I have decided to use pseudonyms for the other members of my family on this blog. I was once told that there are only two degrees of separation in Darwin. This city is probably so small as to make efforts at anonymity virtually pointless. But for whatever it’s worth, I’ll call my fellas by their middle names – my husband will be 'John', our 11 year old son 'Francis' and our 9 year old 'Scott' (named for their two grandfathers).
Last Saturday, I found myself at home alone with Scott. As is typical during the wet season, the day was overpoweringly humid. After he had played on the computer for a while, I suggested that we do something – play a game, perhaps. No, he said, he’d rather go on a bike ride. My suggestion that the humidity might make this unpleasant at 11am was dismissed, so – determined not to let the side down and to start re-establishing my rep as a fun, active mother - I agreed.
When you’re trying to re-build your life after a year like the one I’ve just had, the smallest task can seem complicated. No simple grabbing-bike-and-going for me, at least on my first attempt. I needed to get my helmet from the store room – where on earth was my key? Where did we keep the pump? What should I wear to: (a) give maximum comfort to my re-configured body; (b) protect against the sun (especially important due to my risk of lymphoedema); and (c) allow for the stickiness factor? Where would we go, in this town I was still getting to know? A map needed to be consulted. There was barely concealed sighing, and more than a touch of eye rolling, during all this faffing about. I could sympathise. I was finding it annoying myself.
Eventually we got underway, headed for Nightcliff Jetty in the hope that the ice cream van which frequents the spot had set up for the day. The route took us along bike paths that skirted the Jingili Water Gardens and then wove between palm trees along the Nightcliff foreshore. Scott’s speed had increased since our last ride together, and he kept a brisk pace a fair way in the lead. I was heartened to find that my body felt strong and my left arm (which had been aching, leading me to worry about lymphoedema) was untroubled. It felt great to see my little’un powering ahead of me, his long metal-head hair bouncing under his bike helmet, the brilliantly blue water of the Beagle Gulf shimmering alongside. As I pushed along I wrote a blog entry in my head about reclaiming my body while bonding with my child. Goodness, but it was going to be uplifting!
When we reached Nightcliff Jetty, the heat was punishing and no ice cream van was in sight. We rode to the nearby swimming pool and bought ice creams there, which we shovelled in while sheltering as best we could under a palm tree. The sweltering ride home drained us both. On reaching our front gate, I commented that we should keep the weather in mind when timing such ventures in the wet season, but that it had nevertheless been nice to have a ride. “No, it wasn’t!” was the blunt reply. My imaginary blog post was starting to lose its shine.
Desperate for relief, we stripped off extraneous items of clothing and flung ourselves into the pool. This was another significant moment – the first time that I had swum since starting treatment. First there had been surgical wounds to recover from, then paranoia about infections during chemotherapy, and finally a large expanse of radiation burns that had needed to heal. The pool behind our much loved, box-on-stilts Darwin house is a lovely one, and an involuntary gasp of pleasure burst forth as I broke the surface after plunging in. “What are you making that noise for?” Scott asked, to which I mumbled something about it being nice to be back in the water.
A while later, Scott and I were taking swings at each other with long, inflatable mallets while balancing on large pool toys. Tiring of this game, Scott got out of the water and took a running dive through the centre of a blow-up ring floating on the other side of the pool. “Why don’t you do things like that?”, he asked. The note of disdain was too much for me. “Scott,” I said, “I've just had eight months of cancer treatment that involved three surgeries, six rounds of chemotherapy, and radiation that left burns all over my chest. You will notice that I am currently sitting on an inflatable crocodile swinging a mallet. All in all, I think I’m doing pretty well.” “Yeah,” he replied dubiously, nose wrinkled, “but still....”
When it comes to my sons – particularly the younger - I sometimes wonder if I’ve made cancer look too easy. But when it comes to your kids, I guess that’s what you try to do. Nine year olds are meant to be blind to their mothers’ struggles, un-wowed by their small triumphs. Better that than paralysed with fear. So for now I’ll thwack my lad with an inflatable mallet, fall off my crocodile and try to rejoice in the normality of his implacably wrinkled nose. While reminding myself that real life never makes a perfect blog post.
[This is a post from my new blog, www.paw-paw-salad.com , where I hope to talk about life in Darwin and adjusting to life with breast cancer. I'd love it if BCNA members popped in and said hi!]
