My Fling with PND

My fling with PND lasted about an hour. I say fling because it wasn’t a full blown relationship. We met, we checked each other out, we had a bit of a pash and then I realised PND was a complete bastard and wanted nothing to do with it, so I dumped it.

When I had my first baby, I was so thrilled that I’d finally conceived after a year of trying and getting really close to intervention, that I literally threw myself into mothering her. I jumped every time she squawked. I leaped out of bed enthusiastically in the middle of the night to feed and soothe her. I prolonged every phase of her development; mostly because I was too inexperienced to read the signs that she needed to change, but also because I indulged in the established routine and was afraid to alter it. With support and information, we got there in the end. She ate solid food and weaned off the breast easily, she slept through the night, she rolled, crawled and walked, she got teeth, she’s talking and she even sits on the loo every now and then and actually goes. Even when I was tired and frustrated and confused though, I was never really depressed. I never felt utter despair. I didn’t feel rage. I wasn’t confused to the point of sobbing. I was content and happy. For the majority of the time it was me and her in the trenches. Her dad at work during the day and during the night, I insisted he sleep so he could function at work the next day, knowing I could rest when she napped.

When the twins came along she was 18 months old. Again we were thrilled to be having not only another baby; a much wanted sibling for her, but two healthy little girls. Our family was going to be full, abundant; something we dreamed of, but weren’t sure we were going to achieve. Despite everyone’s shocked warnings of how busy we would be and the necessary banter about the chaos that would ensue, we were truly excited and thrilled. We weren’t under any illusions that it was going to be easy, but we felt prepared. Raising our first through that first year was still fresh in our minds and we learned a lot. We knew it wouldn’t be the same though. There were two babies at the same time and a toddler who’s nurturing still needed to be observed and progressed milestone by milestone. We were going to become masters of multi tasking, champions of triage, expert jugglers. Well I was mostly, because let’s face it, I’m the primary carer whether I care to admit it or not. Yes I have support; my husband and parents do their best to help me. However, the majority of care giving for all three children at this early stage is my sole responsibility. It was my choice, my preference and I can do it. I do it pretty well. But it’s bloody hard and sometimes, it doesn’t have to be, but it is. Sometimes there are more obstacles and hurdles to jump than there needs to be.  

I first flirted with PND shortly after settling back at home from hospital with the twins. I’d had another caesarean and was in a fair bit of pain, but luckily the hospital sent me home with a small supply of Endone. I have a lot of feelings and rationalisations about both my caesarean birthing experiences. Bottom line is I did not give birth vaginally. I say vaginally not naturally because that implies that it’s a competition between natural and artificial birth simply defined by which part of your body the baby came out of. And people are too shy and uptight to say the word vaginally....vagina. It is so much more complicated than that. Yes, a caesarean operation is medicalised and involves a lot of artificial intervention for want of better words, but vaginal births are rarely without assistance too. I am completely in awe of women who go into labour naturally and give birth without any drugs and no intervention like episiotomy, forceps, vacuums, tearing and no assistance to the baby afterwards either. Heaps of women do it and have done throughout history. More women are aiming for that these days and when everything aligns and there is a perfectly healthy, low risk pregnancy, strong supportive networks around the pregnant woman, intelligent and woman focused midwifery and doula services, progressive medical systems to fall back on, education, money, comfort, time, peace of mind – so many factors; when all those circumstances combine and harmonise, it is definitely more possible and desirable for a completely natural birth to happen. When it doesn’t go completely perfectly, we are lucky enough to live in a country where medical birthing support is available and accessible and whether a woman needs a little help or a lot, her birthing experience can still be positive with the desired end result that everyone aims for; a healthy, safe AND HAPPY mum and baby. I needed a lot of medical support both times. The first time I wasn’t prepared for it, the second time with the twins I was, but still needed more than I thought I would. I was in excellent hands. I was surrounded by incredibly kind and capable people at both hospitals; one was public the other private and I learned a massive lesson; that so many expectations are placed on birthing women, so many false assumptions are promoted and there is a lot of misinformation out there. We as a species are still evolving biologically, emotionally, psychologically and culturally and all these factors contribute to our birthing experience. It is the single most important and profound human experience there is; perpetuation of our species and next to death and physical illness or injury the hardest thing a human will have to endure. Really. What else is harder or more profound? Don’t get me wrong. In saying that, I am not saying that a choice or otherwise not to experience that leaves you lacking; there are other human endeavours that are just as challenging in other ways, but giving birth and raising a child is intense and unique. We need to honour that better as a species and acknowledge what is necessary in a collective way to ensure that the experience has the best possible outcome for everyone. At the moment we don’t do that all the time. This is reflected in so many aspects of society. The administration of medical support to pregnant women to facilitate self determination in their birthing experience, the gender inequality women experience in the workplace and in society generally, how public spaces cater to parents, children and families and how we address issues surrounding depression and mental illness to name a few. We don’t look after our planet either, we don’t look after each other. We need a Revolution. Right now I’m reading Russell Brand’s book by the same name. It says everything I am trying to say so much more concisely. 

So the drugs ran out, I was making sense of my birthing experience; mine and the whole idea of birth generally and at the same time trying to fall into a new routine with two newborns and a toddler. When I say I was thinking about it generally, I was thinking how lucky I was, even though I felt obligated to explain or defend my experience of a very medicalised birth to many people. When you have a caesarean you have to explain what went wrong. It is not how I experienced it. Everything went right. I didn’t die and neither did my babies. I was surrounded by kindness and made comfortable in every possible way and I was surrounded by the love of the closest people in my life at all times. What more did I want? What more did I have to do to demonstrate and prove to people that although I would have liked to have given birth vaginally both times and everything I came across – people and information – preparing me for birth was telling me that was the proper way to do it, I actually had no control over how my body behaved and could only trust that the intervention I received would ensure a good outcome? I thought about women who have none of that. They may give birth vaginally and drug free, euphorically and safely, but they may have no other choice and if something goes wrong, it goes terribly wrong. They may be living in a remote community or in a war zone or a refugee camp. They may have no family or medical experts to cajole them through the pain and terror and have to muster the strength through their own self determination and survive the consequences no matter what happens. I started to think about birth on a global scale and this was magnified with every little experience I confronted. Whenever I found myself lamenting over a particular aspect of my experience, I imagined the alternatives. I found gratitude. I reasoned that it could be worse and how can I make it better for myself and for others. This story helped me immensely.

 

I took the babies and continued to take the toddler to the health clinic for their periodical check ups. At the end you do a little tick a box quiz, which I love and have absolutely no cynicism about how leading they are (eye roll) and I always scored pretty well. I always answered completely honestly, because I am up for the discussion with the nurse and ready to rant about how I feel about the label Post Natal Depression. Again, it’s not that I don’t believe it exists. I am certain it does and that there is a spectrum. However I understand where I’m at on that spectrum and my critical analysis is that you can’t put a woman in a pressure cooker and expect her to remain cool as a cucumber in a crisper all the time. That’s just madness. I always answered the questions truthfully and I especially loved the one about the sense of humour. That is my measure for my state of mind. Can I still laugh at things? Am I still able to find the comedy? The answer is almost always yes. The other good ones are about crying and raging. Do I cry and rage often? Not like the normal amount that is expected when you are elbow deep in shit most days, when you are exhausted from broken sleep and waking through the night sometimes hourly, when your body is being ravaged by breastfeeding and mastitis – I’m on my sixth bout and this time the site of infection was right behind the nipple and one of the twins has teeth…..yep excruciating. When you are alone with three babies most days and you’re doing most of the feeding, lifting, napping (them not me), changing, cleaning, singing, entertaining, routine monitoring, cooking and food preparation, thinking and planning and observing….what do they call that these days? Hypervigilance. 

So at around the babies’ 6 month check, which was really at 8 months because we were delayed after one of them had a minor cleft operation at 4 months; it was at this appointment that I answered truthfully; I hadn’t had a good belly laugh in ages. I cry more than normal – when the babies refuse to sleep, when I am in pain, when I feel unfit and frumpy, when I haven’t got time to write or crochet, when I’m bored of the same three rooms and I despair at a world that is cruel to women and girls and I am raising three. I rage more often than I used to. I nag my husband and my toddler; I pick fights with them and my parents. I get the shits with the general public (OK I did this most of my adult life, but now it’s for different reasons like why are they taking up the pram parking when they don’t have children, why is their trolley abandoned in the middle of the isle, why is the neighbour continually slamming doors or using power tools beneath my bedroom window, why do people have to mow lawns so often, why are people so impolite, rude, indifferent, conceited, incompetent, complacent….why am I so angry all the time.)

The baby health nurse listened to me and validated my feelings. She said everything I was going through was understandable. I’m in the thick of it and she recognised that I am very self aware. I made a commitment to take some time out and go back to looking after my body and mind through yoga. I have now bought a ten class pass and started classes.

When the teacher asked at the first class if there was anything in particular we wanted to address at the session I had to bite my tongue. People said their lower backs and neck hurt, some wanted a good stretch – I wanted to address my deep seeded rage and existential confusion; I didn’t say it out loud. At one part of the class we were lying on our backs and he asked us to take a deep breath and release it with a loud sigh; I fought the urge to scream out MOTHERFUCKER.

It’s a start. I’m trying to do one or two sessions a week and I’m already seeing the benefits. For some people who are experiencing Post Natal Depression it is much more serious and complicated than that. Maybe they don’t have the tools to critically analyse and understand what they are experiencing and only see the symptoms independent of the causes. For me it isn’t like that. I can’t control feeling like crap; crying and getting angry, feeling overwhelmed and confused, feeling lonely and isolated and desperate that everything is bleak and hopeless. But when the moment passes I can make sense of it and I understand that I feel those things not because of something inside me that is dysfunctional or broken, but instead I see it as a very normal response to what I am experiencing being a stay at home mum to three babies under the age of two. I think that if mums didn’t respond with the emotional and psychological behaviours that we associate with depression after making a human or two or more in their bodies, having given birth and being suddenly bombarded with the immense responsibility of taking care of babies; if they were all calm and positive and well groomed and happy all the time; that would be psychotic. That would be dysfunctional and not a normal response to the stimuli. 

For some women, medication is absolutely appropriate. I am afraid to take anti depressants because I think I will like them too much. I recognised something very sinister in myself when the Endone ran out and I faced the prospect of having no more pain killers. I felt a bit like a junky that needed their next fix and was not going to be able to score. I have an indulgent and addictive streak that I need to keep an eye on. I am very good at utilising tools like wine for example, to self medicate and keep me calm. This hasn’t been an option until recently because I don’t like to drink at all while I’m breastfeeding, but the babies have cut back on feeds and I’ve been allowing a glass or two each night and it has made an immense difference. I can get a good buzz on with just a small amount and it is helping me get through the nights. The babies still don’t sleep through and I think the nights are the hardest for people who experience depression. On second thought, the nights are hard on most normal human people who are engaged with the nature of existing and have a mind and emotions. The nights are dark and silent and the self and the mind are alone to dwell and reflect. The self is awake to dance up a storm of despair and uncertainty that the day time can easily mute and hide in the light. If it was legal, I’d smoke a joint once in a while.

I guess my point is this. PND is very real and very debilitating for some women, but it isn’t a flaw in them. It isn’t a condition that is inherent in their nature. It is a response to a situation that will push any normal person to their absolute limit. Women all deal with this pressure differently and we all make choices and sometimes have no control over how we experience pregnancy, child birth and parenting.

I’ll end with one of my favourite quotes. 

The Bachelor

IT'S SHIT!

Hey thoughtless, don't ruin the park for me!

The only place I can really get to on my own, with twins and a toddler, without someone meeting me at the other end is the park up the road. It’s literally across the street. I can time it to avoid breastfeeding and nappy changes and still get maximum time outside. The babies nap in the pram and the bigger one can have her morning tea and play for at least a couple of hours. I feel safe there. I’m not anxious about taking heaps of time to pack and unpack the car or fulfil the kids’ needs away from home and I know if anything happens I don’t have far to go to be back in the comfort and security of home.

Sometimes though, I come home feeling disappointed and cranky that I even bothered and it’s not because of anything my kids have done. It’s other people. Don’t get me wrong. The majority of the time I meet absolutely beautiful strangers. Mums, sometimes with twins themselves or children close together who understand the chaos my life entails, often connect with me in the moment. We don’t even get each other’s names. We just learn the ages of our children and chat quickly about what we are experiencing most recently. We share a little bit of the anguish we feel, but by instinctively trying to buoy each other’s spirits, end up finding the positivity and humour in our own situations. It’s what keeps me going back to the park. That and watching my toddler roll around in the sand, run in the grass and sunshine, climb, swing and try to befriend other children. She forages for leaves and sticks and collects rocks. She watches insects and points out birds; she lights up when she sees dogs. She giggles at the wonder of smaller children and idolises the older ones; following them around and copying their bravery. 

The disappointment and frustration I feel escapes her. She isn’t aware of what I am aware of. She doesn’t see the flaws and dysfunction like I do. I myself know that these moments are insignificant in the scheme of things and won’t prevent me from going out, but they are important enough for me to think them through and dwell on them. Probably more than I should, but I feel they deserve enough attention to be addressed and to extract some sort of learning from them. At the very least I need to make sense of these incidents within myself so that they don’t bother me next time, because I know I will come across the same stuff again and again.

Some mothers are not friendly. They don’t make eye contact. They don’t return your smiles or acknowledgment. Their children are the same. When my child approaches them, they turn her away or turn away from her. It’s no big deal. You never know what someone is going through or how they are feeling. Their hostility is just my interpretation and for all I know they could be in a world of fatigue, pain, depression, fear, anxiety that I know nothing about. They don’t owe me anything. They don’t have to say hello or smile. They’re not there for me. It would be nice if we could all put aside our personal feelings and experiences when we are out in public so as to connect with other human beings and allow that human interaction to soothe us and to temporarily fulfil us, give us joy and maybe heal our ills, but there is no obligation. It’s an unwritten social contract that a nice community, a civilised society is reliant on people being courteous to each other. 

I can handle being ignored or watching my child being ignored, what irks me is actual hostility. The adults are subtle. They’ll just ignore you, maybe scowl imperceptibly or do inconsiderate things like litter, park their cars selfishly, bump into you, get in your way and pretend they don’t see you, but generally they don’t tell you to fuck off even if they’re thinking it – sometimes they do though. But kids do, they innocently verbalise their discontent. 

The other day my daughter approached two older boys at the park smiling and giggling. She has no fear or shyness about other children. She’s a bit of a busy body. She spends a lot of time alone with just me and her baby sisters because she doesn’t go to kindy yet. She’s only two and she’s quite content at home at this age and while I’m home looking after her, there is no rush to institutionalise her too early, there’ll be plenty of time for her to be out in the world. In my experience, children that do attend day care or some sort of formal establishment with other children, don’t necessarily socialise any better at that age. I’ve found they’re sometimes less willing to engage with others because they get enough of it and want to be left alone at every opportunity. Neither is any more or less right or beneficial in my opinion. She’s the opposite. She wants to know what other kids are up to, what they have and if she can join in. I’m trying to guide her to know how to do this with respect and without being a pest, but she’s two and all she knows is that if there are other kids around, she wants to play with them. As soon as she approached, one of the boys stood up to her, he was taller, bigger and said “No. We don’t want to play with you because you’re a girl.”

My heart skipped a beat. She didn’t flinch. She probably didn’t even understand what he was saying, but to me it was the start of a social script that she was going to internalise. Over and over again, if she hears it enough and feels it enough, she is going to think that she can’t because she is a girl. My feminist brain exploded, but I kept my distance (she was in the sand and I was on the path with the twins in the pram) and didn’t get involved. I watched them continuously turning away from her, walking away, taking their toys and her innocently thinking it was a game and following them. I intervened only by trying to get her attention and diverting it to something else. I led her to another area next to children and a lovely mum who were willing to play with her. It’s not the boys’ fault. They’re babies themselves. Wanting to play uninterrupted, not wanting to share their bikes and having no obligation to do so, but they were unkind and incidentally, there was no one around to correct them and encourage them to be nicer. Their mums were sitting away from them, not paying any attention to them whatsoever, deep in their own conversations. Again, they have every right to….sort of. Maybe they really needed a deep and meaningful. Us mothers rely on our connection with other mothers, but perspective, priorities. Make time and space for those connections to happen, but if you take your kids to the park, maybe supervise their behaviour. Not only for their own safety, but so we can all as parents, encourage our children to play nice. To practice kindness to one another without compromising their own needs or being martyrs. They don’t have to play with each other, they don’t have to share their toys if they don’t want to or if they are busy playing with them. They don’t always have to be inclusive, especially if they are deep in a game and some stranger expects to be included. But be kind. Say kind words. Be conscientious of other people’s feelings. Children need help to do this and if the adults don’t know how or can’t be bothered to negotiate civilised human interaction, what hope do the kids have.

You don’t have to be a helicopter parent to observe children in their play, leave them to their own devices, but at the same time know when to intervene to guide them to be kind and prevent and avoid conflict. It is also ok to make sure your children are safe at the park or out in public generally. It’s ok to demand a safe and secure space for children to play and mothers to occupy without having to compromise that experience to share the space with people who don’t belong there or don’t know how to behave appropriately there. 

I hate it when older kids from the high school up the road come to hang out on the play equipment at the park. They run up the stairs, run down the slide, swing roughly, throw sand or rocks, shout. I know they have a right to go wherever they want, but how about knowing your place. How about showing some respect and maturity and understanding that if there are small children and babies around, it’s not the place to be boisterous and behave like lunatics. You might not only injure a child, you’re being a shitty example and a nuisance.

I also hate it when some adults invade that space inappropriately. I recently confronted an incident and was shot down by most people and while I totally saw their point and knew the risk I was taking, I didn’t give a shit and felt I did the right thing and was happy to look like a bloody idiot, but take the precaution.

I was at the park with a friend. The twins were in the pram and she and I were swinging our toddlers. A man with tripods and camera equipment turned up to the park and asked us, (rhetorically, he wasn’t anticipating us to say no and I wish I had), if we minded if he took some photos of the area. He said he wouldn’t photograph our children directly, but we may be in some of the photos. He was middle aged and well dressed; he looked like an intelligent person. He knew full well that it was something that could be misconstrued or that it may make us uncomfortable, but he didn’t give a shit and he didn’t approach anyone else at the park for permission, just us, tokenistically. I didn’t immediately say yes. I asked him what it was for. He said it was for real estate purposes around the area. I didn’t make a big thing. He didn’t show me any identification and I didn’t quiz him further. I acquiesced. I didn’t have much choice without making a scene. And that’s exactly what he knew would happen. He didn’t give a shit how uncomfortable it made us or how suspicious it looked; he had zero respect for our feelings or the security of that space where mums and kids come to play with some level of privacy and safety. He carried on fulfilling his own needs. 

I gave him the benefit of the doubt and we ignored him. I did openly take my phone out and photographed him just in case and he didn’t seem to care. Later that afternoon I went home to read about a recent incident nearby where a man was caught photographing children suspiciously at a local school. Alarm bells rang and I panicked a bit. So I went to social media where I think you can be as open and expressive as you want and get messages and information out quickly. I knew the risk I was taking, that I was potentially unnecessarily vilifying someone, but I thought it through. My intentions were good. I wanted to put it out there just in case and used closed community groups to do it in. I wasn’t accusing him of anything, I just wanted people to know what happened, to see his picture and maybe identify him and speak for him (nobody that knew him personally did) and to eliminate the possibility that the two incidents were connected and that there was anything sinister going on.

That didn’t happen. What I feared would happen happened. People lost their fucking minds and accused me of being a stalker, a monster, out to destroy an innocent man’s reputation. I argued weakly that it wasn’t what I was trying to do at all and that I just wanted to make sure it was ok. That if he felt ok to photograph us and use the pictures for whatever purpose he wanted that he didn’t mind being identified and discussed by the community. I genuinely did it without any malice at all. I just wanted to make sure. The posts were removed from social media. I was called names. Some people suggested I report it to the police. So I did. 

When I rang the police it was like the woman that answered was expecting my call. If she was a local who was on social media, she probably was. She said they’d send someone around and about half an hour later two cops turned up. One was a hostile looking young woman. She came in thinking I was a trouble maker. She left with a little more sympathy and understanding I think. It was obvious I wasn’t a psychopath. I told her and her partner, a giant of a young man who was very serious, as he should have been, that they would have to follow me around and we couldn’t sit down to talk because I was on a schedule and had two babies I had to get down for their nap. We discussed what happened. I told them to excuse my nervousness, but I was genuinely breathless with anxiety that I had two fully armed police officers in my home and how my toddler would interpret this. Like with most things I fret about affecting her, she was oblivious.

I told them what happened and that I hoped I was making a total idiot of myself and was completely wrong and that I felt that being personally attacked and placing myself in the position of a fool if I was wrong was worth it if I was circulating information that was useful if my suspicions were founded. The male officer said a couple of things to me that made me think that not only was he very young and a little bit socially unaware, he was also a bit naïve. He asked me if the man was bothered when I photographed him back and when I said no, he implied that that was enough to show he wasn’t up to anything. He also said to me that if he was well dressed, he must have been ok too. These two things annoyed me. Just because he didn’t care if I took a photo of him and that he was well dressed didn’t mean a thing. I argued that he knew he was making us uncomfortable. He knew that enough to half heartedly ask for our permission. I mean what did he think it would look like?  A middle aged man, turning up to a playground taking photos of the area around children. If he was doing it for work, why not wait until the playground was empty or cordon off an area. If he needed photos showing high traffic or people frequenting the park, provide those people or by all means use us, but show us some information. Introduce yourself properly, give us your card, make us feel at ease that you aren’t up to anything. Don’t mothers and their kids deserve at least that courtesy? At the very least it’s lazy and unethical, just to save a buck and some time.

  

When I expressed all this to the cops in between wrapping and tucking in my babies and ushering my toddler out to the lounge room I think they saw that it was clear that I didn’t have time for this bullshit. I wasn’t some bored sociopath wanting to start drama or out to get someone. I was genuinely concerned that something untoward had happened. It made me uncomfortable and had I not read about the other incident I would have just lived with my discomfort and carried on.

I don’t regret it and I’d do it again. This time I’d go straight to the cops first, but there is nothing legally to stop me from utilising social media and despite placing myself at the mercy of other people’s indiscriminate abuse, I’d post his photo up again.

It’s hard being a positive and kind person and parent when you are socially aware of the risks society can pose to your children and at the same time knowing the potential there is to raise kind and strong individuals who see the world as a safe and enriching place full of people genuinely wanting to do good things and have positive connections. I know I fret more than I should and that bringing this stuff to my children’s attention risks creating a problem in the first place, one that if I just let things slide they’ll not really notice exists and can just go on being blissfully unaware, but prevention is better than cure and I’m getting involved. I can’t help myself. We should all be engaging. It’s a fine line between naivety and resilience.

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.