy and dad have kicked the bucket and poor Uncle Ab is not remotely well enough to come (with Parkinson’s, throat and lung cancer) and dear Aunty Pat insists on faithfully staying by his side. So COMES THE CHILLING BUT OVERDUE REALIZATION THAT WE ARE THE GROWN-UPS now…me and my three cousins –Jane, Rick and Bun, Rick’s wife Sue and my brother Geoff.
Who knew I was this old? Why are we even doing this?? Cos it’s bloody Christmas and that’s what you do and in fact it’s a very jolly one with seven kids between 14 and twenty six who know how to party and drink champagne and beer like it’s going out of style. Nick tries to casually walk away with a beer at one point till I put my foot down and tell him to put it down immediately- no ifs or buts! Mother Lola interferes and says ‘it’s no big deal” but I am adamant. Nick even reveals that my pal Frank who gave me a gorgeous dinner party a few nights before had given him a beer. And he drank it! Honestly Frank. He’s a child. Okay, a man-child. Aussies and their drinking – hard to keep ‘em apart. But I stick to my guns and if Nick drinks it’s behind a bush and there are those who think it’s better out in the open but at 14?? Doesn’t seem right. By 5 pm 18 of us are finally sitting down to eat our wonderful Christmas feast. Very traditional. Turkey, plum pudding –the lot, thanks to Sue who is ruffled by nothing. I stand up and try to make a toast to missing friends, my dad and Uncle Ab and Aunty Pat but am immediately in tears and unable to speak. Young Tom, 25, gets to his feet and rescues the moment—with great humor. By 6 .30 we’re dancing like fools to some great oldies that our fabulous DJ Rick always provides. And by 9 the washing up is almost done (thanks Janey) and we stagger home. Very, very glad I came. A genius decision for once.