Legislating morality

WARNING: THIS POST CONTAINS CONTENT THAT MAY OFFEND SOME READERS. PLEASE DO NOT READ IT AND THEN COMPLAIN TO ME ABOUT THE REFERENCES TO HOMOSEXUALITY, BLACKS, WOMEN OR THOSE WHO TAKE PART IN ACTS OF BESTIALITY.

My sleepy little village has been in the news lately (google Sumner and donkey) and while I've been doing my best to lay low, a number of people have called and asked me to comment on the recent events. It seems that my forthright views on the right for parliament to legislate morality have been remembered from the dark and distant past. I have declined the opportunity to share those views in the wider media (who wants to be known as the animal sex lady?) but for those who care about the rights of every oppressed individual or group of people here are the risks as I see them of continuing to have a law that prohibits sexual acts between animals and people.

To set the scene, imagine this. It is the Civil Liberties class of 1997 and we are grappling with the issue of balancing the rights of the individual against the rights of the state and of community interest. Young, sharp minds, excited to be away from home, take up arms against the perceived interference of the state and almost without exception everyone agrees that the state should have very little to say about how people spend their spare time in the privacy of their own homes. Provided there is no physical harm to others, this room full of tomorrow's leaders would loosen restrictions on pornography, allow unfettered access to recreational drugs and remove the hate speech restrictions on freedom of expression. The prevailing view was that parliament shouldn't legislate morality. Healthcare and roading = good. Dictating what you could and couldn't do on a Friday night = bad.

And so I presented a compelling case for the decriminalisation of having sex with animals. There are no valid reasons for these acts to be illegal. Lack of consent? Often the animals do consent and we certainly don't ask their permission before we kill them and eat them. They might prefer to be sex slaves than tomorrow night's dinner. Cruelty? The existing laws are sufficient to deal with anyone who hurts an animal. Indecency laws cover those who like to be seen out and about. What about the fact that it's really gross? That's the best point my classmates could come up with. 'We think it's sick and should therefore be illegal'. The class were adamant that bestiality should remain a criminal offence because it was such perverted behaviour. I felt very clever. I had tricked them into exposing the fallacy of their liberal views. My classmates could not see that many freedoms we now take for granted had in their time been thought perverse. Women vote? Maori play rugby in South Africa? Gay kindy teachers? The class were certain that parliament shouldn't legislate morality - but only when it suited their moral compass. I had won the argument hands-down. I firmly believed back in 1997 that parliament should legislate morality. Banning sex with animals was a great idea. If parliament also banned sex for the first three months after childbirth that would be okay with me too. In fact, after 10pm, anytime my mother is visiting, whenever I'm reading a good book.....politicians ought to be servants of the prevailing wisdom of the times.

But now I realise I was wrong. After years of listening to Winston Peters and George W. Bush you realise the awful truth about democracy. The system is inherently flawed because everyone gets a vote. Even morons. I'm not the first to notice this. But knowing that bigoted, red-neck, women-hating, homophobes can provide a mandate to a government to turn back the clock on the hard fought concessions that have essentially disseminated power away from white, middle-class men - well, that's a much scarier thought than the idea that someone, somewhere is expressing their animal instincts differently to the way you and I might choose to express ours. In New Zealand we have no written constitution that guarantees equality under the law, our Bill of Rights can be legislated into oblivion by the government of the day, and so if there is a trend to leave matters of morality up to an individual, I'm all for it.

In the Netherlands, that bizarre mix of totally conservative regions with the capital for the 'free world' smack in the middle, sex with animals that causes no harm has been legal for years. In February this year this freedom has been overturned. While that sits fine with my personal views on the matter I'm nervous about other inroads they may seek to make. Islamic rule shows only too clearly how the insidious creep of state intervention in private affairs can destroy societies.

I know there are no easy answers, and most of us wouldn't want our children to become zoophiles but consider the much greater harm caused by legal activities - smoking tobacco, drinking alcohol (there's no law against getting absolutely smashed), gambling, overeating, free credit card offers, and ask yourself whether we might not be criminalising the wrong things.

What does this have to do with cancer? Nothing, but the fact that I've got the energy to explore this topic once more, and the presence of pimples on my face, means that mentally and physically, I'm on my way back. Look out.

Unfinished business

Right next to the purveyor of the finest raw energy salad in all of Sumner is a hospice shop. A hospice shop with two convenient carparks, strictly for the use of bargain hunters only, right outside. The last three times I have needed a raw energy salad I have parked in one of the handy spots and begun a ridiculous charade. First, I pretend to browse in the hospice shop for that little something that might just be perfect for that little somewhere I might sometime get invited. I feel bad the whole time. And transparent. As if everyone in the shop knows I'm incorrectly parked and just pretending to be interested in the second hand clothes. So to prove my interest I select a garment and try it on before regretfully handing it to the tireless volunteers ('it's not quite what I'm after') and slinking out the front door. I have even pretended to walk towards my car and almost as if in the grip of an afterthought, have turned on my heels back to the cafe of my original intention. What's that all about?

I'm sure I'm not the only one who likes to be seen to do the right thing. Here's the paradox for the first time cancer patient working hard on preventing the return of the cells which won't die: worry too much about the details of life, the petty rules of social engagement and arbritrary measures of success and you'll get stressed - this is bad. Care not enough about the same things and life loses all meaning - this is bad.

I am a brilliant starter. If you want to get a project off the ground, energize the troops, share the vision, move mountains - I'm your girl. But if you're after someone who will grind out the details and drive hard towards completion...well......we can't be brilliant at everything can we?

I have a long list of unfinished business and I'm in two minds about how to approach it. Bin it and get on with life without the burden of living up to expectations I put on myself. Or, show some mettle and finish, which might just lift the burden and release cancer killing endorphins better than any drugs.

Consider the top 5 on my list and tell me what you think:

1. Thank you notes for our wedding gifts. Most are written, some are addressed, all are heartfelt. We have been married two years. Is it too late?

2. My masters degree. I read that universities are sheltered workshops for the abled. Nearly everything I have studied is useless in applicability to life. The research too narrow and guarded to have any general value and too laden in academic bullshit to be of any specific value. But I do rather like the cut and thrust of socratic debate. I'm about half way through.

3. Grade 8 piano. My fabulous piano teacher graciously allows me to attend each week in the Arts Centre - it's like Dead Poet's Society - without practising. No doubt it's therapy for me of the most beneficial kind but the need for an exam pass? In the interests of honest blogging you should know I currently play at about Grade 2 level.

4. Tidying my room. This is a carry over from when I was 13. Not likely to nail anytime soon.

5. My next bestseller. My first solo stage show. My broadway debut. My radio chat show. My run at the Mayoralty. Mrs New Zealand. The last one is a sure thing.

I am brave enough to attempt another letter to the editor and I'm going back to adult ballet classes now that the Arts Centre has been reinforced for earthquakes and other structure-stressing events like my spring-points and pas-de-chats.

Do you have unfinished business that needs pruning from the list or shall we go together to buy harden up pills? I hope they have parking right outside the door.

True stories

Writing good fiction is all about noticing. Separating the tiniest detail from the broad brush stroke approach we take to life. While people engaged in real life are living, fiction writers sit back and notice. The cock of the wrist, the flash of anger, the species of plant and the blue of the sky. I could never write fiction. The imagination required is way beyond my bird brain. But take a look at the true stories from my last two weeks and marvel at the absurdity of the truth.

1. I received an email from Brazil describing an exciting project. "The path we have chosen is a dead end." I found the original document in Portuguese and translated it back it English. "The road is a road of no return." Easy enough mistake to make.

2. P has told me that she's really pleased I don't have to have any more of the medicine that makes me sick. "Do you remember the name of mummy's disease," I asked. "It starts with can..." Her eyes lit up. 'Canterbury' she replied.

3. The neighbour has sent another typed couriered letter in response to my latest handwritten hand-delivered note. "I do not believe you have grasped the seriousness of the matter." She is, on this count alone, right. When you are doing all you can to boost your odds of not dying a slow debilitating death (I've been researching what happens, it's not pretty) in the next 24 months, it's hard to get worked up about the $15 she claims I owe her for a packet of grass seed. The best thing is I am getting a wee lesson in the New Zealand quasi-judicial system. "There is a vehicle that provides a solution. It is called the Small Claims Court. It is set up to solve disputes such as this." I am now drafting another handwritten note to hand-deliver later. It's like an RSVP to a party. "Dear B, Look forward to seeing you there. Love from S.x" I'll likely lose in the Small Claims Court. Its decisions are usually based on a coin toss, or fall in favour of she who cries the loudest and longest. Walk away? Not fighting for the principles at stake will more likely be more stressful than fronting up.

4. I have discovered where I've gone wrong. 'The Secret" advises that for full health to be restored one must 'not acknowledge or speak of your disease or illness with anyone'. Kind of makes doctor's visits tricky.

5. I am living in the middle of a Sopranos episode. Someone (I.h.m.s) is doing burnouts outside our house to intimidate us. Through the grapevine I've heard that Black Power has been asked to intervene. I am practising my scared face. I understand that having no fear is dangerous, but c'mon. Burnouts? Black Power?I wish they'd just follow the example of my next door neighbour and courier a letter outlining their concerns and describing the legal process to me. In fact I wish all this drama had happened while I was at law school. All the plain English explanations of the system might have come in handy.

6. I have cyber-stalked an old friend from Varsity and she is reported to have been at a cocktail party to celebrate her Rhodes scholarship and someone asked her 'do you think it's Mountbatten's fault that India was partitioned so poorly?' I love this. The most commonly asked question of me at any function, after I mention that I work with Les Mills International is: 'are you an instructor?'

And the very last true story from a bizarre two weeks. My best friend in the whole wide suburb has recently separated from her partner and had a bet with herself about how long it would take for his best friend in the whole wide world to text her and offer a consoling shoulder, and a quiet drink. The subtext is sex, as it inevitably is for men of a certain age whose lives are less than they had hoped for. Incidentally, as Tiger Woods, JFK, Shane Warne, and Bill Clinton have proven, the subtext is sex for men of almost any age whose lives are everything they ever dreamed they could be and more. Anyway, when's it okay to make your move? Two weeks? Two months? Turns out, poor fellow waited exactly 7 weeks before penning the offending text.

I suggested she courier a response in Portuguese about his chances and let him guess at which of the possibilities was most probable:

a) over my dead body (and that's a bit kinky),

b) only when you are the last man alive and even then only after 7 years of psyching myself up,

c) never ; or the least likely

d) when Sacha wins in the Small Claims Court.

Money money money, must be funny.....

My phone has been disconnected. Again. Not the first time and probably won't be the last. I've never been good with money but the reasons are sound. I am an eternal optimist. I am only ever one big contract away from the financial big time. Only ever one paycheque away from being wealthy beyond measure for another few days.

When we found out that I was somewhat unexpectantly pregnant with T, C was instantly pragmatic. "We'll have to move to Woolston you know. We won't be able to stay living in Sumner." Riveria of the South that it is, we managed to hang on and though I had to sell my car and bus everywhere with my newborn baby I was only ever one big contract away from the big time. There were days when C would be on his way home for lunch and I'd tip all the cushions off the couch searching for enough coins to catch the bus and buy two slithers of ham at the local deli. Sometimes I couldn't afford the bus ride home.

You'd think C would have been a better provider. But in fact, he was. I had a debt that he didn't know about and so every week I would squirrel away housekeeping money to pay the lender and stretch the remaining food money to its absolute limit. Why didn't I just tell him? I was too proud. Too full of my own cleverness to admit to being so dumb. The only bill in our house I had to pay? The phone. And to this day, despite the increasing deposits in my bank account I never seem to have enough money for Telecom on the days they want it. Organise conferences? No problem. Speak in front of 1000 people? Piece of cake. Pay a lousy phone bill on time? Not so much.

It's got me thinking about money and the financial stresses of being unwell. Please be very clear, I am blessed beyond all blessedness and don't need your food parcels or postage stamps. But there must be people all around me who are not buffered in the way I am from the exhausting burden of making ends meet when times are tough. All the cancer books I've read suggest offering to help with meals and a cup of tea and that's all well and good but I think for some people what they most need is cold hard cash to pay the power bill.

So I've come up with a little solution. Rather than wait for the bad times to fall we should all contribute a percentage of our income into a central pot so that money can be allocated to those who need it most for basic things like food, clothing, education, and healthcare. And voila! Just like that, I'm a socialist.

The generosity of my friends has been overwhelming. About 50 people from the Sumner Theatre Group put on a Cabaret show giving up a Thursday night when nights off were most precious and performed for 170 locals who each paid $30 a ticket to watch the show. All the proceeds were given to my Mum to help pay for her flights back and forth from Auckland during my treatment. My first ever, and favourite, stalker (m.o.t.l) was given a suitcase full of $20 notes totalling $6,000 from her community in Timaru when she was first diagnosed.

So what stops us giving more freely of our money and asking for financial help when we need it? I think some of us have puritanical attitudes to money that if applied to other areas of our lives we would be ashamed of. I'm already on record for rather selfishly agreeing to pay whatever school fees necessary if it means I don't have to use my valuable time selling bloody bars of chocolate or attending fundraising committee meetings. No one would like to be thought of as inflexible in their parenting, or ironclad in their attitude to sexuality, or even too dogmatic politically. And yet some of us are still okay about being tight-fisted bastards when it comes to sharing our loot. I helped to organise a fundraiser for our local Plunket when T was a tiddler. $15 for a glass of wine and a dessert plate of nibbly nibble things. The Plunket made $4 on each ticket and a number of women complained that $15 was a bit much for just the one glass of wine. "Piss off you silly cow" I said to one, and "Piss off you silly cow" I said to the other. I am no longer involved with that group.

We're not much better at asking for financial help either. Pride. Potential rejection. Humiliation. Scaredy-catness.

I once borrowed $10,000 from a work colleague who on one level I barely knew and on another had known deeply ever since we first met. It was the single biggest kindness I can remember of my entire life. Not just because it's a shitload of money but because of the willingness with which it was lent. I have, of course, paid it back in full. He believes lending it gave him greater pleasure than it did for me to receive it. About this, he is wrong.

I don't advocate lending your friends large sums of money. I may have become a socialist for this blog update but I'll be a hard headed capitalist by the time the next one rolls around. I advocate giving it to them.

Playing a card

When is it okay to play a card? Not your trump card. Not the joker, not the ace of hearts. I'm thinking the two of spades. The card that says "please excuse me right now, I'm suffering and deserve to be treated differently. Normal rules are suspended because I'm (insert relevant disaster). "

On Tuesday morning P interupted my shower with a proclamation. "There's a man at the door and he needs a sign." Don't we all? I thought and hurriedly wrapped myself into a towel and padded down to meet the courier. I do love couriers. Bearers of presents and trademe purchases. Bringers of glad tidings of great joy.

He: "It's from your neighbour. Your next door neighbour."
Me: "Can't be good news then?"
He: "Probably not."

And sure enough, he was right. Our neighbour had gone to the expense and trouble of having a letter couriered from her house to ours. The details are boring, the claims against us pedestrian. But the sentence that really stuck in my throat was the one that suggested that we were taking advantage of her as a single mother. What does that mean?

In property disputes about whose water is flooding whose garden does being a single mother give you greater rights and less responsibilities than being married? Since when was being a single mother a bad thing? Is it a new category of social status that means the rules are changed? I've never thought that marital or parental status was a card that could be played. Am I wrong? Which of the many attributes, charateristics and events that shape us entitle us to expect sympathy? Being short? Being poor? Being prone to foot-in-mouth disease?

It's made me think about how often I've played the cancer card in the last 7 months. I withdrew from university and received a partial refund of fees. I was slow to respond to one of our landlords and blamed chemo. I've stopped wearing a seatbelt and have prepared a cancer burn excuse but am yet to try it on a real life officer. Perhaps I've played it so infrequently because I haven't needed to. My community has wrapped me in lovingkindness and support and has not asked me to pull my weight where it might otherwise be expected. And this is how it should be. We should care for each other enough that paid up members of card carrying societies don't have to pull out their two of spades to get the help they need.

I have been useless at this in the past, arrogantly considering myself more of a global helper than a local hands-on person. My cooked meals won't be appreciated but I'm sure that I can do more for those in need around me. The examples set by others in our community have shamed me into quiet reflection.

Where do we draw the line? What constitutes a disaster card and which mindsets lock people into victimhood? I know better than most what it feels like to have days where the world seems set against you. Yesterday I lost my car key, tripped off my scooter, burnt my mouth on hot coffee, ran low on gas, left my moneycard at home, looked like an old, grey, fat spinster, oozed more goo from a massive burn under my arm and finished my book and had nothing to read and absolutely nothing to wear, so take me now because I am done with Thursdays.

I also woke up in a gorgeous new home with my two healthy delightful children sleeping peacefully downstairs. My step-son is living his dream at college in the States. My husband had already left for work so he could start at 7.15am as he has done at least 5 days a week for the 10 years we have been together, to faithfully provide for our family. I had the choice of three different cereals for breakfast and 295 albums to listen to through my inbuilt surround sound stereo system. I am blessed with a body that functions so well that despite the assault of cancer treatment I was able to scooter with my daughter to kindy and play mixed doubles tennis with C in the evening. I have a nearly brand new car which I love and money in the bank to buy petrol. I am a cuddly, sexy grey-haired minx who now attracts the attention of both hetero- and homosexuals. My burn is healing and my bookshelves are full of generous gifts from friends that I'm yet to open. Every day above ground is a good day.

I still have nothing to wear.

If my neighbour could meet my eye I'd say this:

"Cards on the table. We all get dealt the occasional dud. Sometimes an entire hand of rubbish. Having cancer doesn't give me the right to flood your garden. Being a single mother doesn't give you the right to flood mine. Call off the couriers and won't you please accept my home-made lasagne cooked with love and instructions from the Kids Can Cook book."

Ouch, ouch

I finished radiation therapy on Tuesday and was pretty damned pleased with myself. I'd just sent off a fantastic letter to the editor of the Christchurch Press lambasting the stupidity of men in general but particularly men who whine about wanting money for breast cancer awareness for men. In New Zealand 20 men each year are diagnosed compared to 2500 women. Bad luck to those chaps but I can't get excited about spending precious health funding dollars to alert men to fondle their breasts more often. It's hard enough getting them to the doctor to feel their balls and men are much more likely to have trouble 'down below' than in their man boobs.

I'd also got through radiation pretty much unscathed. Some redness, tightness of skin, a little tiredness, that's it. I told the girls I'd have radiation every day if it meant not ever having chemo again. And then they told me some cold hard truths. "The burning will get worse before it gets better, and the pain should peak in about seven days time. But then you'll start to heal."

By Wednesday I was starting to have the odd throbbing pain, a some stiffness under the arm but was buoyed by the triumph of my writing. My letter still hadn't been published and this could only mean one thing - it had been selected for the Letter of the Week. Surely now my days as a part-time blogger were over. This would be the start of something big. You've seen Julie and Julia? I know that Sacha and Kylie doesn't have quite the same ring to it. But think of the spin offs. Miniature one-boobed barbies would surely be the next Happy Meal toy, all the A-listers would shave their locks, and Alison Holst could take a break from having her Favourite Muffins at the top of our best seller lists.

Thursday wasn't such a good day. Armpit getting decidedly ugly. More skin left on sheets than on body and the only thing that's remotely comfy to wear is nothing. Oh, and I got an email from Bruce Rennie regretfully informing me that The Press can't publish all letters it receives and that some good letters get left out.

Good? What sort of messed up wishy-washy adjective is that? My previously trusted bridesmaid F once introduced me to her new boyfriend and after a dazzling display of verbal gymnastics which included hilarious commentary of the day's events, insightful remarks about local body politics and a very accurate piss-take of Ruth Dyson I left to go home and put the spuds on. F asked this new boyfriend what he thought of me. "Oh, she seems nice enough." Needless to say, but mentioned for those who thought Kylie Minogue really was a friend of mine, he didn't last long and I'm not sure Bruce Rennie should sleep easy in his job either. Fancy missing the obvious brilliance that is me in full flight. Okay, I was a little over the word limit. I was perhaps a little strident in the expression of my opinion. But still. You want to read some of the crap they do print.

In hindsight perhaps my emotions were ahead of my body. Now I look how my letter sounded. I am raw, oozy and suffering. If you want to see for yourself, find me on facebook. You have been warned.

Look good, feel better

That's the promise of the charity funded by the cosmetics and toiletries industry. Women with cancer are invited to a workshop to learn about make-up and hair care. The idea is great. Slap on some lippy and bingo! you look good and feel better for it.

I was reluctant to go. Why mess with perfection? But I met a fabulous cancer warrior at the local supermarket and she pushed all the right buttons. "You get hundreds of dollars worth of free stuff." I rang and booked as soon as I got home.

I don't do group anything very well so I gave myself a really serious talking to all the way up the Cancer Society stairs. "You're not running the show; these women are probably warm blooded and have feelings so shut up about what you really think; breathe; two ears, one mouth; focus on the free stuff."

It was awful in all the expected ways, "we won't go around and introduce ourselves, I know how nervous that makes you" and wonderful in unexpected ways that humbled me. So many volunteers giving up time to bless women in need. So many delicious freebies from my favourite cosmetic giants. There's the rub. Partly why having cancer is such a shitty disease is because as a society we are bombarded with misinformation about how a person's value should be measured. Images of 'beautiful' women are everywhere and they're not often bald, with eyebrows falling off. The whole concept of the make-up morning rubbed up against what I believe makes people beautiful. The confidence that comes from being certain of your place in the world, the joy of living a life you've chosen and created, the peace that passes all understanding and allows us to graciously accept that bad things happen to good people. I couldn't help but think that two hours of sharing and celebrating each other's triumphs through the trials of cancer treatment might have had a more permanent beneficial effect. But perhaps that's what the support groups the Cancer Society offers are for. We all certainly laughed and enjoyed the attention of the wonderful volunteers who could not be faulted. Their love and warmth was uplifting. And total surprise - colouring in my eyebrows was fun. "Lots of little strokes."

Truthfully, I left looking like a drag queen. Lots of eye-shadow, caked on foundation, and a pukey peach lipstick. Still, I had wonderful gifts of cleanser and makeup remover to rub it all off.

Back at work, the girls in the cafe underneath my office immediately commented on how nice I looked. Crap. C arrived at his desk. Did I know that my cheek was sparkling? And by the way honey, you look great. Shit. I hauled my spare 9 kilos up 79 steps to visit Frosty F, my chief bridesmaid. She, of all people, would respond appropriately and offer me a flannel and some soap.

"Oh my goodness Sach. Where have you been? You look a-m-a-z-i-n-g. That colour on your lips is gorgeous." Fuck.

I had to laugh. It took nearly two hours to get the goo on and where am I going to get that kind of time on a daily basis? The best advice I got from the workshop was to invest in a head wrap to wear at night to keep my head warm. The lovely expert slipped one onto my head to show the other girls how easy they are to pop on one's pate. It has the added benefit, I quipped, of being a contraceptive device.

So here for your viewing pleasure is me, the evening of the event. The light doesn't do the thickness of the goop justice or show just how dark grey my hair is. But hopefully, at the very least, the joy and peace I have about the lucky life I lead shows through.

Old dog, old tricks

And so it came to pass. On the seventh day, when all the other creatures were resting their weary bones, my Dad aged 67, was riding his new Honda Shadow motorbike from Christchurch to Auckland.

He bought it through TradeMe a few days ago and has spent the last 36 hours practising his slow turns and stopping on the relatively quiet streets of Sumner. So far he's lost his gloves off the roof of my car, lost his glasses off the roof of my car, found the glasses 10 minutes later unscathed in the middle of the road - 'it's a miracle', and made two trips into town to buy accessories that he forgot the first, and second time he went to the bike shop. Of course he looks cool. While he's riding. Watching him get off is pure comedy. Lacking the flexibility to lift his leg over the seat he leans forward and rolls off, just like the high jumpers at the Berlin Olympics. And just like the high jump bar, sometimes the bike comes down too. Another wee thing to practise.

It's my fault. If I hadn't reminded him of the Honda Goldwing he would never have remembered that riding a motorbike around the perimeter of New Zealand was on his bucket list. Up til then he was obsessing about a motorhome, his boat, and a bicycle built for two.

But there are worse things he could be doing. Gardening. Giving up. Acting his age. Genealogy. Bowls. Reunions. Better to burn out than to rust. Go Poppa Bear. If it all gets too hard and for the second time in 20 years he has to sell a motorbike within a couple of weeks of buying it, where's the harm?

I'm planning my own adventure now. Despite my daily sunbeds (when you're having radiation therapy every day is a Friday) which have burnt a red patch the size of a dinner plate onto my chest and halfway round to my back, I crave the sun and the warmth of a tropical breeze. After 6 more treatments I will be free. The only hospital visits between me and Christmas will be check-ups, 3-weekly Herceptin, and surgery to rebuild the twin towers. But even that can wait.

I was thinking about doing a road trip. Perhaps I could follow that old guy who keeps rolling off his bike at the road side cafes. Have you heard of him?

Silence on a Sunday

Everyone breaches the Fair Trading Act when they're dating. C and I went rollerblading on our first date and haven't been since. I probably told lies "I like nothing better than cooking five lamb chops, mashed spuds and boiling up some frozen peas - heaven!" And worst of all, he pretended to be interested when I read him snippets from the Sunday paper.

Sharing or not sharing fascinating tidbits from the Sunday paper is the simplest way of describing, defining and dividing people. Male, female, gay, straight, old, young - all stale and irrelevant classifications. Either you read aloud from the paper or you don't. I do, C doesn't. Dad does, Mum doesn't. The non- readers hate being read to, the readers hate not being listened to. It's a miracle that relationships between what are essentially different species survive.

Just this morning, I made a new vow (one I break and re-make most Sundays) not to disturb C by sharing the paper. I made it all the way to the entertainment section. That, for a speed reader like me, is a good 5 minutes of silent, non-sharing. Practically a lifetime. Then I saw ads for at least 3 concerts I want to go to and I could contain myself no longer:

Me: "James Taylor, The Winery Tour of Bic Runga, Dave Dobbyn and Tim Finn, Dianna Krall - why so many concerts I want to go to when my priority has to be saving for a clothesline?"

He: Hmmph.

Me: "I'm so proud of the way I'm controlling my spending and saving. I'm really starting to grow up and mature into a truly responsible person."

He: Mmm.

And then I turned the page. Full page ad. One Night Only. Whitney Houston. Live in New Plymouth. OMG. I have to go. Screw the clothesline.

I'm especially fond of New Plymouth given our last concert experience there. Full page ad. One Night Only. Elton John. Live in New Plymouth.

I booked the seats late and flew direct so the cost was horrendous - about $1500 bucks. Upgraded to good seats - $300+ each. Accommodation, taxis, dinner, babysitter - all up, it was looking like a $2500 24 hour mini-break. But Elton John? Come on - the man's a musical genius and so many sparkly costumes - heaven!

Until it rained. And rained, and rained. New Plymouth was absolutely freezing. From the moment we arrived and the mountain was ominously shrouded in cloud I knew bad things were ahead.

Me: "Good thing I brought my jacket."

He: "Won't the stadium be warm anyway? I didn't think I'd need one."

Me: "It's an outside concert darling. Remember me telling you that on Sunday morning as I read the details aloud from the paper?"

A visit to Kathmandu to purchase $2 ponchos didn't help matters. Town was teeming with older folk (EJ's target market) in every manner of ski suits, oilskins, and wet weather gear.

He: "It's very cold isn't it? And wet."

We called a taxi and, dressed in everything we had packed, ventured out into the storm. While we waited C hesitantly suggested that as he didn't really do wet and cold and didn't really like Elton John that much and wouldn't be such great company perhaps he should stay in our hotel room and watch Coronation Street. "Why don't you come along, and if it gets too cold you can always come back early?" As we climb into the taxi, united together as only people engaged to be married with three children between them can be, C suddenly stops and declares, "I can't do it."

I remarked to the people around me at the Bowl of Brooklands, "I know who the empty seat on my right belongs to, my brave and fearless fiance, but who owns the one on my left?" "Our friend Natasha" the couple one seat over said. "She's just getting hot chocolates." And then I saw her. Possibly the largest woman New Plymouth has ever seen was making her way up the aisle towards me. I'd like to say she sat next to me but in truth she sat on me. Her legs spilled over her seat, her arms spilled over her seat - her flesh was one with mine. God Bless Her. By half time, at -1 degrees we had become firm friends. I nestled into her snuggly buggly warmth and asked her if she would mind me reading aloud to her from the paper on Sunday mornings.

Was I angry with C with my friends wanted to know. Absolutely not. I love people who know their minds, who don't put themselves in positions they know they'll hate just to please others. That kind of carry-on might just cause cancer. Which is why, if I do go to Whitney Houston, I'll be pleasing myself and going alone.

Let your little light shine

Radiation Diary

Day 1: It's no wonder the treatment is carried out in bunkers - the waiting rooms look like bomb sites. There are tatty signs about the place saying sorry for the mess and the delays but no one apologises for the old men sitting about in blue booties. I'd refuse to wear them. Sloop John B is playing on the stereo and is immediately followed by California Dreaming. This is a sign. Two significant songs, just for me. "Don't forget to bring your ID card with you tomorrow" a helpful technician shouts as I leave.

Day 2: "Did your bring your ID card?" No, and I won't be bringing it ever. I know my name, my date of birth, my hospital number and can recite all three in less than 5 seconds. If some crazy fool pretends to be me and goes to the trouble of shaving their head and slicing their boob off to look the part, let them have some radiation. It might just fix what's ailing them. "Which problem does me carrying my ID card solve?" I politely ask. Okay, it wasn't exactly polite but I didn't snarl. Apparently the old chaps in the blue booties sometimes stand up when any name is called and as ( I swear this is as close to a direct quote you'll get without a tape recorder) 'the men are the same age and look the same' occasionally someone gets the wrong dose to the wrong body part. "What if I promise to not let anyone else get up when you call my name? What if before you begin you ask me my name? What if you look at the great big bloody photo of me inside the folder with my name on it and compare it to the person you're about to radiate?" Do you know what she was thinking? "Why don't you, stroppy tart, just bring your ID card like everyone else?" Why not indeed?

Day 3: "I've made you a new ID card." I didn't think it was quite the right time to share my B.N.I but I'll share it with you now. At the start of every radiation session I take off my top and walk bare chested, naked from the waist up, from the little changing cubicle across to the treatment table where a sheet is draped across me for a few seconds before it is removed. The technicians, male and female, then place their hands gently on my naked flesh at either side of my body and wriggle me into position. They are uniformly kind and professional and I actually don't mind the contact. But, despite the best efforts of the sheet draper person I am inevitably topless for much of the time. I would be more comfortable if they were all topless too. That's my B.N.I. Improve patient comfort by disproportionately increasing the discomfort of the staff.

Day 4: Sloop John B and California Dreaming are playing again. It is not a sign. It is the Forrest Gump soundtrack. "What are the men in booties having?" I ask. Much squirming and verbal wriggling follows. Feet in stocks, it turns out they are having their 'groin' area nuked. They are allowed the decency of pulling down their pants whilst under the sheet. More evidence of the comfort of staff coming first, and fair enough. What young woman wants to look at old geezers bits? It might solve the ID problem though. While faces are the same, my somewhat limited experiences lead me to believe that prostates and their surrounds are very different.

Day 5: Further advances to the B.N I. The males that fondle me must be naked from the waist down for their discomfort levels to be sufficiently high to offset mine. Mum commented the other day that I didn't seem to miss my boob. She's right. I've always been offended by the notion that women shouldn't go topless on the beach but men can. I have never come across sensible rationale for this discrimination. If the male radiographers were topless like us sheilas they'd just preen. If their bottom-half bits responded to the cold of the radiation table in a similar way to my lone nipple we'd all have a good laugh at the absurdity of what is taking place.

None of my chemo nurses had received chemo and none of the surgeons I've had bothered to have similar surgery. I no longer listen to their approximations of the pain, side effects, possible adverse outcomes. They know jack.

Yesterday I had an appointment with my oncologist Associate Professor Bridget Robinson. I had the following questions prepared:

1) Given that I've started menstruating again, in your years of experience, does this mean I am not going to experience early menopause as expected or does it mean nothing of significance yet?

2) Might my eggs have survived chemo and be useful for my friends and family who are having challenges conceiving?

3) Will any fertility hormone drugs I might contemplate having reactivate the cancer?

4) In your twenty plus years of treating cancer what do you think are the most significant lifestyle changes to make in order to prevent its return?

5) The biggest cause of stress in my life is my family. Should I leave them all and stay alive miserably on my own in a cave? Or stay with them and get cancer again? What are your suggestions for finding the middle ground?

6) Seeing as how I hate being fat, and am (so far) useless at being disciplined around food and exercise, can you prescribe some wicked form of medical 'speed' that will deal to the fat?

7) In your professional opinion should I still drink alcohol?

8) Since beginning radiation my scar is tighter than before. I am the defending runner-up of the following prestigious titles: Sumner Tennis Club Mixed Doubles Plate, Women's Singles plate, Women's Doubles Plate - should I continue playing tennis in the 2010 championship and work through the pain or take stronger drugs?

9) Do you have the results of my echo cardiogram? Shall I continue with Herceptin or have I already sustained damage to my most important muscle?

10) Don't you wish your girlfriend was hot like me?

Bridget didn't leave her office to see me. Her daughter or maybe her great niece - anyway, some child posing as a registrar popped in to the consulting room instead. All terribly nice, but barely out of med. school.

She: How's it all going?

Me: Great.

She: Any questions?

Me: No.

She: Worries?

Me: No

She: Concerns?

Me: No

She: Are you sure you don't have any questions?

Me: Nothing I can think of other than why did nobody tell me that you were going to be here.

I know experience has to be gained at sometime but so far every time I've bothered to ask one of the teenagers a question they've had to 'ask around' and get back to me. At least Dr Indian Spunkyfeatures has Indian Spunkyfeatures. Perhaps he'd like to take part in my B.N.I.

Anyway, I promised all 30+ of my Facebook friends that I was going to shine like a bottle of plutonium during radiation just like the boss. Check him out anytime you need a lift.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rTebgVrHEVM

Four year olds and death

I don't want to die. Not yet anyway. Lately P has asked me a couple of times about dying.

P: When are you going to die Mummy?

Me: Not for ages and ages, when I'm really old. Why do you ask darling?

P: Just thinking.

Me: Are you worried?

P: No. Just thinking. Daddy will die first won't he because he's the oldest?

Me (to myself): Hopefully.

And in a split second, a moment of crystal clarity announced its arrival like a sledgehammer to my heart: I don't want my precious little girl to ever have another mummy.

I used to kiss P goodbye before overseas trips and remind her of my promise, 'Mummy always comes back'. These days, I mumble something less reassuring but with more urgency even when I take a trip to the dairy. "Don't forget I'll be doing my very best to be back here if in all the circumstances returning to you will be possible, notwithstanding that unforeseen events occasionally occur and throw our lives into quiet disarray so best to start practising being resilient right now just in case.....". What's worse? Making promises that might not be kept or disappointing her now with wishy washy vagaries? She's only 4 and a half but she does not miss a thing.

A new mummy might be better in so many ways. More patient, more homely, a better cook even. More handicrafty (w.o.t.w), better looking and more interested in nail polish and makeup and ponies and cats. More caring, less bossy, less messy, more clean. More sparkly, more spangles you know what I mean. Less chaos, less fuss, more vigour and vim. Yes Dad, please, a new one, she's bound to fit in. Make her taller, and sexy with more hair than stubble, less sick, less cancer, that's what started this trouble. Ask Santa for next year, a new mummy please, he'll knock one up with the greatest of ease.

The feeling of being replaced is shitty no matter the context. I've been fine about plenty of breakups until my exes have meet someone else. Ouch. At 22 I was at my lowest, a pathetic creature. Ringing an ex-boyfriend at his new girlfriend's house 'just to hear your voice.' Please don't ring here ever again he begged. 'I know', I'd sob into the phone, 'it's just that....'

I can't think of a single thing anyone could have said that would have made any difference to that girl back then. And in many ways I envy her.

I don't need reassurance of my importance to my children or confirmation that my laissez-faire approach to parenting is ok. I just think that if it came down to it I ought to be able to make some suggestions about my replacement. Just like you do when you leave a job - 'you should look for someone who's prepared to put up with long hours for shitty pay working with morons like you.'

So, if you truly care about my happiness, print this list out, keep it somewhere safe and if....you know what.....and then after that, C meets someone and they ...you know what.....you can all remind him of what's important.

Qualities and characteristics of a suitable step-mother for T & P:

1) She must be very ugly. Anything else will distract them when she is teaching them French.

2) She must be French. This will enable her to continue the good grounding I have already given them in this most beautiful of languages. "Put your bloody clothes away or your bloody Father will have a bloody fit when he gets home from bloody golf." "That's swearing Mum." "No, it's not," I tell them. "It's bloody French."

3) She must be very fat. Anything else will fail to reinforce the importance of daily exercise and eating well. She will be a constant reminder of the perils of inactivity. Obesity will prevent her from climbing the stairs to my bedroom and laying with my husband whilst I am still warm in my grave, or smouldering should I choose cremation as the preferred means of disposal for my earthly temple.

4) She must have lots of long dark hairs on her face. This will mean she can role model shaving for T and allow P to practise doing plaits and braids.

5) She must be very smelly. See number 2 above.

As you know, action rather than moping is my m.o, so here are the top two things on my to-do list for this year:

1) Stay true to the course of beating cancer and being the best handicrafty mum in the house

2) Teach T & P to sniff out French women and spontaneously attack them, biting their ankles like wild dogs.

Tattoos and tests

Tramp stamps have never been my thing. Like miniskirts and skinny jeans I've always thought tattoos looked great on other women. But now I've got three of my own. It all happened quite quickly and fortunately did not involve choosing between a daisy chain and a butterfly. My sister K came with me to my radiation planning appointment where I was laid out on a table, and pushed and pulled into position by the kindest hospital staff encountered so far. "Try not to help us", they instructed as they manoeuvred me into the perfect position for radiation treatment. All the while, my arms were locked in above my shoulders and I wished I'd remembered to shave the one hair that stubbornly grows out of my right armpit. With words that are all too familiar the tattooing began. "Just a little prick" the radiographer announced and before I could make the obvious joke about the men who never bother to announce that when you first meet them, I had the first of my tattoos. A perfect dot right where I imagine my sternum is. The other two are on my back.

I like to pretend that a character from a Dan Brown book will discover me, whisk me away to an ancient cathedral and hold me up to the moonlight at 3.33am at which time the three stained glass windows whose beams triangulate my dots will reveal the answer to an ancient riddle. In real life I have to take myself along to the bunker at Christchurch Public Hospital for 25 blasts from the radiation machine. The staff will line up their laser beams with my three dots and that way they'll know I'm in the correct position.

With only 5 weeks of full on treatment to go, followed by another 8 (or so) Herceptin sessions, I am increasingly asked when I'll get the all clear. If only breast cancer worked like that.

For all we know, I no longer have cancer. The chemo and radiation and Herceptin might be total overkill. The cancer in my breast has been removed. The cancer found in one of my lymph nodes has been removed. But the possibility that cells have escaped to elsewhere in my body meant that at my age and considering the stage of the cancer, it was prudent to have chemo, radiation and Herceptin. Adjuvant therapy they call it. Partly just-in-case, and partly to-be sure, to-be sure. The only way we'll know it has succeeded is if the cancer doesn't come back. And the only way we'll find that out is to wait. The great thing for me, she who hates not knowing, is that because my cancer is/was aggressive, the likelihood is that if it's coming back, it'll be back sooner rather than later. And we can get on with fighting it hard, again.

Think of dropping a teaspoon full of red food colouring into a glass of water. You can see the red as it infiltrates the water. The water in the glass was my boob. The red is cancer. Stay with me here. I promise it's worth it. Now imagine the glass full of water tipped into a bucket of water. The bucket of water is my body. There's every possibility there's now red infiltrating the water that we can no longer see because it's been so diluted. But it's there. And unlike food colouring, cancer has a life of its own, and will grow and take over the other parts of the body that it spreads to.

So no all encompassing test coming up that declares the cancer eliminated, evaporated, extinct. Just more echocardiograms to monitor my heart function, blood tests to check other stuff and daily fondling of my entire body checking for lumps and suspicious bumps. The most recent lump I felt in my chest where my boob used to be had me scrambling to see my specialist, tearing off my shirt and begging her to touch my scar - now! - to confirm my self-diagnosis. She did. It was my rib.

The final word on fat

C grew up in the good old days. The summers were longer, the days golden and the long drive to Blenheim for the holidays was shared with two adults smoking in the front seat with the windows up the whole way. No one at the time suggested it was child abuse. Driving home from the pub after a couple of jugs was normal and if someone was killed by a drunk driver the coroner declared the death 'accidental'.

But as society learnt more about the harm caused by cigarettes and drunk drivers our laws, and eventually our attitudes, changed.

It doesn't matter where you sit on the political, philosophical, or religious spectrum, being fat by which I mean obese, makes no sense. And I'm not afraid of saying so. With my very own real name attached to the opinion.

Not all smokers die of smoking related illnesses. Not every fat person is unhealthy. The evidence, however is unequivocal. Forget about the politics of body image, and the beauty debate. Ignore for a minute the gender issues of the impossibility of the ideal female form, versus the margin of 'error' afforded to men. Just consider where you live. I believe that first and foremost we live in our bodies. Our souls, spirits, personalities, egos, brains - the things that make us uniquely us - live in a physical form. Before our homes, villages and cities, we live in our bodies. And take it from me, that when our primary residences are in disrepair life is more challenging.

Creationists believe that we are created in the image of God and that our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit. Scientists believe that we evolved and that the strongest, fittest and smartest of our species will outlast the others. Creationist scientists should be lawyers. The ducking and diving in their literature could be an Olympic sport. Even taking the crude view that humans are no more than a form of machine you can't escape from the harsh truth. Being too fat is bad for us. Being too skinny is bad for us as well but no-one's rushing to defend anorexics in the way that fat people evoke sympathy.

Being overweight is a key factor in a whole host of diseases, illnesses, syndromes, and disorders. The reason people get fat? We eat more energy than we expend. Imagine your car tank being full of petrol and asking the attendant to pour petrol into the back seat because there's no more room in the tank. What about taking a shitty form of energy like diesel and mixing that in with your petrol? Car wouldn't get far. But still people clamour for more refined sugar, more empty carbohydrates, more crap food to make them feel better. Poured maple syrup into your stereo lately? Not designed to run on maple syrup right? Our bodies are not designed, created, evolved - whatever - to run on the modern diet of junk food and jelly beans.

And just for a second, imagine owning a piece of equipment that never got used. A sofa never sat on. A book never read. A body never walked.

I should know. Since I began chemo I have put on 7 kilos. Of fat. Why? My taste buds are shot, my nausea overwhelming and my energy levels at all time lows. I have eaten as I have pleased to get me through the day. I have not exercised with any real intensity. I have stayed in bed.

I have disrespected the temple of my spirit. And in January I will suffer twice over. Firstly because I will begin the painful process of expelling the fat from my body by walking and running around the streets of my village, going to Les Mills for the world's best fitness classes, and lifting weights. And secondly because I will have to deal with C & T & P moaning their arses off (if only this were literally possible!) about the delicious semi-vegan nutrition plan our whole family will enjoy. There will be two options for every meal - take it or leave it. More raw carrots with your grilled tofu darling?

I do sincerely believe that fat people, smokers, climate change sceptics must try harder in 2010. The unfairness in this unholy triumvirate is that only one of these groups can be easily identified by others. If you're a healthy weight and feeling pretty smug right now - grow up. There are undoubtedly things in your own life that wouldn't look too flash on display for all to see. Be thankful that sneaking looks at internet porn while your wife is out doesn't instantly turn your hair permanently purple, or that speeding through a school zone doesn't set off flashing lights spelling IDIOT all around your car.

Me, I'm just pleased that when you're one-boobed and bald no one bothers to check out your bum.

Hotpicks from 2009

What a bloody change. After ten days of feeling fabulous, my last FEC (Wednesday 9/12) has sat me firmly back on my bottom...or rather, back on my back. Lying in bed, with great rolling waves of sickness coursing up and down my body I've been reflecting on 2009. My most comfortable position is one that I imagine a dying dog assumes, head hanging over limp paws just waiting for the breath to run out. I'm not dying of course and feel mentally as tough as ever but the release that comes from physically relinquishing a fight is immense.

The great news is that my last FEC was my last chemo treatment and all I need to do now is rest up for a few weeks, have five weeks of radiation in January/Feb, then 3 weekly Herceptin for a further 9 months and then I can get off this cancer carousel and back into life as I used to know it...but with a few more pills, and raw beetroot juices.

So...to my lists. I don't know where you lot have all been over the past few months but I have been staggered by how few of my friends are in touch with the very coolest things in the world. Help yourself to my hotpicks from the year that's just been:

1. www.ted.com - if you weren't raised with an oral tradition you'll take some convincing but if you've spent any time in church, or at university you should find something to squeal your wheels. My favourite talks are: Elizabeth Gilbert of Eat, Pray, Love fame on Creativity. Sir Ken Robinson on How Schools Kill Creativity, Barry Schwartz on the Paradox of Choice and Benjamin Zander on Classical Music. OK, some of these are older than 2009 but it was my year to discover them.

2. Louis CK - the comedian is filthy - if you are remotely upset by foul language and adult themes avoid it all - except his piece on the Conran show about 'Everything is Awesome and Nobody's Happy.' www.youtube.com

3. Catherine Tate does Lauren Cooper. "Am I bovered?" www.youtube.com

4. The Time Travellers Wife - perhaps facing death makes mushy movies about time travelling more appealing than they otherwise would be - I cried. A lot. All the way home. Only go if you've read the book. Lazy, lazy, lazy if you don't.

5. Susan Boyle. Go on. Give your inner cynic the day off. Buy the CD. Play Wild Horses in the car and remind yourself of her first appearance where the entire audience was sneering and gagging to bring her down, until she opened her lips and started to sing.

6. The All Whites. I couldn't watch the last 10 minutes. My heart rate was climbing to a rate way too high for a chemo cocktail boffer like me. Bring on the Italians in South Africa.

7. The idea that entrepreneurs and not politicians create massive social change. Are the wrong people in Copenhagen? Check out the tweets from the Thought Leaders Conference 2009 for more - not my original thought but one that has really got me thinking. For an easy read try Fighting Globesity by Dr Jackie and Phillip Mills. www.lesmills.com (In the interests of transparency you ought to know I'm mentioned - nothing like good old self-promotion.)

Must try harder:

1. Freedom Furniture. Had cash, ready to pay for light shade for the great white elephant, which incidentally is looking more and more like my dream home every day. Who knew that concrete would be comfy? "Sorry, you can't buy it today because I have to count it." There I was thinking they were in business to sell items of furniture and associated household trinkets. Wrong. They are in the business of counting them, and keeping them. "Why don't you pay for it now and come back and pick it up tomorrow when I've finished counting it?" There's a winning pitch if ever I heard one. "Why don't you," this is me talking now, "stick the light shade up your jacksie, plug it in, turn it on and blow yourself up."

2. Tiger Woods. Should he blame the guy who always yells 'get in the hole'? What's worse? Being such a schmuck or being so arrogant to expect to get away with it? Mobile phones? Security cameras? Waitresses? Porn stars? Brain explosion. I don't judge his morality just his stupidity and hypocrisy. No wonder he craved privacy.

3. Mark Sainsbury. If Richie McCaw could be trained to stop saying 'you know' surely MS could ditch the 'now, look.' Tell me I'm wrong.

4. Smokers. Fat people. Polluters. Climate change sceptics. Mark Hoitchin. Give it up already.

5. Me. More to say, do, be, see.....after a wee snooze.

Good advice

Pirates Women's Rugby 1997

It seemed like such a good idea. I knew such a lot about rugby, had watched so many games, dated so many players, chatted with top coaches and was certainly fit and strong. For a 46kg chick that is. You can tell from the photo that women's rugby is not weight restricted, and that our fabulous captain, who played for the Black Ferns was close to twice my size.

So was the woman who sat on me in a ruck and broke my collar bone. The last thing I heard before the tackle was our coach yelling 'way to run it up Sach'. The first thing she said as I staggered to the sideline with my left arm dangling helplessly by my side was 'no-one comes off until I say'. "Yes chief, that's an excellent point you raise, but in my defense I have suffered minor concussion and can't be expected to remember all the finer points of your particular brand of masochistic coaching."

Hospital staff mistook me for a 12 year old and I sailed through A&E. Another winger (you didn't think I played prop did you?) from another club had broken his collar bone too. Strong, strapping, 100kg of Fijian muscle sat next to me during the wait for x-rays. Tears rolled silently down his cheeks. I gave him my most sincere smile, leaned in really close and told him to harden up. What kind of pathetic excuse for a player was he? Crying? Come on.

My first game back after an extensive rehabilitation period involved Pirates and Varsity A. I was put on at half time and I'm certain the rousing half time speech was primarily for my benefit. "They might be up by 20, but they will not cross our line again. We will be a fortress, our line will be defended at all costs. Are you ready to lay your body on the line? From the smallest amongst us ...." I tuned out. I'd always been attracted to the way that famous rugby nation, Spain, structured their defense. So when Annaleah Rush, Black Fern and sister of All Black Xavier but blessed with more size and skill with ball in hand than he, ran towards the try line with only me in her way, I did what any decent matador would do. I simply stepped aside and waved her on through. I did ask if she would mind stopping to sign my jersey on her way past but I'm not sure she could even see me without a magnifying glass.

The only try I scored that season, or any other season for that matter, was on the day my Mum was visiting from Auckland. Sensibly, she'd advised against playing rugby. Sensibly, I'd ignored her. She came to watch, somewhat reluctantly. Not many sheep hang round for the whole lambs to the slaughter thing. About 5 minutes into the game a schoolteacherly (w.o.t.w) voice could be heard throughout the wider Dunedin region. "Get in there Pirates. Smash them. Hit them hard girls. Chase it Sach. Where's your guide dog Ref?" Once a sports fan, always a sports fan.

The only award I was nominated for, I didn't win. Club Personality of the Year. It turned out that having a witty turn of phrase and winning grin was no match for the Senior Men's nominee who had performed indecencies on a goat, a sheep, the captain's fiance and was otherwise just such a decent bloke.

It is blindingly obvious with the benefit of hindsight that rugby wasn't going to be my game. My good friend A.R. Baldwin, a fellow student burgling his way through law school summed it up best in a song he wrote to avoid studying the finer points of Wills and Trusts;

"But it seems I didn't listen to myself. All my good advice seems to go to someone else."

Each of us already has the answers to the problems in life that puzzle us the most. We could all advise our best friends what to do in any given tricky situation. We're just not brave enough to take our own advice.

Which is why I've sometimes skipped my injections, my daily mouthwashes, and the forty pills a day regime. It's hard, it's boring, it hurts, and I hate it. Thinking about chemo makes me spontaneously vomit and there are days where doing the right thing feels impossibly difficult.

But like every tough thing thrown at us, this too passes. Today, was a great day and there's every probability that tomorrow will be even better.

What advice of your own are you ignoring?

Yuck yuck spew spew

It is a truth universally acknowledged that certain shades of limelight can wreck a girl's complexion. I'll send $20 cold hard cash (NZD) to the first of you who can name the authors and titles of the books from whence the opening sentence first appeared. The literazzi among you will immediately know that two phrases have been stitched together. Hurry now. If you resort to google, I will have no way of knowing, and will honour my part of the bargain. But you will have to live with your cheating self for the rest of your life.


Finding new ways of saying the same old thing is challenging, and there aren't that many new things to say. Every self-help book has familiar themes, all crime thrillers employ the same devices to ratchet up the tension and despite an exhaustive research project I have been unable to find a description of the effects of chemotherapy that significantly differs from this one:


yuck, yuck, spew, spew, chunder, chunder, queasy, queasy, pukey taste, pukey taste, hot flush, hot flush, lie down, nausea, nausea, nausea, nausea, wouldn't a great big vomit feel good?


Lloyd Morrison, Infratil's founder is back from 9 months in Seattle getting blasted with chemo and describes it as 'a struggle to get to the end of the day, let alone think.' He's bound to be getting a nastier dose of poison than me, on a more relentless roster, but he's telling fibs about the thinking. It turns out that he's about to revolutionize the health and education sector, shake up the economy and spend his last years making a material contribution.


Me, I've been thinking about mental preparedness. Does knowing something potentially nasty is on the horizon make it easier or worse to deal with? Does it make the moments leading into the event better or worse? Would you rather know or not know what's in store?

I like knowing. Always have. But I'm beginning to appreciate the joys of willful ignorance. The subtle change of pace that comes from having each day unfold. The blissful state of having not a clue who will win the $20.

Easy rider

It's a long way to Tiparere. But it's takes even longer to drive from Auckland to Kaitaia. Especially when you've only just got your license and haven't spent any time at 100km/h on the open road. Double the danger by lying to Mum about going to school (I might have even dressed in my uniform before she left the house), and triple her likely disappointment when she finds out it was all Dad's idea.

As a parent it fascinates me to watch my kids in action and wonder which of their little quirks and characteristics we will look back on, and with the glorious 20/20 vision of hindsight say 'oh, yes, he's always been..... (insert words of choice)....good with his hands, useless with money, one to skive off, quick to spy a chance, nosy, helpful, ambitious, laid back, fascinated with fire, in love with knives, nasty to animals, certain to be incarcerated.

My Dad has always been a trader with a nose for a bargain. Stories from his childhood are laced with deals, schemes, rip-offs and rorts. His older teenage years were punctuated with adventures straight out of that famous Boy's Own Annual 'How stupid can you be and get away with it?'

One awful day when other mad surfers would have just committed suicide after a week of flat seas at Mt Maunganui, Dad signed up at the Port of Tauranga to crew on a Korean freighter. Up to communist North Korea they went and miraculously a few weeks later, back they came. It's not exactly exploring the world when the commies won't let you past the gate of the dock.

Incidentally, this particular trip gave Dad the best line he's ever used in raising me, notwithstanding the important daily proclamations of unconditional love. I, aged 11, had written a note to the boys in my class. Clearly playing hard to get I wrote, 'the boys are fucken wankers, bloody bastards, stupid c*@s, and useless shitheads'. The boys, not be outdone had returned it to me, surreptitiously (w.o.t.w) and simply crossed out 'the boys' and replaced it with 'the girls'. Clever eh? I went one better and accidentally left the note in the top pocket of my school uniform and Mum found it on its way into the washing machine.
I found her in bed weeping when I got home from school the next day. How could her little girl know and use such filthy language? Dad sat me down for a heart to heart, and as his concern moved to disgust out come the pearler: "I've worked on ships with Norwegian seamen who didn't use language like that!" Norway has been somewhat tarnished for me ever since. And whenever Dad says something less than born-again happy-clappy like 'Shit', I patiently remind him of the fine example those Nordic sailors set him.

Telling the skipper of a yacht sailing up to Tahiti that he had off-shore experience was another dodgy move. Dad didn't realise that sitting out the back on your surfboard was not the true meaning of off shore experience. But crewing on a yacht to a Pacific island where all the women were tanned and topless sounded like fun. What's a weeny white lie? As they left Auckland Dad started chundering and didn't stop for a couple of days. The skipper threatened to throw him overboard but decided it was worse for Dad to stay alive and endure more rough seas.

With that background you'll now appreciate why Dad thought it was a good idea for me to lie to Mum, wag school and drive nearly 5 hours with him to Kaitaia. He let me have a turn at driving on the open road - for experience - and he was wise enough not to enquire about my soul. The purpose of the trip to the Far North? A deal. And what a deal it was.

In the '80's the import tariffs on laptop computers was horrendous. So Dad used to fly up to the States, buy a computer there, bring it home and declare it for personal use, use it personally for a week or two to appease his conscience and the IRD, and then sell it using a cheap classified ad in the Herald. His profit after taking out the cost of flights etc... a cool $2,000.

But this time, he was going one better. Some poor sod was willing to trade his pride and joy, his beauty, his love, for a Toshiba laptop from my Dad. So after five hours of shared driving we all spent 15 minutes in a dingy old garage sealing the trade and then set off for the even longer, slower journey back to Auckland. Me, 16, driving the family sedan and Dad cruising on his new Honda Goldwing touring motorbike. Did he have touring bike experience? Had he ever handled 1500c.c of power on 2 wheels? Had it been more than 10 years since he had ridden any kind of motorbike? No, No and Yes.

Our biggest dilemma was who should go in front. If he crashed I could park my car to stop oncoming motorists damaging the bike. If I crashed Dad could decide whether Tahiti or North Korea would be the best bolthole to escape Mum's wrath. Like most tales of adventure the end was an anti-climax. We made it home safely. And after two or three rides as pillion passenger Mum declared that she would not be travelling to the end of the street with Dad let alone touring the South Island as he had planned. The bike had to go. Something to do with Dad not quite being able to reach the ground with his stubby little legs when they stopped at the lights, and the certainty Mum had that her long, lithe leg would be crushed when the bike tipped over.

Trader Dad made another cool couple of thou' when he sold it and we do have some lovely photos of Mum and Dad sitting on the bike. In the driveway, ignition firmly off.

Stories of our adventures give me hope. Lying here on Day 2 of my fifth round of chemo, riding the waves of nausea I can be thankful for two things. Firstly that my parents were so adventurous and included us in their travels, and secondly that I have a family of my own and we will write new chapters in that soon to be famous holiday guide "3 star holidays for suburban softies".

The paradox of surrender

Once upon a time I was a little girl auditioning for the Royal New Zealand Ballet Company. I had already danced with them in Coppelia and like about a hundred other girls from the Waikato / Bay of Plenty region was now dancing my feet off to be one of nine to take part in The Nutcracker. Looking back, the commitment of my mother was extraordinary. Rehearsals were over 100kms away in Hamilton and every Sunday we'd pile into the car and make the round trip. Driving duties were shared with other similarly committed mums.


The auditions would have made fantastic reality TV. I wonder if they run in the same ruthless way these days - now that telling kids they suck is practically illegal. How many rejected Idol contestants say that their family told them they have a beautiful voice? Yeah, but your family is pig ignorant about pitch, tone, melody and rhythm. Back in'82 the casting director simply taught a dance and all the contenders performed it a few times in lines of about 7 and if you didn't pick it up fast enough they sent you home. If you were fat, they sent you home. Ugly? Home. Crying? Home. I, of course, was not sent home but I had a nerve wracking time making the cut.


Eight girls ranging in age from 8-12 had already been selected and 6 were left in the possibles pool. Everyone else? Home already. The casting director looked at the 6 of us waiting to dance again and said something encouraging, totally appropriate given our tender years, like: "one last time girls, I'm looking for one more dancer and the rest of you can piss off home and forget ever dancing with the RNZBC again."

Up til that point I had been concentrating really hard on remembering the steps and smiling. But I knew, even at 9, that my strategy was clearly all wrong. My Coppelia friends were already through - I was the only one still dancing for my life. I decided, and despite no longer being able to remember simple things like what I'm doing at the dairy I remember this with absolute clarity; I decided to change my approach.

'Just dance.' A little voice inside my heart said 'Just dance. Don't worry about the steps, just feel the music, let go and just dance.'

And dance I did. "We'll take you," said the casting director pointing at me.

Sometimes we are most powerful when we let go, and allow the flow.

Changing fortunes

Oh the cruel vicissitudes of fate. I am often asked what's the worst thing about having cancer. Chemo? Being bald? Losing strength in my right arm? Scars? Breastlessness? Fatigue? Probable early dried up pruneness? Oh that it were that simple.

Schipol, Chicago, Heathrow, Los Angeles, Frankfurt, Arlanda - I love airports. Full of possibility and the promise of things to come, travelling through the world's big airports is one of my favourite things to do. The little kiwi in me always feels like busting out a song and dance routine to thrill the captive crowds. "Look at me, I'm Sacha C, all the way from New Zealeeeeeee". I'm not cool enough to be over the multi-cultural buzz of international gateways, the allure of duty-free and the electronic displays that read like the answers to a geography quiz. Istanbul? What is the capital of Turkey? Rome? Where didn't Sacha visit on her O.E because she was lovestruck and came home after 21 days? Lisbon? Where did Sach take P when she was 4 months old? Germany? What country did the moaning shitheads sharing Business Class with Sacha and the baby come from?

In the last 18 months I've been to Fiji, Sydney, Gold Coast, Aspen, Stockholm, Bad Nauheim, Frankfurt, Hong Kong, Los Angeles (3x) and travelled between Auckland, Christchurch and Wellington too many times to count. This mileage is nothing compared to the global commutes of my friends at Les Mills International but for me, it was heaven in an over sized skybus. But most important of all I earned enough points to become an Air New Zealand Gold frequent flyer. Oh, the sweet taste of status. "Come this way Madam, anything you say my Queen. 75 bags to check in? No problem your highness. Extra socks for your tootsies my love? Have some more champagne. Do. Go on. You deserve it. You're Gold."

You know the wankers who attach their frequent flyer name tags to their luggage? Check. That was me. Shiny gold ones with my very own name printed on them. Sucker Coburn. Apart from the wee spelling error I loved them. You've all seen the arseholes who effortlessly saunter past the lengthy queue of (I feel dirty just typing the word) economy class passengers waiting to check in? Tick. I'm not a total snob. From time to time I would smile ever-so-graciously at them as I redistributed my body position to ensure that not one of their grubby children touched any part of my golden self. Oh, the hypocrisy. One of my earliest international airport experiences involved being delayed in LA and having no money for food. I contemplated eating the leftovers on the plates left behind in the cafe where I waited. My mother stopped me. I was seven. Dad, of course would have encouraged this sort of carry-on and rightly so. He's an opportunist, like me. Mum's an Anglican. Say no more.

My status points are sadly going to expire. Before cancer I had a number of international trips planned and then...well, you know how this story ends. Air New Zealand, in their wisdom, didn't buy my argument that I ought to be allowed to keep my status points so I'm on my way back down to silver. If I drop to jade, I'll kill myself. What point in living? They did allow me to carry over my complimentary upgrades which C and I will no doubt use when we travel together as soon as my treatment is over. It will be a honeymoon of sorts, 15 months after the first one. Oh, the anticipation.

The very worst thing about cancer is that it forces redefinition of who you are and where you fit in the world. Good luck to those who go all Buddhist and want world peace and a simple life growing veges and raising kids. Well done to those who soul-search and find new meaning in their life. Me, I just want the freedom to travel again. I want to experience the crush of the crowds, the rush to a tight connection and the pressure of explaining my hotel address to a driver who's even further from his homeland than me.
I want my Gold status back.

Mental as anything

Patrick Jane is mine. Hands off, all you other sad and lonely women who live for Monday nights. The Mentalist is a perplexing hit and I, with direct access to its star, understand why. Australian Simon Baker plays Patrick Jane, a fake psychic with a tragic past seeking redemption by helping hapless cops find the killer. Jane is able to 'intuit' what's happened by making a series of observations and engaging in some pretty basic pop-psychology.

The reason he's so popular? Are you kidding? He is gorgeous, smart, damaged, cocky, vulnerable....everything women look for in men. But more than that, he is knowing. He knows people. He looks right into their eyes and tells them truths about themselves. Every Monday night I wait for him to turn and see me through the tv screen and 'know' me.

"Sacha, you're struggling to understand why your life has taken an unexpected turn. You're a disappointment to yourself having failed to achieve anything much of note and you're longing to get a second chance to use your talents for a greater purpose. You adore your husband and family but would run away with me if only I said the word."

Well, of course I wouldn't. But you couldn't blame him for asking. John Eales used to regularly appear in my dreams begging to marry me, and George Gregan also carried a torch for me during REM but once I met C these subconscious fantasies subsided.

What is it about us that longs to be known without the effort of communication? Like most women I wish the men in my life just 'knew' what I needed at any given moment. How hard can it be, right? Am spewing, need lemonade. Am lying in bed, need cold flannel and hand holding. Am gorgeous, need telling so. We expect that these things are so self-evident they don't need communication and that if men had any respect, love, or hope of sex, they'd get these simple things right.

Which is why we love Patrick Jane. Whenever C offers to do whatever I need, if I'll only ask, he makes the comment 'I'm not a mind-reader' whereas Patrick would never say that, because of course he is. A mind-reader.

And it's not just husbands and partners who suffer from lack of insight disease. My Dad, so wise about so many matters, was particularly slow to realise that one of his parenting stratagems was never going to work. K and I used to get rides to school with Dad and dread them. "So Sach," he'd say, trying desperately for a casual tone, "How is your soul? Talk to me darling, open up." Yip, that's going to happen. Better chance of Bishop Tamaki steering his Harley Davidson collection through the eye of his own diamond-crusted needle.

This criticism, or insight as I prefer to label it, of men who don't 'know' stuff is for the most part completely unfounded. The desire for Patrick Jane to see into my heart of hearts is a school girl selfish indulgence. Why should another person anticipate our every need if we are incapable of expressing it ourselves, as in words actually said out loud to the exact human being we wish would fill that need?

Each time I hear myself saying to a girlfriend 'oh I wish C would just....' I ask myself if I've given him the courtesy of telling him first. And then I challenge myself to add up the number of his needs I've 'intuited' or 'known without asking' in the last week.

The principle works exactly the same with the fantastic team I work with. Sometimes I get frustrated that someone isn't doing something exactly the way I had envisaged it would be done - but if I hadn't bothered to communicate that, discuss it, negotiate it, and agree it, where do I get off being bothered that it's not to my liking?

Patrick Jane is perfect for Monday nights on the post-chemo couch. But we live in a world where everything doesn't get nicely wrapped up in 48 minutes. It is lovely when an unexpressed need or desire is met unexpectedly by people we love, who love us. But going mental when it doesn't happen is dumb. If you want to win lotto, at the very least you have to buy a ticket. And hope that Patrick turns up in your dreams to tell you the winning numbers before you do.