Tag: food

Eight years in remission – viva la vulva!

I never thought I would see another eight years. Really, I didn’t. After my cancer surgery in 2007, my oncologist was certain that more cancer would grow, that the surgery I had wouldn’t hold, and that I’d die. Thankfully that hasn’t happened, and today marks eight years since I underwent the surgery to save my life. The icing on the proverbial cake is that I’ve had no more cancer in my vulva (there’s that word again!). Viva la vulva, I say.

I find it quite incredible that in my immuno-compromised body, that I am still alive. And you know what? After what I went through with that surgery, I can hold my head high and say that I deserve it. If I never have to have life saving surgery ever again, it won’t be too soon.

Below are a couple of photos – the first being just before I started throwing massive seizures and went into a coma. Now, don’t I look fucking miserable here? Well, of course I was. I had a broken vagina which is enough to sink any woman. As well as my broken bits, I had skin grafts that possibly wouldn’t take, and a poo bag that had the tendency to explode several times a day. I clearly have a bowel obstruction in this photo – something that wasn’t picked up until too late – and by the next day, my family didn’t know if I was going to die or live out the rest of my days in a nursing home.

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As always, my sister was with me. Here she is standing over me in ICU, and just like when I had my transplant, my family played my favourite music, but even on the suggestion of my friend Kate, not even Axl Rose could rouse me. Music seemed to be the only thing that would soothe me after both surgeries, especially during the long nights where everything seemed to go wrong. Think collapsed lungs, bleeding, broken beds (and not in a fun way), and uncontrollable pain. I am so grateful for the kindness of the nurses on the broken vagina ward.

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So what am I going to do to celebrate today? I’m going to embrace the ordinariness of life and start my Christmas baking. I did two practice runs last weekend with my very first fruitcakes and they were a hit. I ate the last slice last night with a cup of sweet, milky tea, but I gave most of it away to my folks. My old man is quite the human garbage disposal, and that’s where I get my deadly sweet tooth from. Today I’ll get all of my dried and glacé fruit and soak it in rum for the next month, then I’ll bake the cakes and ‘feed’ them with rum until my family can enjoy a slice or three on Christmas day with the requisite custard.

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I’ve never been much of a baker or decorator, so I was pretty chuffed with how these turned out.

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And so that is how I will celebrate today. Eight years of so many experiences that have shaped me – and I suppose ‘baked’ me to a degree. And that’s ok, otherwise I wouldn’t be at this point in my life. I can honestly say that the view from here is fucking spectacular, thanks to my family, friends, doctors and of course, the choices I’ve made to get me here. Viva la vulva!

New year pastoral

Loose udders and mucus plugs

signals new life on the grass and clods of dirt.

Lilies dance on water the way flies hover over fresh meat.

A heifer drops its snout into the trough to drink –

not greedily, but more delicately,

sucking on the water in a docile way – fickle for a beast.


Pebbles, clumps of wild grass and cow shit

pattern a track to the paddock where a sabre calf

feasts on the berm of the grid;

lifts its head, turns towards its tail, then stares at me.


Unsteady of his feet, he ambles to his mother

her cries echoing through the valley –

carrying that sound like some heavy burden.

From the verandah, I hear the shaking of wooden spoons in pots.

It’s time for breakfast – sweet, sticky black rice.

Providore

There is no indecision.

Just the untangling of hair

you manage to do so elegantly

just as your door rises akimbo to the air.

 

The clang of chain takes a crack

at chipping away your softness,

but nothing can touch you.

 

You graft to my pupil; that absence of fear

swimming in your eyes; sailing on your skin

to a gentler harbour.

 

Urban cowboy – smile a tripwire.

Some mornings you are quiet in stare,

cutting a lonely figure, looking past what is in front of you

(restless rivers run deep)

and there are days your body lopes,

moving around all limber like you’ve just walked out of the ocean,

having washed away time-worn algorithms

by holding your breath under water until the panic becomes peace.

 

*

 

The heels of my boots skip across asphalt to cross the road.

Stain my neck with your wine soaked mouth, pour milk into my coffee,

hoist me onto the table in the cantina –

layering up my skirt and ruining my finery.

 

Do you sell boxfuls of faith?

Because you’re almost here, but just about gone.

Or do I kiss you from a tree, sticky with pregnant fruit

only to fall into your ripened hands?

three haiku

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Arousing menu

cream of corn soup, coconut ice

and a bucket of tea.

 

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Dark hair, green smock.

Laughter lines and white pickets of teeth.

My old friend, the muse.

 

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Doctors appointment.

Nail biting afternoon.

He is still not sure.