A few years on...

It’s been a few months… ok, years. A lot has happened. Alyssa Bernardete was born this year. Ana Paula has developed anxiety issues. I was promoted at work… And right at the end of this eventful year, I came to realise how fragile my marriage is. It’s opened my eyes up to a whole new reality, one that I don’t particularly want to take with me to the New Year, but am unable to ignore. My MIL is sick. She was rushed to hospital a few weeks ago and has remained there since. My husband has visited her daily, spending over 4 hours there. I have visited once. I don’t feel that my presence is particularly wanted or needed, so I’ve opted to stay and look after the girls instead. But yesterday the bomb was dropped: they’re going to have to cut off her toes, possibly more. When all is said and done, it could be a lot worse, especially once you consider that she actually went in there with pneumonia. But, this was a huge upset for my husband. When he arrived home, his eyes were bloodshot and his nerves were on edge. He shut himself away in the bedroom and refused to talk to anyone. Much later in the evening, he came downstairs and although I begged him to talk, he clammed up and simply stared at the TV. As I stared at him staring at the TV, it dawned on me that this man was not going to be able to handle that inevitable day. We won’t be enough to keep him together and he will sink into a depression so deep that no one will be able to get him out. His commitment and connection to his mother is far deeper and influential than anything I’ve ever had with him, and although he has a strong bond with our children, it’s nowhere near as close. We will lose him. We won’t want to, but we’ll be left with no choice: it’ll be our sanity or his. The end will be bitter, petty and heart-breaking… for me, for the girls it’ll be even worse. And there’s nothing I can do about it. Nothing at all. So roll on 2015, let’s continue to fight a losing battle.

Many Moons Ago

Many moons ago I had a friend, whose name here will be Ice, who changed my adult life and was never aware of actually doing so. He was a 26 year-old resident doctor who aspired to be the number one neurosurgeon in the States. In 1999, after months of studying, pleading and inadvertently being humiliated, he finally managed to get a grant to study in the US.

By 2001 he was lying 6 foot under in a cemetry in NY.

I didn't go to the funeral. I could have gone, but consciously chose not to. Although I'm tempted to say that I have learnt to live with the regret, it would be a blatant lie and besides the point of this post. Ten years down the line, I am still haunted by that "concious decision". You see, there aren't that many things I remember vividly - I have a wonderful aptitude to forget what I cannot handle - but the day I received the news and made that decision is something I can describe in detail, even down to the smell in the room at the time.

I was temporarily living at my sister's place, in a small room with a large bay window and a modern, blue sofa bed. The room was cosy, had the delicate smell of Trésor (my perfume of choice at the time) and most importantly was mine. I was desperately trying to study for my finals when my mobile phone went off, I remember glancing at the screen and seeing AJ's name and rejecting the call. You see, AJ and I weren't on speaking terms and I really wasn't in the mood for another contest of who could yell the loudest, especially since the house was full (with my parents included). I was surprised when he insisted and continued calling. By the 6th call, my curiousity had peeked and I picked up. At first, I thought he was messing with me as I couldn't understand half of what he said - and then with perfect clarity I heard "Ice is dead". What happened next is the only part that is blurred in my mind, I don't remember what I said or how I felt. The next thing I do remember clearly is grabbing my coat, my cigarettes and my nephew and walking out. I must have said something to my parents and my sister because I vaguely remember her telling my mum to let me go.

I walked up that road, sobbing and smoking, and trying to explain to my very bemused nephew what had happened. A tad hard when I didn't know myself. I remember it being bitterly cold and my cheeks hurting from the freezing wind hitting my wet face. After what must have seemed to be an eternity to him, we walked back home. I went back up to my little room and made THE phone call. I spoke to AJ and told him that I wouldn't be going to the funeral, but that I'd be sending flowers in my own name, not together with anyone else. I said this all in one swift gush secretly hoping that AJ would just allow me to put down the phone and never speak of this decision ever again. I did put down the phone, but AJ just called me right back up... over and over, until I again finally gave in a picked up the phone.

He yelled like I had never heard - and have never since heard - him yell before. He screamed so much that at one point his voice gave in. Then he cried. And I cried. We must have been on that phone for more than 15 minutes just crying. In the end, it was him that put down the phone. It was another 5 years before I spoke to AJ again and we've never spoken about those two phone calls.

At the beginning of this post, I said that Ice had changed my adult life without even knowing it. He had already changed me before he died, when I was still doing a lot of maturing and growing up in QdC, but I don't think he attributed any of my emotional development to himself at any point in his life. To clarify, Ice was 6 years my senior and a nonstereotypical male: mature, responsible, independent and honest. Ice-cold honest, hence the nickname. I loved hanging out with him and his stereotypically-male-in-his-early-20s brother. They were older, funnier, and just down-right more exciting than any of my school friends... Plus they had the added bonus of having a lot of other male friends, which at the time really improved my status at school.

But Ice didn't make it easy for me. He wouldn't take "blubbering", hated it in fact. Couldn't handle hysteria, despised it. And would never, ever tolerate "girl-isms". That was all fine with me, after all I had a group of girlfriends with whom I could do the hysterical blubbering and discuss boys, periods, make-up and hairstyles. I didn't need him for that. I needed, craved even, his honesty. His brutal outspokeness demanded a level of mental development that most times I didn't have, but I always went back for more. I wanted to be ready for his candid approach to life, I needed to be.

For three years, I developed an air-tight friendship. I never once crushed on him or him on me. It was one of the few relationships I can hand-on-my-heart say was purely platonic. We lived different moments of our lives - me in high school, him finishing university - but shared all our explorations and expectations. He would rein me in whenever my adoloscent mind went wondering and I would curb his cruel candor (or try to).

And then in 1998, I moved back to England. Fortunately, the internet was already acessible and email kept us in touch with each other's lives, but try as we might, it was never quite the same. Whenever I would visit QdC, I'd make sure his was the second house on my list (the first being my parents'). I remember one year in particular I had managed to annoy my mother within 10 minutes of my arrival by announcing I was visiting Ice when low-and-behold the doorbell rang. He knew that my mum would flip out so he had decided to come to my place and hang out there. "Two birds, one stone", he said. I think it was only at that moment that he really started to be accepted by my parents.

I've never had such a close friendship with anyone else since. I've had, and have, close friends, but it's different. Ice had already changed the way I looked at people even before he died, but after his death I placed him on a pedalstool so high that no one could ever come close. If I'm honest, I don't particularly want anyone to be remotely close to attaining that level of platonic intensity with me. You see, people die and I don't want to consciously make another bad decision. I took time to allow my husband to see the real me, but considering he lived with me and I loved him it wasn't really like I had much of a choice, with someone from the "outside" I have a choice.

I am by no means belittling my close friends or my family. They have helped me in so many difficult times, I'm not sure I would even know how to thank them. I love them all profoundly... But in my darker moments, I still close my eyes and imagine my good friend Ice telling me to suck it up, hold my head up and move on. And in those especially dark moments, I imagine his hugs - there weren't many, but by god they were perfectly timed.

RIP CTTA

No, I'm not schizophrenic. And no, you don't understand how I feel.

I have two voices in my head at all times. One is a cold, practical, no-nonsense kind of voice and the other is a day-dreaming drama queen. Unfortunately for me, I have a tendency to listen to the latter rather than the former and these past five days have been no different. Well, actually they have, because I desperately tried to listen and believe in what my more level-headed thoughts were telling me, but try as I might I just couldn’t let go of the soft fantasies the other was offering.

It’s been 20 months since we started trying and every month it’s been a nail-biting wait until D-day.  Each month it’s been another disappointment added to the ever-growing list. I had originally thought that the worst were when I was on the hormones, because at that time I was convinced that it was going to happen, but I was so very, very wrong. The worst so far was this month and partially all because I listened to the wrong voice.

Last month the new doctor asked me to come off the hormones, since it wasn’t him who had put me on them in the first place; he justified it by wanting to see how everything worked without drugs. It sounded reasonable and logical, even though it was a setback in my minds, so off I came. 14 days later I went in for a scan and transvaginal probe. He found one tiny egg, scrunched up his nose, did the maths, and told me to go back in two days. Two days later there I was again (convinced that THAT was the day). He found the egg, a tad bigger, did the maths again and scrunched up his nose even further. Again, I was asked to go back in two days. Slight snag though, for professional reasons, it just wasn’t viable. So he rushed up to his office and printed off a prescription for the same bloody drug I had been on before. I stared in dismay at the paper; after all it’s not like it had worked last time, is it? Then I read the instructions. Ah, ok so the way I was taking it was different. Hope was back.

So, I went back to my normal, mundane life. On the 22^nd I prepared myself for D-day, got the tampons in my handbag, threw in a few painkillers just in case, and went about my business. Nothing. 23^rd came and went. Nothing. 24^th… 25^th … All this time, I was bursting to tell someone, but refrained from doing so for fear of jinxing it. I didn’t even tell my husband until late evening on the 25^th. As I was driving to work, I had already started to weed out who may or may not be a good “godparent” for Alyana Bernadette (the name had been previously chosen on another drive to work). Whilst doing the shopping yesterday (the 26^th and 4 days into being late) I decided to buy a pregnancy test. I swore to myself that I would only do it in the morning, thus giving D-day enough time to arrive.

As I was going to bed late last night, my level-headed voice spoke to me, told me to stop being so fantastical. Unless the best specialist in the country was completely incompetent there was no possible way that the test would be positive. I even agreed with it. And immediately after, imagined taking the test, it being positive and me immediately phoning my sister. I even smiled at the thought!

So at 7.30 am today, I took the test. Then I sat at the kitchen table with my daughter watching Barbie on TV in the living room and my husband running yet another mini-marathon, and cried until 10 am. I have never felt so alone. I have said and written this sentence before, but I haven’t appreciated the true meaning behind it until this morning. Unless you are living exactly what I’m living right now, you don’t understand me. You may empathize with me and you may even pity me – which you can shove where the sun doesn’t shine – but you don’t understand me.

No one around me is fighting this fight, in fact everyone seems to be dropping out babies faster than I can say “baby factory” and the two people I know who at one point in their lives wrestled with this are on either side of the globe. I could go online, meet other men and women who are having their hearts ripped out of them every month, share my highs and lows with a bunch of strangers who I’ll never meet, and read about all the success stories – which will either fuel my energy or drive me to despair – but I won’t. It’s not me. Although I could potentially see me allowing myself to hide behind the monitor and expose my inner thoughts quite nakedly, I won’t. It’s just not me. So, I’ll continue to talk about the facts very naturally and plainly and I’ll continue to pretend to care when people say they can understand what I’m going through, I’ll even offer them a smile. But I won’t go online in search for a community of other sufferers because it’s easier to pretend and discuss facts than it is to be nakedly truthful.

Now the real irony is that 4 hours after having done the test D-day actually came. I don’t know whose gods I’ve pissed off, but I wish they’d get over themselves and allow me to have a healthy baby to nurture and love.

Blink and You'll Miss It

In the middle of my aunt’s funeral I was hit by the power of religion. The negative power.

As my dear old aunt, who had been suffering for well over a year lay there for all to see; I wondered just how much of the spectacle was in memory of her and how much was so the neighbours wouldn’t talk.  I could go down the road of criticism towards my cousins for lack of time spent with my aunt, but as they could easily retaliate with the fact that I’d only travelled the 300 km to see her twice in one year, I’ll shut up on the subject and jab my finger at the institution that so many  believe in.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting and desperately trying not to stare at the body, the priest finally arrived. His first words of compassion were:

“I just received a phone call from someone needing their last rites, so I need to hurry this up”

I audibly gasped and hurriedly searched for equal looks of disgust on people’s faces. The only one I found was my father’s and it was more a roll-of-the-eyes look than anything else.

The priest proceeded to speed through the mass, not even allowing people to say their lines. I’m the first to admit that I can’t actually remember the last time where I sat through a mass of any sorts, but I do remember the numb butt feeling after a Sunday Mass. The whole thing, including the burial, was done in 25 minutes. It was almost a “blink and you miss it” moment. 

In these 25 minutes, I refused to give up and kept searching the faces for the slightest sign of outrage and again came up with nothing. Well, yet again apart from my dad rolling his eyes while pretending to know what to say.  It was during one of those desperate pursuits that I realized just how powerful religion was. It held such a strong grip on these people that it overrode any indignation they might have had. They were so enthralled in their beliefs they failed to see that a mere man was the one before them. And it was this man who was disrespecting their faith and in turn my aunt (and whoever was dying). This man’s actions disregarded my aunt’s many years of belief in this particular religion, his hastiness swept aside any consideration for the mourners – who had only had a day to begin to process the death, this is after all Portugal – and his abruptness belittled any meaning the ceremony could have had.

Surely the best thing to have done was to deliver the last rites to the poor person who was dying and just delay the funeral – it’s not like my aunt was going anywhere now is it?! Or maybe I’ve just grown too cynical towards the men and women of the cloth who carry themselves as righteous and superior yet are of flesh and bone like the rest of us… Either way, what happened shouldn’t have.

RIP Ana Conceição

The Dating Game Show

The host at the beginning of the show may be a mutual friend, or there may actually be none. The recording studio can range from a dark, musty bar to a lively Mexican restaurant and as for the contestants, well there's hardly ever any in-depth background check and they can range from a Brad Pitt lookalike to a Ted Bundy wannabe. The prize is high stakes: love or at the very least a hot fling.

The date, or "this week's show", starts off with the pleasantries and a few innocuous questions, and as the alcohol - a must in most episodes - flows maybe the conversation does too. During this flow, a genius may be discovered, a soul mate found or your worst nightmare exposed. Or not. The bed of the river of conversation may in fact run completely dry, no matter how much alcohol you pour into it. Thus, the dilemmas begin. Do you make a deft departure, excusing yourself with an emergency call from a friend or do you politely postpone your exit until the end of the meal/night? Do you babble on about the atrocities of your job, recount childhood memories, share your ex's flaws or just stifle the yawn that has been slowly building up? Or do you pretend to be something that you’re not and tell tall stories of drama and adventure? Decisions, decisions.

The end of the show may come quickly for some and far too sluggishly for others. Either way, unless an emergency call has been made by a life-saving friend, contestants are then left with the awkwardness of goodbye. Will it be a peck on the cheek, a hearty smack on the lips, a full on tongue twisting snog or a barely there hug? Does the moment require a deceitful promise of the continuation of contact or can the two be honest and delete each other from their phones? Or perhaps, the two contestants will walk away while Bryan Adams croons in the background “Everything I do” and the stars will twinkle brightly and for a good 24 hours the world will seem like it’s a better place.

But wait, what if your Brad Pitt lookalike is a dull as Jennifer Anniston yet he thinks you're not only better looking than Angelina Jolie but more interesting by far?! Obviously, promises have to be made to text or call tomorrow. And obviously, neither will be done.

Oh, wait a minute. It could be even worse. Your Brad Pitt lookalike could actually be gainfully employed, have his own place and car, have no offspring, be responsible, trustworthy, funny, interesting and completely not interested in you.

The possible outcomes of this show are almost infinite but the feelings it provokes are seemingly less than that. After all, we’re only talking about the spectrum ranging from jubilance to despair, multiply that by the fact that there are two people involved who may have completely different perspectives on the experience… Well, yes it seems that the potential induced feelings may be infinite too.

I'm married. Happily, I hasten to add. And I thank my lucky stars for that because I don't think I would want to be a contestant on this particular game show. I’m sure there are many audiences partaking in these shows that would disagree with me, and that would argue that there are many humorous moments to be shared. Indeed, that the prize outweighs the disappointment. I take my hat off to that audience because I personally couldn’t deal with the exposé it all entails.

I’m married. Happily married. And I thank my lucky stars for that.

Storm

In the eye of the storm, she is magestically magnificant

Fearlessly flying though gargantuan gusts and wrathful whirlwinds,

Smoothly soaring above hidden hazes and frosty fog,

With effortless ebony feathers fondled by the wind.

In the eye of the storm, she is fiercly ferocious

Silently swooping on vunerable victims and gregarious game,

Readily ripping their hideous hearts from their saddened souls,

Ethereally existing and precariously prevailing in a fabricated fantasy.

In the eye of the storm, she is perpetually passionate

Inattentively intoxicating the carnal collaboration she needs to survive,

The inexplicable infatuation presently passing her by,

As she is delightedly detached from tenacious ties.

In the eye of the storm, she is tenderly timorous

Secretly scared of the tormenting truth escaping her sorrowful spirit,

Heedlessly hungering for a breezeless blizzard and an impassive inundation,

Only with which she can serenly settle to her starless sky.

Rapist's Eyes

Pinned against the wall, she cries,

Avoiding the look of the rapist’s eyes,

She turns her face from his putrid breath,

Sensing the effects of the forbidden meth.

He pinches and squeezes until she’s bruised

She screams and shouts until her energy’s all used.

Forces himself inside in one angry thrust

As she loudly wails in agony and disgust.

Feeling the bitter bile rise in her throat

She recalls the symbols that her love wrote.

He moans and groans in anticipation

Until the moment has come for ejaculation.

He pulls out and let’s her slide down the wall,

Letting her crawl into a small little ball.

He laughs in jest at her sorry state

Compliments her and says it was great.

Then he hollers for rape number two

“Come on then, she’s a fucking good screw”

She closes her eyes and let’s her mind wonder

To a peaceful influence to which she falls under,

As her body is violated in every way

Her mind plays tricks and floats away

She barely feels the lunging of his cock

When she slips away in insulin shock.

Unpaid Whore

Stranded and alone

Leaning against the telephone pole

Cloud of smoke hides the hollow look

Lewd acts in which the john partook

Sleepless nights with cheap tricks

Nasty thrills to get your kicks

Powerless to hurt me anymore

Nothing but an unpaid whore.

Wise Oak Tree

One day you will face the strong winds

You will neither falter nor fall.

You will stand tall and proud.

You will battle and win.

You will strengthen and mature.

You will nurture and foster.

You will shield and protect

You will shade and shelter.

One day you will be.



Five Senses

I see you crumpled and ragged

Lying on the contemporary leather couch

The one you bought in better times.

I wish I could give you a padded room

For you to emancipate your fury.

I hear your shattered and estranged voice

Talking to me on your extravagant new cell

The one you required in happier times.

I wish I could bring back your musical muse

For you to lose yourself in the strings.

I feel your sorrowful torment

Going through your demanding days

Like the ones you had in another lifetime

I wish I could give you a serene pillow

On which to rest your languid head.

I smell your immense grief and revulsion

Selling the utopian beach house of your ideals

The one that was a rebirth of a punctuated life

I wish I could endow you with a home

In which to shelter away from this tornado.

 

I taste your salty clandestine tears

Being shed from your exposed being

The one that has fostered abuse and dismay

I wish I could be there to incinerate the despair

For you to continue the way you were.