The raw egg and the 2 cent piece

Image via: Pixabay

My first full-time job was in a women and children's domestic violence refuge in the western suburbs of Sydney. I'd been working part-time through school and uni and once my studies were over, I knew what I wanted to do at the time. I wanted to work in women's services, somewhere in the community, where I could learn about issues affecting women and somehow make a difference. I got lucky. I found a job locally as a women's support worker. It was part-time with a view to becoming full-time for the right candidate. At the time I had a part-time job in a valuations office in the city, so I juggled my week between the two jobs, eventually quitting the valuer's office and working in a community housing co-op, until the refuge put me on full-time. It really was my dream job, but it was short lived. I lasted around three years. I soon grew restless, jaded and fed up with the lack of resources, the poor pay, the politics and the hopelessness and moved on. But those three years are some of the most valuable of my entire life's work experience and I still go back to that time to make sense of a lot of what I encounter in the work place and in the world today. Working in a collective, in a women's centered environment, in a community organisation with limited funding and a monumental social problem to tackle, violence against women and children; it taught me a lot about humanity, government policy, popular culture, social and economic class and diversity. The refuge was a microcosm of the world at large and in a very short time, I got a lifetime's worth of education so valuable, it still echoes in my life today.

Comparing my own life experience and reflecting upon my own cultural and social upbringing, I started to understand deeply the injustices, inequalities, and the cavernous gaps that exist for disadvantaged people. In particular, women and children, people of colour but especially First Nations people, those from non-English speaking backgrounds, poor families and those who were not only being victimised physically, emotionally and psychologically, (I soon learned ALL women and children are, in some ways, within a patriarchal society), but also those that had endeavoured to resist and escape, making the very difficult and dangerous choice to change their lives and demand their safety and prosperity. 

The refuge housed four families at a time in the main house, for a period of up to eight weeks. In the adjoining house, another four families could be accommodated for a longer period of time, for up to three months. Women and their children from all walks of life lived together communally, where the differences between them soon became irrelevant and were stripped away, leaving only the commonalities - their health, well-being and security, their day-to-day routines, their goals to become self-reliant and self-determining and their resolve to heal. It didn't matter what language they spoke, what food they preferred to eat, who or what they worshiped, what government they voted for, how much money they made, what suburb they'd come from, what clothes they wore, where they sent their kids to school and what their past experiences had been. They were all suddenly in the same boat, equalised by the paths that had led them to the large house in the suburbs that would be their in-between home, their sanctuary until they could get back on their feet.

It was the 90s. The Bosnian war was raging and we once welcomed two families in the same week; one Serbian, one Bosnian. We knew we had to tread carefully. We discussed the issues with each woman separately during their intake interviews and it was instantly clear that in the state they were both in, due to their very separate and crisis-filled circumstances, it was wise to create some space between them. We took both families in and decided to house them separately, which was an exception to our policy rules. On initial intake we were required to house new families in the main house for eight weeks, until they could move on to permanent housing or get the necessary protection to be able to go back home. The second house was reserved for families who needed more time, giving them three months to establish long-term security. In that instance, we bent the rules and let one of the families stay in the second house on intake, to separate the families and given them the distance they needed to settle in.

As time passed, the women were inevitably introduced and crossed-paths. There were workers on-site 24/7 at the time, but residents lived independent, adult lives and went about their days as they saw fit without much interference from us workers. They had a roster to maintain the house, but were largely able to come and go as they pleased, using the communal facilities together and taking turns to cook or shower and bath their kids. It was for the most part very civilised. Women just get on with it.

Without anyone even realising when or how it happened, the two women connected. They spoke a common language, they found the things that united them and they became friends to some extent. We eventually moved them both into the main house and they got along, even supported each other, until they eventually moved on and went their separate ways. 

Culture, religion, language and lifestyle are all constructs. Deeply ingrained and seemingly inherent "second nature", especially those lineages that go back longer than others, they are only however our experiences by luck of birth. Continuity of culture gives us stability and belonging and while it can only take a few generations to solidify and define our identities, the further our histories go back, the more entrenched they become - for better and/or worse. Once we understand that, we can look beyond these constructs and really understand each other as people, without diminishing our unique differences, because those differences are what enrich us. While the values and ideologies we inherit are what gives us our place in the world, our tribe, when we make comparisons we soon see that we simply have different definitions and understandings of the same universal human experience. I learned that very quickly and for the first time at school. My high school had something like 52 different countries represented. It was truly a melting pot. We celebrated our differences, but belonged to one community.

At the refuge it was sometimes difficult to accommodate everyone, but we did it, and that is when people find their common ground. When they are first given the space to be themselves. Like the two women from two different sides of a war who after being given the liberty to express their identities, came together by themselves.

We made sure every single family was allowed to feel acceptance and freedom to exist as they saw fit. We worked with translators and interpreters and communicated in ways other than speaking. We mimed when we had to and used very basic language to get sometimes very complex messages across. We allowed the provision of culturally diverse food. The western suburbs of Sydney are a global marketplace and we either shopped for the women ourselves as all food was provided and covered by the weekly rent they paid (an incremental fraction of their income or nothing if they had none), or reimbursed them if they bought food for themselves. We allowed them to create spaces for reflection, meditation and ritual as they saw fit, to facilitate the reclaiming of their sense of peace from the conflict they had endured. Altars and offerings of all denominations sprung up around the residence and it was inclusive. Adults and children alike knew to show reverence and respect for the trinkets and artifacts that people displayed around the house. Incense sticks, oranges, crosses, candles, flowers, statues, beads and the like would be placed in various corners of the house and yard. Each family had their own private bedroom but the communal areas were collectively used and taken care of whilst still providing an opportunity for individuals to contribute their own expression of identity. With each family passing through, the house reflected countless regions from all over the country and the globe. The cooking smells in the house were varied, cross cultural and always delicious! The office was in the front room and unless we had a meeting on, the door was always open. The backyard had a large childcare center and the children that weren't at school all played together. We held classes and activities including cooking, massage, art and play therapy and had both informal and formal counselling sessions. We celebrated together for birthdays, culturally significant days or just spontaneously over a cup of tea or a cake someone had baked. The women cooked for each other and us workers, they looked after each other's children, they helped each other get dressed and prepared for court or a job interview, they hugged each other when they sobbed and passed the tissues around. They broke up quarrels between the kids and danced when the radio was on. It was often a place of rage, fear and sadness, but mostly a house of hope, joy and fun. More than anything it was a house of kinship and particularly when a group of families ended up living together for the better part of the accommodation period, people got to know each other and became close. That's when the differences were stripped away and love and friendship was all that was left. Those weeks were truly something special and while there was always a service operating in the background: court dates had to be attended, AVOs applied for, instances of abuse and violence rehashed and recorded, mental health issues addressed, Child Protection policies adhered to; what kept everyone going was support, trust, unity, community - sameness, empathy, kindness. Also, courage, strength, resilience and the indomitable spirit of being a woman in this world.

I started off writing this piece with the desire to share two stories, anecdotes that sprung to mind recently, from that time in my life. Sometimes I remember an experience from those days and it takes me back and shows me how to deal with something in the present. I remember how much these events changed my perspective at the time. I was young, in my early 20s and was more naive and optimistic than the older women I worked with, most of whom were in their 50s and had been victims of family violence, racism and discrimination themselves. There were three generations of women working at the refuge at one stage. The first crop were the pioneers from the 1970s when refuges were first established, three women in their 60s and close to retirement who were generally from an Anglo-Australian background. The next group were a group of baby boomers from South American and Asian backgrounds - Uruguay, Argentina, Vietnam - all strongly represented demographics in the local area. Then there was myself and another young woman my age who was Lebanese. 

Once there as a Vietnamese resident at the refuge who had a very swollen and black eye. The story goes that her husband had gambled a lot of their life savings away and they'd fought. He assaulted her, hitting her in the face and giving her a black eye. She left with her children and sought accommodation at our service. We knew she had limited English and our Vietnamese worker was working very closely with her as her caseworker. We also knew she was incredibly scared, depressed and sad, understandably and commonly so. She kept to herself, but was always friendly enough. Our Argentinian overnight worker started her shift in the afternoons as we were all leaving. She spent the night and went home as we were all arriving in the morning. She was becoming concerned about the resident as she had been waiting until everyone had gone to bed and then would sit alone outside on the patio and play with an egg. The overnight worker observed her each night and was becoming increasingly concerned about her mental state. When we spoke to the Vietnamese worker about her client, she proceeded to explain what the woman had been doing. She had taken a raw egg and was gently gliding the egg over her black eye, without touching the skin. The swelling and bruising was filled with inflammation and heat and this was being transferred into the egg, causing the swelling and inflammation to be reduced and the white of the egg to harden. At the end of the exercise, the once raw egg became semi-hard boiled. The overnight worker claimed she witnessed this. Over just a few days, the woman's eye was better and the egg was no longer completely raw. Studies have shown the relationship between the consumption of eggs (eating them) and their effects on inflammation. I found some information about hard boiled eggs being used to reduce bruising and swelling, but not a raw egg absorbing the heat of the inflammation and diminishing the swelling, becoming hard in the process. Whether or not what the overnight worker had claim to have witnessed was true, or whether or not the remedy actually works was irrelevant. There was no need to be concerned for her mental state, more than was ordinary given her experience. She knew what she was doing and while a cold pack or ointment is something we would have recommended, using an egg was a legitimate cultural practice that we gave her the space to express. It wasn't bothering or harming anyone and the freedom to do it was comforting and facilitated her healing. From memory the story was shared around with the other women and everyone took an interest. Traditional healing techniques like that opened up conversations among the women that lead to connection and had therapeutic benefits, and even the shyest women would offer up an old remedy that had been passed down among the women in their family. Sometimes it was the ice breaker needed to bring down barriers between them and encourage co-operative living. It also encouraged them to share their more recent experiences and empower each other through their commonalities.

The second story is similar. Again a Vietnamese family was involved. Our child support worker, another Argentinian woman, had noticed that one of the children was displaying some angry red marks up their arms. At first she thought the child may have been scratching themselves, either from an allergy or eczema, or at the very worst case scenario, which wasn't unusual, self-harming. We even considered the possibility that mum may have been harming her child. We were required to be aware and suspicious of child abuse and mistreatment when evidence of injury presented itself. We observed the family and again discussed it with the Vietnamese caseworker. Mum had taken a 2 cent piece (they were still in circulation at that time), and was gently scratching her child's arm, just until the red marks appeared. It wasn't painful, but it was visible. The practice we learned, is called Gua sha (Chinese) or cạo gió (Vietnamese), which is an ancient Chinese medicinal practice that "releases unhealthy bodily matter from blood stasis within sore, tired, stiff or injured muscle areas to stimulate new oxygenated blood flow to the areas, thus promot(ing) metabolic cell repair, regeneration, healing and recovery." Basically, scraping the skin helps with circulation and boosts immunity. It was flu season and the family had just moved into a communal space. Mum wanted to make sure her child didn't get sick. Thankfully we didn't jump to calling DoCS!

These two stories were similar and taught us all a valuable lesson about understanding. When the status quo is a certain set of values, anything deviating from that is othered, judged and condemned. We needed to see with wider eyes. It was so valuable to have culturally appropriate caseworkers and a space where we sought to understand our clients instead of jumping to conclusions. It is something that is lacking in many social services and public domains at large, and the situation is even worse in the private sector, I would imagine.

I am now working in the public health system. It is a diverse environment both in terms of clientele and service providers being from all over the world. We are required to participate in Aboriginal Cultural Awareness Training as mandatory training. I took part recently and found it profoundly moving and emotional. The main feeling I had was rage. I kept thinking about the fact that here we were trying to condense 80,000 years of continuous culture into a three hour seminar to make us better workers, when the gift shop in the main hospital still sells golliwogs! 

Image writer's own

Fucking golliwogs! They've been popping up everywhere. Didn't we decide around 30 years ago that golliwogs weren't an acceptable artifact to sell given their very racist and genocidal history? Honestly, look it up, because I can't be stuffed explaining it! This SBS article from two years ago is a good place to start.

While cultural awareness and sensitivity policies are fantastic on paper, the reality is vastly lacking. It is an effort every day to maintain my composure when I witness blatant instances of racial profiling, discrimination, prejudice and downright ignorance, with no clear way to address it or report it and get any sort of adequate response. "Report it to your Manager" is not good enough. 


The best I can do is be an example, treat everyone equally while being aware and sensitive toward their individual needs and keep trying to see beyond the things that divide us, by connecting with everyone's humanity first.

This is what Racism looks like

Image credit: quickmeme.com

I just had an altercation with the secretary at our solicitor's office.

I had to go in and sign a document for the sale and purchase of our property. My signature had to be witnessed so I had to go in person, which was mildly inconvenient, but no big deal. It was the second such requirement and I'd happily go again.

She knew it was inconvenient and apologised profusely for having to get me to come in with the babies, but the excuse she gave me was what made me see red. She explained that all the bureaucracy and paperwork was a problem because of "all the Asians" buying property.

Pardon?

PARDON?

I rolled my eyes and gasped at my husband a few times to show her that that kind of language was not only absolute rubbish, it was unacceptable. She apologised and told me she wasn't racist, but that's what all the real estate agents were saying.

I chose not to let it go. I chose not to stay silent. I asked her which Asians she was referring to specifically - Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Thai, Vietnamese, Cambodian, Laotian... I asked her what she meant exactly. She flustered and blundered about how she wasn't racist and was in fact Indian and had an Asian family member. What? WHAT? Sound familiar? Sonia Kruger anyone? 

I told her that she sounded racist. That as someone with an ethnically diverse background, she should know how hurtful and inaccurate that sort of prejudice is. I asked her if she would have felt comfortable saying such a thing to me if I were Asian, or would she have been ok to say it to another Asian person or her Asian family member. She didn't respond. There's your answer. It's racist, I said. I told her I'm not the type to hold my tongue and when I deem it safe, I'm being that example to my daughters. If you see it, hear it and you aren't at risk, say something. 

This is the sort of racist rhetoric that has been acceptable in Australia since its colonial inception. Aboriginal people, Europeans, Asians and now Arabic people and everyone else who isn't white with an Anglo background has had their turn of being the outsiders. The trouble is, people with diverse ethnicity turn on each other too, to appease the dominant paradigm and maintain the status quo. To assimilate and massage their own egotistical fears. How soon people forget what it feels like to be on the receiving end.

We have to be better than this. We can't just sit there and take it when someone makes a stupid, uncalled for, ignorant and hateful comment that lumps people from a particular background together and demonises them. I thought to myself, since when did Australia become like this? But the more I thought about it, the more I realised that unfortunately there hasn't been a time when Australia wasn't like this. There was always some group of people getting in the way of Australia having a white Anglo identity and that is because Australia has never and will never have just a white Anglo identity.

Australia is a diverse country, but if you want to get technical, the original and current custodians are Aboriginal. Our national heritage is Indigenous. The sooner people accept and understand this, the better. Australia was colonised; brutally and without permission. Without negotiation. Without consideration for the people, their culture and systems, the land or the animals. The repercussions of this theft is still being felt today and continues to blight our national identity with shame, violence and injustice. Australia was then, as it is now, a place that is occupied by people from all over the globe. We come to work, to live in safety, to raise families and nurture friendships, to worship as we please; or not at all, to live full and productive lives and to prosper. 

The notion that one way to be Australian is the only way, particularly when that way was falsely and forcefully established is ludicrous. In saying that, there is a way to be truly Australian. And that is to be free. And freedom comes with responsibility.

Saying that we all have freedom of speech, or that everyone has the right to be a bigot is utter nonsense. That isn't freedom. Freedom isn't about your personal freedom, regardless of the impact it has on others' lives and minds. Freedom is about living in peace and enhancing that peace and all it encompasses for everyone, not just yourself. Freedom is about understanding the difference between your own indulgence, privilege and comfort and the space that everyone has a right to in order to live a life free from discrimination, persecution, judgement and prejudice.

Asians are not buying property and making the market difficult for everyone else. People who buy property for investment purposes, regardless of their race or ethnicity, aren't breaking the law. Maybe we need to look at who the law favours and advantages. Maybe we need to look at the politicians and the corporations who disadvantage home buyers in favour of the wealthy.

Aboriginal people don't break the law, aren't unemployed or addicts as though it's a cultural trait. What a nonsensical assumption. There are people from all walks of life suffering in this way. When people become criminals, use substance abuse to appease their pain and find it hard to maintain housing and employment, regardless of their race and ethnicity, they do so for a number of reasons and the colour of their skin, the language they speak or how they choose to worship, does not determine this. Maybe we need to look at the social systems that force individuals into cycles of despair. What does our education system look like and who has access to it? What are we doing to unite people with their families and their communities? How are we evenly distributing the wealth of the country? What equal opportunities do we give to the disadvantaged? And yes, we need to ask why Aboriginal people are more likely to be incarcerated, addicted and displaced. Just look at the history. What on earth would you expect? But look at the success too. Look at the Indigenous groups and communities who thrive. Who succeed and survive every single day in the face of such adversity. The Aboriginal artists, activists, community leaders, sports people, politicians, business owners, academics and elders.

Migrants and refugees aren't coming here to corrupt our society, cheat our welfare systems, terrorise our security and take over our country. They never did. They mostly come to work. To find opportunity and security for themselves and their children and families. They come to contribute and to enjoy the lifestyle many of us take for granted. And lately, many come to stay alive and as a direct result of the policies of terror that our government and their allies actually inflict on them. 

We can't just sit back and let bogans with a mouthpiece hijack our national conversation. If people like Pauline Hanson and Andrew Bolt continue to have free reign with their hatred, these misconceptions are not going to change any time soon. It gives people permission to be stupid. It is divisive and creates conflict. It does not solve the problem, it only feeds it. We must draw the line somewhere. Some things just need to be universally understood as unacceptable. Zero tolerance. No excuses. And this has to be reflected in policy, the law and through the mass media. You don't have the right to be free, if that freedom is at the expense of the freedom of someone else. It's that simple.

The Bridge Parties

The snow had only just started to fall, but it had been cold for weeks. It was a preview of what was to come. At least it gave everyone a chance to prepare. To stock up on fire wood and heaters, gloves, hats and scarves, thermals. The snow sales were a bust. You were lucky to score a pair of pants in the correct size. Some people lined up or sent generous friends to buy up everything and divvy it up later. Some stuff sold out fast and later showed up on the classified pages online. Kym had her stuff from the snow trip three years ago. It was daggy and second hand, but it still fit and she wasn’t prepared to replace it yet. Had it not been for Naya’s premature exit, she would have been rugged up on the couch in front of the tele with the air con blaring drinking port. Not at the bridge crying her heart out, icy tears and snot burning her face.

Naya was a skinny, shy little girl, standing by herself, waiting excruciatingly for the classroom door to finally open on her first day at her new school in 4^th grade, when Kym spotted her and thinking her completely pathetic, approached her, lest her mother’s voice in her head suffocated her with guilt. Naya barely spoke above a whisper she was so crippled with insecurity and Kym being the boisterous, jolly soul she was, easily diverted all the attention on to herself. They became immediate friends. Naya would have spent the rest of her school days alone if Kym hadn’t befriended her. Kym was too much to bear for anyone else. Their connection was the perfect symmetry and it was to last a lifetime, one that ended prematurely for Naya. Her illness finally claimed her a fortnight short of her 37^th birthday and although Kym had months of cold preparation, she still wasn’t prepared for the winter that was about to descend on her.

After high school they went their separate ways. Naya was always going places academically and ended up doing a college exchange in the US for a few years, while Kym stayed behind and worked in her mother’s shop, making a measly income and waiting around for whoever was going to father her children. That’s the way she saw it. She wasn’t a romantic. She didn’t dream about the cliché of a fairytale romance. She just wanted someone who had the guts to put up with her and was at least willing to stick around. All she wanted was babies. She didn’t really think about the details. She never left her home suburb. She lived with her mother until Mr Bland came along; who by the way was a sweet, strong and reliable man that loved her deeply. She was lucky in that regard. They bought a humble home and raised three kids while they were still young, while Naya globe trotted her way around the world earning diplomas and degrees effortlessly. When she finally did come home they were both in their late twenties and while not much had changed in Kym’s world (except the mammoth changes that no one gives enough credit to becoming a mother brings), Naya was a completely different person; worldly and sophisticated; educated, experienced. She wanted a baby, but wasn’t really prepared to drop everything and settle down to have a traditional family, especially if it meant giving up her independence and her three figured salary. She was working as a lecturer at the university she’d attended; she was writing and teaching and loving life. She was able to buy real estate in the city and while Kym was happy to have stayed put, Naya saw that world as her past. Somehow their identities had drifted apart, but the love they had for each other, their friendship, their connection still mirrored those two 4^th grade girls in the playground; giggling at nothing, looking up dirty words in the dictionary in the library, making fun of the bullies and swapping their lunch. The only problem they had now was geography.

Neither one of them enjoyed going to where the other one lived. Kym hated the city. She drove only locally and wasn’t confident on public transport. The kids were all at school now and she spent her days looking after the family home and helping her elderly mother manage her shop. She liked her closed little world and didn’t venture far from her comfort zone very often. Naya dreaded returning home. It reminded her of the intimidated, miserable little girl she had been and the trapped teenager she shed when she escaped to university abroad. She never learned to drive. She didn’t have to. She was a born traveller and always found a way to get to where she wanted to go. She loved public transport – she’d sampled systems all over the world. She cycled or walked where she could, but all three of those options were useless to get her to the suburbs. Public transport was a possibility, but it would take her literally hours and many connecting trips and it would just be easier to pay for a taxi.

The city and the suburbs were separated by a lake. Both could relatively easily get to the lake; Kym could drive, Naya could cycle. It was crossing that lake that was the obstacle. A ferry operated twice a day – early in the morning and late in the evening. It mainly catered for the workers commuting to the city. A huge bridge was constructed to cross the lake. It was easy enough to travel across, but it was long and traffic was a nightmare. Kym was terrified to drive across it and do battle with the trucks and taxis, Naya didn’t dare cycle it; she swore she’d pass out from the fumes. There was a third arterial road that lead to the coast in the middle of the bridge, almost exactly half way and just before the exit a rest stop and pier were established to give people the opportunity to split their journey in half. 

Once, Kym was driving the kids to a show in the city. The first and only time she dared and only because her mother bought the tickets and was traveling with her. The entire trip was an ordeal and her eldest James then 4, decided he needed to use the bathroom as soon as they’d got on the bridge. It’s 25 minutes on a good run to the rest stop and it’s not the most accommodating place. The rest stop isn’t a family picnic spot; it was intended for truck drivers and cabbies. The toilet is over a giant hole in the ground; festering, stinking – especially in the summer, surrounded by a corrugated iron shed. The pier is often frequented by lone fishermen and the whole place is just unseemly, not welcoming at all to a young mum with kids. People literally stopped there if they were desperate. Other than the toilet and the pier there was nothing else there. No tables or benches, no bins, no running water, barely a gravel road to park the car. Kym’s only choice that day was to utilise those facilities or risk an accident in the car. 

James whined until they stopped, the other two children bickered. Kym and her mother ranted at each other and fretted about finding parking in town and missing the start of the show. When they got there Kym whisked James out of the car, ordered him to hold his breath the moment the stench hit her and had his pants unbuttoned before he knew what was happening. At the exact moment that they opened the corrugated door to leave, practically gasping for air, Kym swung the door open knocking someone on the other side flat. It was Naya. The shock to both of them rendered them mute and frozen momentarily before they both erupted in astounded laughter. James ran to his grandmother in the car; proclaiming loudly to his siblings how there was a giant pit of stinking shit right under the toilet. 

Naya had been cycling over the bridge to the coast and planned to take the exit, but realised mid ride that she’d got her period and needed to stop desperately. It didn’t matter how sophisticated and worldly she thought she was, if she forgot to check her calendar or the bloody friend showed up unexpectedly, she was just like every other woman, she thought to herself. 

They chatted briefly, the years of absence melting away with each anecdote. Kym had to cut it short, her mother and the kids were agitating to get going to the show. Naya vowed to stay in touch. It was easier now with social media, but neither could deny how thrilling it was to catch up with each other in the flesh. They read each other’s minds. This was it. This was going to be their place. They looked about them and silently acknowledged how deserted the place was; how possible it was that they would be taking a risk and that if they were ever confronted with foul play they may be putting themselves in danger, but they both silently shrugged and dismissed that possibility. Why should they compromise? Why should they be afraid? In all the years they met at the bridge, they never once felt that they were in harm’s way. They’d seen all sorts of burly, scary looking blokes there, but most just wanted to take a piss or a nap and left them alone. Kym secretly carried a pocket size can of hair spray just in case; Naya carried a knife. Neither thought that it would ever save their lives if they were really threatened, but it was something. They always made sure someone knew where they were going and were contactable at all times. Kym’s husband worried himself sick every time she went, but that didn’t stop her. Both refused to live in fear; to change their behaviour because of some stupid societal script that told them they were to blame for potential violence against them.

They met at the bridge for the next few years. At any opportunity, whenever they could co ordinate their lives they dedicated a day to spend together alone. The meetings evolved into elaborate picnics, with gourmet food offerings, champagne and the odd joint for old time’s sake. They found a fairly secluded spot under a tree closer to the pier and the water. Kym would park her car and Naya would put her bike in the boot. They took chairs, blankets and music. On warm days they swam. They told people about the spot, but it never really caught on. Over the years it became their little paradise. They celebrated birthdays together, met up on public holidays; they supported each other through life’s disappointments and reveled in their triumphs. They even rang in the new year together once; fearlessly meeting just before midnight – abandoning their families and friends, all the people in their lives to give their friendship the attention and priority it deserved. They both had separate and all consuming lives that they loved and worked hard to maintain, but the importance of their friendship was something neither one of them was willing to compromise, especially as they got older. That connection and its importance only grew.

So it was only natural that Naya told Kym about her illness at one of the bridge get togethers. It was a lazy, warm autumn Friday afternoon. Kym made her husband leave work early to do the school pick ups and organise dinner for the kids. She was going to be home late. Naya left work early and they agreed to meet around 4ish to start cocktail hour. Kym baked a lasagne and made a salad and bought a chocolate cake from the local bakery. She always volunteered to bring the bulk of the food because it was easier to transport by car. Naya always took care of the booze. They set up their stuff at the usual spot and tucked into the meal; catching up with each other’s lives while they ate and drank. They hadn’t seen each other in months. Naya had rehearsed what she was going to say a million times over, but it didn’t come out that way. She just blurted it out.

“Kym I’m dying.”

It didn’t immediately register with Kym, she initially thought Naya was metaphorically dying – to tell her some office gossip, to confide in her about a new relationship, to bitch about her colleagues. Not for a moment did she think that Naya was actually dying. But she was. She’d had the illness dormant in her body most of her life. It had taken her mother when she was a child and her grandmother before that. She’d kept an eye on it, convinced it had spared her, but it hadn’t and it had invaded her body vengefully and violently. She was stage four. She didn’t look ill. She certainly didn’t behave sick – she’d cycled from the city for heaven’s sake. Kym argued it all with her. It just wasn’t possible, the doctors were mistaken. She was having her on. It wasn’t even April, but if she thought this prank was in good taste she was bloody mistaken. It took a few hours of convincing and many questions and Kym wanting every miniscule detail in an attempt to catch her out joking, lying, but it wasn’t so. Naya was dying and she didn’t have long.

The bridge parties subsided after that. They had a couple more get togethers, literally a handful, but Naya’s treatment and rapid deterioration put an end to them. They say, about lots of things, you just never know when the last time will be. The last time was 3 weeks before Naya died. She couldn’t cycle to the bridge, she had a friend drive her. He was someone she’d met abroad and she’d mentioned him to Kym a few times. They had a passionate affair in Europe and travelled together. They ended up in San Francisco for a few months, where he was from, until Naya found herself falling in love and wanting to make the relationship permanent. He was willing, but Naya knew she couldn’t live there. They talked about doing a few years living there and a few years back home for Naya, but they both knew it was never going to work. They really were in love and maintained a strong friendship, but Naya wanted more. She wanted a family, she just didn’t know how to have both that and hold onto her traveling and career. Other women did it. She knew them. She worked and travelled with them. They had babies and still lived that life, but she just never reconciled both – and in the end she got neither. Her illness took over and she had to put everything on hold for treatment. The only thing she sustained through it all was her friendships. It was just so quick. A matter of months really, from diagnosis til the end.

That day, Peter dropped her off and picked her up a few hours later. Kym and Naya didn’t say much that day. They set up their picnic and rugged up against the cold. It was the beginning of the cold snap. Kym had arrived earlier and got a fire going. She warmed up the billy and prepared the scones and cakes, busying herself to avoid thinking too much and bursting into tears. When Naya arrived she looked frail and very bald. She’d warned Kym in her email so she was prepared, but nothing was preparation enough to see her friend so ill. She avoided eye contact throughout the meal. They talked about nothing. They’d never really done that. They always delved so deeply into each conversation, exploring their deepest thoughts and feelings, but unbeknownst to them today was different. It was the last time and they talked about nothing real. They laughed a lot, they reminisced and gossiped. They talked about a pretend future neither of them truly believed would come. 

By the time Peter returned to pick Naya up and they’d cleaned up their picnic there was not much else to say. He waited patiently in the car while they sat in silence, huddled together under a blanket, watching the last of the embers die and the sun descend behind the bush. When it got dark and Peter’s head lights were the only thing illuminating them, they stood up and embraced.

“Thanks for making the effort to come Nay, go home and rest hun.”

“I’m ok. I’m so full. I’ll sleep in the car.”

Kym cried all the way home.

That was the last time. The last time she saw her alive. The last time they met at the bridge. The last embrace. The last laugh. They stayed in touch superficially online. Naya went in for her last surgery two weeks later and never came home. Kym and her family went to the funeral. There were a few familiar faces from school and the old days. She did what she could to help out at the wake, which had been organised by Naya’s colleagues and friends. Her dad was old and just sat there looking glum most of the day.

The very next day Kym was up at the crack of dawn. The kids were still in bed and her husband knew exactly where she was going. He reassured her that he’d sort out the kids and to take all the time she needed. She didn’t have the strength or foresight to prepare food, she simply bought some fish and chips and a coffee at the last kiosk before the bridge. She lit a fire and threw the blanket around herself and cried. She took in every inch of her surroundings. After today she never wanted to return to this place because it was sacred and it was empty without Naya. She never did.