Nope, still no maternal instinct!

At the age of 11, I saw the movie Charlotte’s Web (the one where Debbie Reynolds is the voice of Charlotte) for the very first time. Not long after that, I saw the movie Babe and from there on in, I wanted a piglet to love and cherish. Preferably one with the gift of speech.

I have lived in suburbia my entire 34 years of existence and because of this, and various other practical (yet deeply unfair) reasons, the longing for my very own piggy chum has hither to, remained unrequited. Or has it?

As you might remember from previous blog posts, I have been eagerly awaiting the arrival of my nephew. For the record, no one actually new he would be a boy, except me. I have been saying it all along.   I am very excited to report that six weeks ago (at time of writing) the esteemed David Geoffrey was born. Lucky for him he bears no resemblance to his Aunty Nina, although (at least for the time being) we are almost the same height.

Anyway a few weeks ago, ironically whilst tucking into Mum’s roast pork (what can I say? I really love pigs) the family and I began a conversation about Chinese Star Signs. I was born in 1984, which makes me a rat. 2019 is the year of the pig. My darling nephew is the piglet I have always wanted! Using Charlotte’s Web as the metaphor, does that make me Templeton? Not sure how I feel about that.

I can now admit that David’s impending arrival did fill me with a slight sense of fear. I was afraid that being in such close contact with him so often would result in an overwhelming urge for me to have children of my own, an urge I have never really had to date. It did not, thank goodness.

It is not that I do not like kids. On the contrary, I love David and I will never pass up the opportunity for a cuddle with him. I am just not maternal.

This gives me mixed feelings. On the one hand, guilt because I will not make Damion a Daddy, provide my parents with extra grandchildren or cousins for David. On the other hand resentment because I am vindicating those who feel (and are not shy in telling me), that as a disabled woman I have no business being a mother.    If I am honest this is the stronger of the two feelings, but I am not about to get pregnant out of spite!

As it turns out, one of my personal inspirations, Jane Austen was herself, a proud (and childless) Aunty who (from what I have read) chose to be so in spite of or perhaps because of societal opinions. I suspect the criticism she received was the opposite to mine though.

PerhapsJane and I have more in common than just a birthdate and a love of writing.

XOXO

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No, you can not see my tits!

So here I am, outside work waiting for my taxi when a woman who happened to be going past, stopped to ask if I needed any help. I thanked her, said I was all-good and wished her a good evening. But she did not move.

 

“I wish I could get away with one of those,” she said, pointing to my walking frame. I just smiled. She obviously took this as a good sign and went on, “what’s wrong with your legs?” She asked. “They’re wonky,” I replied. “I can see that,” she said. “What about the feet?” She enquired. “They’re wonky too,” I answered.

 

Now I really wanted her to go away, but of course she did not. Instead she stood there staring at my bare legs (I was wearing a skirt), then down to my boot-clad feet. “Can I see them?” She asked. I said no. Apparently, this was unacceptable, as she seemed very affronted as she marched off.

 

Astoundingly, that was not the first time I have been asked to remove my shoes and socks in public so a curious person can inspect my feet. It happened at work once years ago too. When I declined to go barefoot in the middle of the office, the reaction was much the same.

 

To some, the request to remove shoes may not be a big one, but to me it is. We all have aspects of our bodies that we would prefer not to flaunt, and this is mine. In addition, really, why should I?  My disability, no matter how visible does not make me a public spectacle.

 

What you are asking, (especially when no one else is doing it, or I do not know you) is the equivalent of “show us your tits,” and I am not about to do that either.

 

While I am on the subject, keep your hands off the goods. It might surprise you but I am not a fan of curiosity Fuelled poking and feeling or patronising high fives. Head pats or pinches of the cheek. If you think my calves are skinny, head is huge, hair is fake, my bra stuffed or whatever else, show some decorum and keep it to yourself!

 

I am only human. Would you just cop it on the chin?

If I am expected to use my manners, so should you!

XOXO

Not as young as I used to be

I am vertically challenged, standing a hulking 4 foot nine inches to be exact.   I never really had any hope of being tall, my genes and the IP saw to that.

When I had my shunt inserted at six months old the surgeons inserted tubing so long that it would have served me well if I had grown to be a giant, so not everyone thought all hope was lost. Obviously, I am not a giant though, (in fact, I am technically a dwarf. I was reminded recently (by people not expecting to see it in a CT scan) that said tubing still floats in my abdomen in a big coil. Just in case my growth spirt ever comes.

My small frame has often caused others to warn me to “always carry ID Nina; No one is ever going to believe you are over 18.”

I took this on-board. To this day, I still carry my 18 plus card (I am 34) just in case. To my dismay, it has been a very, very long time since I have been “carded”. Despite drinking cocktails in various pubs and clubs while speaking very loudly about my upcoming year twelve exams. Damn it!

Until recently, this fact has perplexed me; such was my belief of my youthful visage.

I was hanging out with Miss 6 who asked me how old I am. I stupidly invited her to guess and to my horror, she guessed forty. I managed to convince myself that this is the only number she knew (it is not) and posed the question to her twin brother. He guessed that I was eight, because I am only slightly taller than he is. I can live with that, although if true it could raise a few questions for Damion.

Feeling full of youthful exuberance, I found myself seated next to a little boy I did not know at a lunch. We got to chatting and I asked him how old he is. He is five. He then asked me how old I am and I invited him to guess.

He gave me an appraisal and after asking, “are you younger than Grandpa?” pronounced that I am forty-five. Convinced that he had misunderstood the purpose of the game, I asked him again. This time he said fifty. I stopped playing.

Often, a kid will age you based on your height in comparison to others. For instance, pre-primary kids are usually the littlest at school.

I have often assumed that the reason I get on so well with kids, is that as a short arse they think I am one of them and can relate. Apparently not.

So funny how oftentimes only the kids recognise that I am a grown up.

33, The Year That Was

Tomorrow, the sixteenth of December 2018 is my thirty-fourth birthday and unlike most adults I know, I am really looking forward to it.

Being the constant self-evaluator that I am, I find myself in a reflective mood. I feel the need to look back on the past year, see what I have learned and set some goals for the year ahead, (most of which I know I will not keep).

This year, I gained a Sister. No, Mum and Dad have not had another baby , my brother finally put a ring on it and he and Amy got married. Do not ask me how the wedding was though because I could not tell you. For the first and to date only time ever, my Cochlear Implant and my Hearing Aid both died at the exact same (and most inconvenient) time, so although I was there, I missed everything. Having hearing loss is definitely worse than impaired vision.

The worst thing is, i look terrible when I cry…Like way worse than normal.

Once I realized I would not be able to communicate, hear the speeches or participate at all, naturally I burst into tears. at that exact time the photographer chose to take one of the only photographs of me from the day. It is not pretty.

Damion and I went on our first holiday together. We had a whirlwind visit to Melbourne, where somehow I found myself at the Melbourne Cricket Ground watching  what would turn out to be a Grand Final prebiew, between the West Coast Eagles and The Collingwood Magpies. Damion is still trying to convert me to the dark side (AKA WCE) but I am sticking with my Fremantle Dockers thank you very much!

To Be Honest, I was a bit apprehensive about this trip because I was not sure how we would be, not being able to escape each other for four entire days. Turns out, despite the various bouts of taxi drama and getting lost constantly, it was the most relaxing holiday I have ever been on.

A good thing too, as not long after arriving home, we found out that Damion has Melenoma on his lung, meaning he would need to start chemo in ernest. Up until then, I had been managing my depression/anxiety quite well. But this tipped me over the edge (not literally though thank goodness). Obviously, I was devastated by the prospect of loosing Damion, but with added bonus guilt about (again) making it all about me. I decided to tackle it head on and have been seeing my psychologist again regularly. It has really helped, as has the constant support from our friends and family. Not to mention my trusty meds.

I am a person who talks a lot. But, not really about my feelings or anything that might make me feel or appear vulnerable. With all this going on, I had to break this rule. Talking actually does help sort things out and put things in perspective. It does depend on who you choose to confide in though.

Damion has taken it all in his stride and as always, has been a pillar of strength for us all.

For the record, he has just had his three-month review and his cancer (which was covering both of his lungs), is already 60 per cent gone. It seems there is a God afterall.

On a side note. It is official, this one is a keeper!

This year I also tried indoor skydiving and frankly, I will not be doing it again, it scared the shit out of me. Jumping out of a plane at 14,000 feet is way better. It also has the added bonus of giving you a bit more privacy in which to panic. I got a notification this week that the Urban Descent registrations open soon. I am very seriously considering signing up, in the hope I will get to Zipline the 160 metres down the QV1 building in the Perth CBD. I have abseiled it twice before but I would love to compare the two experiences.

I have recently become involved in various initiatives to promote disabled people in the workforce, educate people on the benefits of employing us, and how to go about it. I absolutely love doing this. It is, at last a real opportunity to make an actual difference as opposed to just talking about making one.

Turns out, job searching is far more difficult than I thought. Especially when you are disabled. Makes me super grateful for the more than fourteen years (and counting) I have had where I am. Speaking of which, it sounds like I am sucking up (I am not. I do not think they read my blog), but the team I work with is amazing. They go above and beyond to ensure I can fully participate/meaningfully contribute to everything, and they do it without alterior motives. This is very rare, both in and out of the workforce.

It has guilted me into realising that I seriously need to do something about my daffiness and my lack of spacial/environmental awareness. Improving this is resolution number one for the new year.

As far as writing/blogging goes, this year has been a good one. I have been published by a few new publications (including MANAMIA, which I have been trying to get into for ages). I have had a couple of invitations from publications to submit work, which I am still working on and one of my rants is due to feature in an upcoming edition of The Big Issue Australia. I still have no idea why people want to read my waffle, but I will take it while I can get it.

Like sands through the hourglass, so was the year in my life.

XOXO

My Book Pitch

I am due to become an aunty soon, and upon hearing the news, I started to reflect on what it is that I want to be able to teach my new niece or nephew. After thinking about it long and hard, I have come up with absolutely nothing.

There is the old chestnut, “you can be/do anything you dream of,” but that’s been done, and let’s be honest, most children already think that anyway.

If you ask an average kid what they want to be when they grow up, chances are they’ll tell you they want to be a firefighter, an astronaut and a wizard all at once. In fact, I posed this very question to a 3 year-old I know recently and he told me he wanted to be a dinosaur. Children see nothing as impossible.

As a small child I thought this too. I expected I could climb mountains. Not literally of course, but as a littlie the prospect of climbing a set of stairs seemed almost the same.

 

However, as a disabled child, I found this to be impossible. Not because it was, but because I was never allowed to attempt it by myself. So, I “learned” that this, and many tasks like it were simply not something I could do. Until blissful adulthood, when as master of my own destiny, I gave it a go and surprised myself.

Granted, there are indeed things I can’t do, and I found that out the hard way. But I survived the attempts (albeit with a few bumps and bruises in some cases), and now I know. This means I have more scope to make decisions on how to tackle other things. It is empowering.

I guess the conclusion I have come to then, is that its not the new baby who I need to impart my wisdom on. It’s their parents.

Along with about 99% of the population (I’m assuming) I have a long-held desire to write a book. The problem is, that takes time that I just don’t have. Plus, I am only an expert on myself (which isn’t very interesting), and I don’t have enough expertise on anything else (or the motivation to get some), to be able to write a book about it. Except for Harry Potter that is. But I think JK Rowling has already got that covered.

I do have an idea for a children’s book though.

Its about Molly. She’s not like the other helicopters who live on the airfield. In fact, She’s a clever forklift (who picks things up easily). Molly has a best friend, Freddie the go-cart, who dreams of being a muscle car when he grows up.

Molly’s parents, Mister and Missus Coddled (a pair of middle-aged helicopters) love their daughter very much and recognise her superior intellect, but despite this they can’t seem to be able to let her experience life for herself.

Now, fiction and writing for children is usually not my forte (some might say it still isn’t). So, I have no idea what my characters should do, or how to make them do it.

Although, there was this one time when my brother and I were playing “too near” to a pond and the adult who was supervising us spent so much energy reminding us to be careful and shielding us from the possibility of falling in. That they weren’t watching where they were walking and fell in themselves. Would that work?

I am hoping that my book, which I envisage as a picture book, (even though I’m blind and can’t draw) becomes a regular fixture in the bedtime rotation of children across the country, (I have no ambition for world domination). That way, parents, like my brother might pick up on a few hints. You are welcome little ones.

So, who wants to publish me?

XOXO

I’m a terrible bedside spectator!

It is interesting when you get to experience a situation from the other side of the fence. It is shocking when you discover that you were better off where you were.

Recently (and for the very first time), I spent a whole week (give or take) in hospital. Not as a patient, but as the supportive loved one.

That gig is bloody hard. Much harder than being the patient!

It did however teach me a few things.  Apparently, I can run after all.

When I got a text, telling me Damion was in hospital and it could be “serious”, I fled from the office at a speed that even surprised me. You would have thought I was off to save him from a fire, and not just, because the sheer effort left me sweating like mad.

It was all completely pointless of course, once I finished running I still had to wait 10 minutes for a taxi.

I have made the hurried journey to hospital many times. More times than I would like to recall. However, usually, those excursions were for me.

I knew exactly what to do then; make lots of noise, be in pain and occasionally vomit, bleed, or, you get the idea.

Once there, I knew my role was to submit to poking and prodding and answer the same set of questions repeatedly.

But what was my role as a bedside spectator? I had no idea.

I was so confused that more than once I had to stop myself from offering the nurse my arm when she came to do Damion’s hourly obs. I wish I were joking.

As it turns out, I suck at being the brave one when I am not the patient and that surprised me. I always imagined that I would be like the wives in old movies who calmly hold their lovers hand or mopped their sweaty forehead while gazing down at them reassuringly.

Nope, I totally lost the plot.

This should not be a surprise. Once, as I got into the lift of my apartment building, I got the fright of my life when I saw someone passed out on the floor. I could not think what to do, so I called Dad screaming at him to come quickly but not telling him why. Luckily, the lack of immediate treatment did not harm the person at all. Only because they turned out to be a mop and bucket that had fallen over not a human being.

Some of this mistake can be explained by my vision impairment, but clearly, I am not good in a crisis.

The whole ordeal (which still has a way to go) has left me feeling useless. I always knew that is something happened to Damion (or anyone really), there would be little help that I could offer physically. However, the most annoying thing is that I am no good for emotional support either without the help of a sedative.

I have not had this feeling for quite some time, but as a person who needs to be needed. I thrive on having a purpose. Right now, I feel like a fifth wheel, and a wonky one at that.

Good news is, I still know how to make it all about me, so that is something.

XOXO

The disabled kid in the normal school

As I am sure you can tell by looking at me , I am disabled, and as I hope you can guess from my writing, I have been to school.

In fact, I did 12 years of school. A mainstream school with “normal” kids. I would like to say I then went on to become a doctor but that would be a lie. I work in Marketing.

My point is, that I survived, my school chums survived and I was even able to do something useful with myself afterward. Furthermore, my presence in classes did not stop anyone from reaching their potential.

By modern standards, I made it through virtually unscathed.

I encountered very few bullies, and those I did encounter bullied me because they are a tool. Not because I am disabled.

As far as I know. There was never any question of me not going to the schools I went to because both (Primary and Secondary) were local and co-educational so it meant that my brother and I could be together. My disability was not really ever a factor.

I think there was a push by one particular individual for me to apply to a “disabled friendly” high school when the time came, but I was not having it. Pretty much my whole class was going to the same place So Iwas too.

AS far as teaching me went, I did everything the rest of the class did. With the possible exception of Physical Education, where modifications were made to tasks so I could participate. For example, I would have a runner when playing cricket, an easy job as I very rarely hit the ball. I also have a vague memory of being given a ribbon to twirl while everyone else did gymnastics.

If I was lucky, I was allowed to sit out or go to the library. An option many of my school chums also wish they had.

Apart from that one teacher referred to above (who was a firm believer that I was a lost cause purely because I am disabled) there were never any issues that were out of the ordinary.

In terms of making friends and participating, in primary school I made friends and lost them as much as any child does and I was always happy to be front and centre during assemblies. In high school, I was in the choir and performed with it at every school concert or function. I am still very close to quite a few of my former classmates.

I do not regret going to a “normal” school, as I believe because of it, I am able to interact with Non-disabled people without feeling intimidated or inferior. However, there was a time that I was (for want of a better term) scared of people who are disabled, and I think this is due to my lack of exposure to anyone (apart from myself) with a disability.

I did at times also feel ashamed about having a disability. Indeed, I was completely in denial of actually having one for ages. I viewed any allowances or modifications being made for me as offensive and I think this is because it made me feel singled out.

I often wonder whether I would be more independent now if I did go to a “special” school. I know a few people who did, and they seem so much more together than I do. Did they learn life skills or coping mechanisms that I did not?

This would have been particularly helpful in high school, where at times I struggled to walk the distance from class to class.

I was never reprimanded if I was late, but often I would feel so much pressure to be on time that I would skip breaks and sit outside my next class so I did not have to walk in after everyone else.

The only other negative effect I can identify from being the “disabled kid” in the “normal school was that I was often able to use it as a security blanket. I never reached my full potential academically as I never really worked as hard as I should have.

I think this is what those against inclusive education say happens to the “normal” kids when students like me are around. How ironic.

I decided early on that I would not try for TEE (exams needed for university) because I was sure no one would blame me, and because I was sure that if I failed it would be what people expected to happen.

I regret that now. But it does go to show that year 12 results are not the be all and end all.

So many people have weighed in on this debate lately and honestly, I can see arguments for and against.

It should also be noted that all my schooling took place in the private sector.

I turned out ok. But remember, different strokes for different folks.

XOXO