Singular Scene

So Singular in Each Particular

Around the Hearth

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It has been an extraordinary night.

In a room containing an eclectic bunch of people, arranged in horseshoe fashion, I spent the evening with a group whose ages ranged from 30 something to almost 70, drawing each others’ names from a pot taking turns to come out to the front of the room and tell a story… a story whose premise was “it seemed like a good idea at the time”.

Have you ever noticed? We spend much of our lives making small talk, catching up on the minutiae of a day, restricting our conversation to the work we’re doing, what stage our kids are at, or what the latest fashions are – and I’m tempted to think that we are barely scratch the surface of people’s experience.

We are acquainted with a myriad of people but we barely know any of them.

So the Hearth, the event I went to tonight, opens the door to people’s lives… true stories of events, experiences and histories that make people who they are, and for an evening they bravely open the door to us… some of us friends, others strangers. And the powerful thing about it, is that hearing these stories, and telling mine in my turn, connects us in a way that few things I’ve experienced do.

I loved it … surrounded by accountants, creatives, gay, straight, spiritual, atheist, older, younger, single, partnered… all sorts of us 23 or so in number gathering over a sumptuous pot-luck dinner, lots of wine and all the while, none of us focused on our differences, all of us joined by our stories… travel stories… love stories… work stories… family stories. All of them different, some of disturbing, others hilarious… some delivered articulately others, less so, but all delivered without judgement and all of them fascinating.

There’s a time limit on the hearth… 5 minutes… maybe a squeak over, if you’re lucky… but with 18 of us telling stories, and between that and dinner and supper… that was the fastest 5 hours I’ve spent in a long time.

I love the internet, I love my digital friends and digital stories I’ve read and told.

But damn, you can’t beat the real thing.

*the hearth is based on The Moth, a storytelling organisation/event in NYC… check it out (and the podcast) here. Good stuff

Looking after the Girls

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I had a bit of a weep today.

I was standing in a clinic, naked from the waist up and the radiographer advised me she’d like to do a follow up shot. She’d done the mammogram, both sides, a procedure that’s uncomfortable but unremarkable really… and she hadn’t appeared too concerned at what she’d seen, or hadn’t seen. But the doctor wanted to get a closer look.

I burst into tears.

I’m 44, I’m close to the age my aunts were when they were first diagnosed, I’m close to the age my grandmother was when she was diagnosed, while she was carrying my mother.

I was unprepared for the fact that my advancing years brings the possibility that it will be my turn next just that much closer, and I was unprepared for how much the fear of it was simmering away in my subconscious.

It’s been 3 years since my last scan, I was surprised, it doesn’t seem that long ago, so when I re-booked I was more afraid given that the time between scans was so long… I’m supposed to have annual checks… time flies.  So in the week between referral and booking I’ve played over in my mind what I’d do, if in fact they’d found anything untoward.

I’m reasonably confident I’d take a radical approach and go for bi-lateral (both sides) mastectomy and reconstruction all in the same hit, regardless of how small any lesions were.  I would rather go through that and the medium term discomfort and associated emotional issues than wake up every day wondering if today is the day any cancer came back.  It’s what my mother did, and while, at diagnosis,  she was significantly older than I am today, she made the tough choice and has never looked back… it’s been 6 years for her, and there have been no new concerns about this aspect of her health.

So, I had a bit of a weep today.  A weep at the possibility that in one instant my world could change radically, and another that…

… it didn’t.

 

 

 

SO, when was the last time you, or the girls close to you got checked?  If it’s been a while, what are you waiting for?

If you’re interested about this part of my world, if you need any encouragement to get checked – well,  the boob checking archives are here.

Safety’s just Danger Out of Place.

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Living a singular life has its benefits and it has its drawbacks, just the same I’m sure, as a co-operative one.

When you’re single you can look at look at other people’s relationships and you tell yourself just how lucky you are that life is so uncomplicated because you really are only responsible for yourself. Life is manageable on your own, avoiding the complexities of intimate relationships is part of a whole long list of strategies you have in your toolkit to manage doing life alone and staying [mostly] sane.*

But I’m pretty sure we weren’t made to be alone, just look around you – all our favourite movies are about connection. I split my sides over Crazy, Stupid, Love on the weekend. It’s an absolute cracker that tells the truth about the complications of relationships (and a half naked Ryan Gosling only adds to the movie’s appeal) … But even the unromantic movies are all about relationships… about people’s connections to each other…

And yet, here I am 44 and going home to a cat, not a lover and so I have organised my life to make it work. I have an incredible community of people around me who never make me feel as though I’m alone, nor am I ever made to feel like I’m any less given that I’m single while the larger group of them are married. I have the cat so the house isn’t empty, and I spent time and money traveling to be with the people who love me the most, my family, whose relationships are crazy complicated and part of the reason I have no cause to regret being on my own…

But I’ve been life solo a long time that when the prospect of changing things arises I’m caught on a knife edge… Safety or Danger? Do I take the leap into complications or do I retreat, keeping things on the level, minimize risk and stay with the status quo?

Who am I kidding?

I’d trade my singular status in a heartbeat which isn’t something I  usually freely admit, even to myself.

I’ve told people that I’m happy, and comfortable, and acutely aware of just how complicated life could be if I let myself go there – and it’s completely true. But it is equally true that I don’t want to do this on my own forever. Yes, in a way, life may well be less complicated now and could get more complicated if I was having to account for someone else in my world.

But given the choice between safety and danger?

F*ck it, I’d choose living dangerously… it’s how you know you’re alive.

 

*and of course, by you, I meant I…

Ink-spell

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I never, ever wanted to be an old lady with a tattoo and yet, here I am sporting ink for the first time at the ripe old age of 44.

I’m so [cough] hipster.

Someone once said to me, the only reason to get a tattoo is for it to really mean something… and as soon as they said it I knew what I would get.

It has been well documented in the pages of this here blog that my mantra is No Regrets, No Excuses and so of course, the idea of that text as ink having been planted it would.not.let.me.go in the succeeding months.

Once I’d made peace with the idea over a period of a year (making sure I was not being rash about it)  I then spent the last 6 months fiddling about with potential fonts (coz anyone who knows me well knows that I’m all about the words, not the pictures) … and finally decided on a modified version of Mon Amour Script with which to decorate my arm.

At first I had wanted to put these words on my right wrist, but after the initial consultation with the artist it transpired that the font I’d chosen required being substantially larger than I’d thought in order to be still looking good in a year’s time (instead of smudged and blotchy) …

So, I went home with my design, tweaked it further and reduced some of the complexity so that the script really did become a custom font and finally, on May the 1st my mate Bernie and I made our way across to Inner Vision Tattoo in Surry Hills and under the steady hand of Megan Oliver we got our ink, Bernie’s a smaller less complex design inside her wrist and mine, inside of my right forearm.

I honestly didn’t know how I’d feel afterwards… would I be sorry? Would I actually regret having a tattoo… and wouldn’t THAT be dumb, given that the very text precluded regretting anything!

I secretly felt as though I’d feel fantastic… a little bit badass, and a whole lot of stoked with myself. And that’s exactly how I felt, and how I still feel.

I love that this little part of something that burns deep on the inside of me is now actually visible on the outside.