Tag: family

Naszti, Palma, Pam

My sister died suddenly but it was not unexpected. She had a series of health issues that plagued her but none of them were necessarily fatal. It was both the combination of these ailments, and her stubborn refusal to do anything about them, that led to her passing. It is easy to say that she chose the path to self-destruction but of course it was much more complicated than that.

Born in Hungary in 1950, she was a post-war baby in a ravaged country where everything was still scarce. Her father had left while our mother was pregnant and by the time she was born two months premature, my mother did not want her either. ‘Throw it against the wall,’ she’d say, then throw her head back and laugh. This was how she always recounted the birth of my sister. Her aunt Vicki, who acted as her midwife, did no such thing. Instead she stoked up the fire and kept the room hot so that the little girl would survive.

True to her word, my mother did not want anything to do with her daughter. She left her in her aunt’s care, where the young child was loved and treated as if she were one of her own. I don’t know whether my mother visited often or at all but in the meantime, she met my father who had lost his wife to tuberculosis in the late 40s. The chemistry sparked between them and during the 1956 revolution they decided to risk their lives and flee the country. It was at this point that my mother returned to Aunt Vicki and took the child from her.

My sister was christened Palma Anastasia. Nobody really knows why. Both are unusual names in Hungary. She was always known by a shortened version of her middle name, Naszti, which later caused her to change her name to Palma and eventually to Pam because she was tired of people getting her name wrong. This was yet another layer of her identity that was stripped from her.

Little Naszti went from a stable loving home to running across mountains with a people smuggler, gunshots echoing behind her. Once ‘safe’ in Austria, she waited in a refugee camp with her mother whom she barely knew and a man she had hardly met. Eventually they were resettled in Luxembourg where she had to learn the three official languages, French, German and Letzeburgisch. Then, when she was ten years old, I was born.

Unfortunately for her, the chemistry that sparked between my parents soon became explosive and my mother often used her to create division between them.

‘He doesn’t love you the way he loves your sister. You’re not of his blood.’

I am surprised she was able to love me as much as she did, considering all the things she was told. My sister, however, was a gentle soul then and wanted to protect me above all else. In fact, as a ten-year-old, she took on much of the mothering responsibilities while my mother worked.

Her world was once again turned upside down when she was fourteen. After a disastrous business venture, my parents fled to Spain to escape bankruptcy. Another language to learn, new school, new friends to make. She was also watching my parents’ marriage implode. When my father and I disappeared one day, she was left with my grieving mother. She searched everywhere for her second daughter and when she found me a year later, my sister was left behind in Madrid to fend for herself at sixteen.

After another ill-fated reunion, this time in Austria, she left for London to work as an au pair at age seventeen. There was another language to learn and she couldn’t keep her name which sounded too much like ‘nasty’ to the English. She began using Palma and eventually Pam to fit in. At eighteen, she met her husband, a Sicilian chef nine years her senior. They married and within a year, I was sent to them for a year so I could learn English. They paid for my private school costs, all other expenses and put up with a miserable homesick child who really didn’t want to be there. My sister wasn’t equipped to look after my emotional needs, but then she was barely more than a child herself. At nineteen, I didn’t do any better looking after the younger siblings of my friends. It wasn’t my sister’s fault; my parents should have known better.

We migrated to Australia in 1971 and she followed within a year with her husband and baby son. While my family life unravelled amid my parents’ ongoing fights and eventual separation, hers seemed to flourish. They moved to the outskirts of Melbourne and life seemed to be going well for her. They built a house, had another child, bought a business and began to establish wealth. I didn’t see her for about six years during this period as I chose to stay with my father. We didn’t have a phone or car and I am not even sure that I had her address.

When we finally re-established contact, she was a mother of two living in suburbia. We didn’t have much in common but we loved each other. I became more involved with her daughter whom I regularly took to my place for sleepovers and ballet lessons. My sister took on more and more of the Italian traits of her husband’s heritage. They spoke Italian at home, she saw herself as the matriarch but was never really accepted by the broader Italian family. No matter how much she tried, she could never become one of their tribe.

I didn’t see everything that happened behind closed doors. My brother-in-law was loud and demanding. He always got what he wanted. I know he didn’t treat his wife kindly. He worked hard and she was expected to do whatever had to be done behind the scenes for his businesses. If anything was not to his liking, she would know about it. I never saw him hit her but his children did. I think she just got tired of a transactional marriage and saw no way out for herself.

When our mother became old and disoriented, my sister took her in. She looked after her for years with the patience of a saint. Our mother had never been easy but in her old age she became ever more demanding, nasty and often drunk. No matter where the alcohol was hidden, she would sniff it out. It became a constant source of friction between my sister and her family yet she could never find the heart to put her in a home.

Food became a source of comfort and over the years she gained a great deal of weight. She always loved fried food, bread, pasta and sweets. About three years ago, she was diagnosed with diabetes. She struggled to manage her diabetes and often forgot to check her levels.

Like her husband, she was a chain smoker which eventually led to emphysema. Smoking helped her regulate her mood. She continued to smoke even after her husband died of lung cancer. She probably had a smoke in bed the night before she died. ‘What else do I have left?’ she would say to herself.

I’m not sure when she discovered poker machines. She certainly kept it a secret from us all. I used to get frustrated with her stories of break-ins, cleaning ladies stealing jewellery, people stealing her bag or wallet out of the car, often with the weekly takings of the shop in her possession. How could anyone have such bad luck, I would think. At times she would ring in a panic and ask for a loan for something she couldn’t tell her husband about. Whenever I could, I obliged, never thinking that there was another reason behind her constant bad luck with money.

Once the truth came out, her relationship with her children was damaged and her husband was furious. She had lost well over a million dollars and suddenly they went from being well off to having to work to keep the roof over their heads. The last time I saw her she told me that gambling blocked everything out of her mind and for the hours she was there, she did not think about how miserable she felt. In the end, it left her asset rich in a large house without the money she needed for its upkeep. She relied on foodbanks to get her through to her next pension cheque.

She discovered love about four years ago when she met a much older man. He is in his 90s and has outlived her. While they seemed happy in each other’s company, her daughter had concerns about the relationship and did not approve. As it turned out, he was too frail to look after my sister or to live on his own so he moved to Gippsland to live with his daughter. He kept in touch over the phone and occasionally would visit her. My sister confided in me that he was the first gentle man she had encountered.

It is painful to admit that she was never truly happy. Our phone calls were always about the latest aches and pains, the terrible state of affairs in … (insert the latest hot spot), and how ungrateful her children were. I dreaded these conversations. Her hearing aid never worked well, the TV was always on high volume in the background and I had no chance of getting a word in. She stopped going out and her world shrunk to her four walls.

I tried to talk to her about our family but she steered clear of painful memories. As with so many members of my family, whatever she knew is now forever lost. I have come back from Hungary with photographs I have never seen before, and I was looking forward to asking my sister who these people were. I was hoping to drive to Melbourne in late September to talk to her about my recent trip. Now there is no one left to ask. The people in those photographs will remain unnamed, another missing piece in the puzzle that is my family.

Very superstitious

My Hungarian mother was a superstitious woman who made sure I could decipher the various spirit signs, even as a young child. It was impossible to escape them and they followed me everywhere, contributing to my hypervigilance. Even though I no longer believe what these signs tell me, I will still often name them when I come across them. Then, I tell myself that there are perfectly simple explanations for the phenomenon. I wonder how many of these were part of your childhood?

  • A knife that lands with the blade facing up. Sure-fire sign that there will be an argument. This one had a 99% chance of occurring. Was my mother ready to start the fight the moment my father came home to prove the sign right? There were lots of ‘I told you sos,’ afterwards. Hard to dismiss as a child.
  • Light bouncing off glass onto the wall or ceiling. An imminent death. I was never, ever allowed to play with light or look for rainbows on the walls. This one scared me to death!
  • Spilling salt. I still throw a bit of salt over my left shoulder just to make sure I ward of bad luck. Why for goodness sake?
  • Eating lentils on the first day of the year to attract money. The lentils are like small coins and will bring you prosperity. (I’m still waiting…)
  • Flickering candles signify the dead giving you advice on a particularly tricky decision. This one spooked me every time!
  • Sweeping dirt out of the house rather than picking it up with a dustpan and brush will ensure you remain poor. Oh dear, I committed this mortal sin many a time as a teenager.
  • Sewing a button or anything on an item of clothing while wearing it will also doom the person to penury. I wonder whether royalty was aware of this rule when they were sewn into garments?
  • Crossing myself when I see dead animals on the road. (I admit, I haven’t been able to break this one!)
  • Melting a small piece of lead in a spoon and dropping it into cold water. This is usually done on New Year’s Eve but my mother would try her luck at other times. The newly solidified shape has different meanings according to the shape and would lead to interpretations for the coming year. This one reminds me of reading tea leaves.
  • Bumping the funny bone means that guests are about to turn up. My experience of this has only been blinding pain.
  • A chimney sweep indicates good luck, but only if you quickly get a hold of a black button and turn it!
  • On Easter Monday, a woman/girl cannot leave the house until a male has come over and sprinkled some perfume on her head.
  • Stepping on the heel of someone’s shoe indicates that they will be coming to your wedding. I’ve had so many kids do this at school and none of them were invited to my wedding.

Then there are all the usual suspects, four-clovers (I find many), walking under a ladder, storks for new life, and garlic to ward off evil. Later, I my teenage years, my Indian friend added to the list the counting of Indian Myna birds. Here it goes: one for sorrow (which I change to solitude), two for joy, three for letter, four for boy, five for silver, six for gold, seven for a secret never to be told, eight for copper, nine for brass and ten for my exams to pass. And yes, I still count them!

The superstitions in our household had the function of keeping everyone alert, to look for danger and always be ready for a disastrous turn of events. I was always on edge, looking for threats whether they were there or not, and this was a heavy burden to place on an already traumatised child.

I eventually learned that knives are dangerous when you cut yourself on the blade but knives per se carry no evil intent. The constant arguments came from elsewhere. I now recognise that my mother’s superstitions were part of a broader attempt to make sense of a world she found frightening and unpredictable. She had survived a war, untold atrocities and men who were equally as damaged and unable to give her the security she needed. Yes, my mother was a difficult woman. At times she was cruel and vindictive, but she was also struggling with demons that none of us understood.

The Power of Small Conversations

A deliberate effort to engage in conversations with strangers has enriched the past week in ways I would never have predicted. Each encounter, however small, stayed with me and made me think more deeply about the inner lives of people we rarely come to know.

Lining up at the chemist, I heard the woman say, ‘I’m such a luddite.’ I couldn’t help myself. ‘Do you know the history of the Luddites?’ I asked. She did, and we had a slightly conspiratorial conversation about the Industrial Revolution and the loom weavers who sabotaged machinery, some by throwing wooden clogs into the works. We walked away with a hint of mischief between us.

While walking the dog, a woman I vaguely knew said hello. ‘I haven’t seen you for a while,’ I said. ‘I’ve had some surgery and I can’t do much exercise until it heals,’ she replied. She then told me about her nightmare of having to remove breast implants and how she wishes she could warn young women about the very real dangers that can follow. It was a completely honest conversation that allowed her to be vulnerable with someone she didn’t know. She acknowledged her insecurities had led her down the path of cosmetic surgery and recognised that the only person who benefitted was the surgeon. It takes guts to be this brutally honest, and I don’t even know her name.

Later in the week I braved the city mall to replace my phone’s screen protector. It had been shattered for months. At the Apple Store I was greeted by a woman in her thirties who asked about my granddaughter and then started to tell me about her own family. She spoke about the complexity of the feelings she experienced leaving her two-year-old after returning to work. She seemed to recognise in me an older woman who would understand the inner conflict she was navigating. We chatted while she fixed my phone and by the time I left, we had established a real human connection that is rare to come across.

Today I went to explore an upmarket second-hand clothing store at an Anglican church. They were having a 50% off sale I had read about in Region Canberra. I found three items and when I went to pay, I struck up a conversation with one of the volunteers. They were making room for winter stock and needed to clear the leftover summer items. She explained that the summer clothes would be sent to Maningrida, in West Arnhem Land. ‘I’ve been there!’ I exclaimed. This was all that was needed for her to tell me about hosting a young Aboriginal woman from Maningrida for a week. Years later, she still remembered her with great fondness.

Each of these encounters reinforced our shared humanity. We participated in telling authentic stories that made our experiences feel valuable. As people, we make sense of the world through our stories. We create empathy by sharing what matters to us. When used in this way, stories serve to unite us.

Perhaps this is our superpower.

Markets, Maple Syrup and a Wide Open Mouth

Saturday mornings are for going to the market. Even when I don’t need much, I go because I enjoy the ritual. Many people need to change things up to find their vitality. I need repetition and ritual to feel grounded and truly present. It is the simple acts such as putting the harness on the dog, getting the bags ready and choosing to walk through the park that make the trip joyful. I pause to say hello to strangers and listen to snippets of conversation as people pass me with their bags or trolleys, all heading to the same place. Passing us on the other side of the narrow track are the early birds returning with their bounty.

Today, my aim is to buy fruit and transform it into delicious baby food for my granddaughter. She has become a voracious eater. Rather than buy processed food with additives, I have taken it upon myself to cook and bottle food that contains only fresh ingredients and an extra large dollop of love.

The dog is used to the routine. I tie her up to one of the posts as she looks across at all the other dogs, patiently waiting, tied up along the fence. Then I disappear into the fray. I already know where I will buy the apples and pears but, as they will be heavy, I leave that purchase until last. Before I buy anything, I walk down every aisle, getting acquainted with what is on offer and which of my favourite stallholders has come this week. Among the many bread stalls, I find my favourite sourdough halfway down on the left. Tempting as they are, I only look at the native plants. Maybe next time, if I manage to get on top of the weeding in the meantime.

After succumbing to Greek ricotta donuts, I head to my favourite fruit stall. It is run by an elderly, weathered woman with long grey plaits, who comes every week from Batlow on the south west slopes of NSW. Unlike supermarkets, she sells a wide variety of apples, some that haven’t been seen on shelves for years. She also sells cheap, misshapen fruit that tastes just fine and is perfect for stewing. She drives two and a half hours to get to Canberra, starting her journey at about 4am to arrive in time for the market. I am in awe of her stamina and her commitment to come each week.

The dog is on the lookout, searching for me as I come out of the hall. The rucksack is heavy and I feel my centre of gravity shift as I bend down to untie her. Our walk back is slower, but it still only takes ten minutes to get home. After a cuppa and two of the delicious ricotta donuts, I am ready to wash, core and slice the fruit. To give it a little zing, I add a generous amount of cinnamon, strawberries and some maple syrup. Once soft, the mixture is blended and poured into sterilised jars. It is delicious.

Later in the afternoon, I deliver the goods. The hungry little possum is rapturous. Her mouth opens wide as the loaded spoon approaches. She repeats the wide gape again and again until the contents of a large bowl disappear. Her delight is all mine.

Through the simple act of preparing freshly sourced food, I am strengthening the connection between myself and my daughter’s family. These meals provide sustenance for the body, but also carry care, intention and love. Making and sharing nutritious meals has always been my love language.

A Threshold Moment

The mother of a Tamil girl whom I tutored invited me to a coming of age ceremony on short notice. I was off work, so I accepted the invitation. When I asked about its significance, she explained that when a girl gets her first period, they have a special ceremony to acknowledge her new state. While in the past this marked a girl as being of marriageable age, it is now seen more as a rite of passage on the journey to becoming a woman.

Out of respect for the family’s privacy, I won’t be sharing their names or images.

I arrived earlier than most guests, with no preconceived expectations. The house had been decorated with garlands and there were fruit offerings in front of the door. Once inside, I sat on a sofa and watched the adults hurrying to and fro, getting things ready for the priest and the guests who were yet to arrive. The girl was nowhere to be seen.

When her sister came out to greet me, I passed on my present, which I had presumed, correctly, should be jewellery. When the girl first appeared, she was wearing a lovely embroidered dress. She then sat on a stool and was blessed by various family members using coconut milk and a herb on her head. I too was invited to come forward and place some on her head. Several other rituals were performed before she disappeared to be washed. She later emerged wearing a half sari, symbolising the bridge between childhood and adulthood.

At this point, she had haldi kumkum applied to her forehead and other sacred pastes of turmeric placed onto both her arms and cheeks. Once more, close family and elders were invited to apply the balm and offer their blessings.

When the priest arrived, he performed a long ceremony, reciting Vedic prayers for well over an hour and a half. During this time, various members of the family were called upon to sit beside the girl, using incense, fire, leaves and flowers to purify her and shower her with blessings. While I sat transfixed, others in the room continued to talk, take photos and move about. This was something I found quite unusual. I was brought up to make a clear distinction between the sacred and the everyday. I wouldn’t dream of talking in church while the clergy performed their duty, yet here it was quite accepted that people talked and laughed while the ceremony continued not more than two metres away.

One of the guests streamed the event live to Indonesia, where the girl’s aunt lives. The family had visited her during the Christmas holidays once their application for asylum had been granted and they were assured of re entry into Australia. They now have Australian citizenship, which must feel like winning the lottery after years of living on a bridging visa.

When the ceremony was over, everyone shared a feast of vegetarian curries and special sweets. The food was delicious, albeit quite hot. I chatted to the only other older woman there, who also holds a special place in the heart of this family. She is a Christian Sri Lankan who has worked tirelessly with Tamil refugees in Canberra, helping them connect with organisations that support their settlement and sense of belonging. She was pleased to hear that I too would be attending the Palm Sunday Rally for Refugees.

I have played a small part in helping this family feel welcome, supporting two of their children with English and other school related learning. What I have gained in return is something far richer. I was welcomed into their family and given a glimpse into a culture very different from my own. And yet, I was also struck by what connects us.

For my First Holy Communion, I wore a white dress reminiscent of a wedding dress, not so different from the half sari. On Ash Wednesday, a cross of ash was placed on my forehead, while this young girl had white, orange and red markings carefully applied to hers. The meanings are different, shaped by different beliefs and traditions, and yet the gestures feel familiar.


I know they serve different purposes, grounded in their own histories. Yet I am struck by how instinctively we mark these moments in the body. With cloth, with colour, with touch, with ritual.

Across cultures, we seem to reach for the same things when something matters. We pause. We gather. We mark the moment. We acknowledge what matters.

An Invitation

The news from around the world has been nothing short of depressing. Despite my efforts to stay in my circle of control, my mind has wandered to dark places where I feel ineffectual and untethered. Unlike other conflicts, this one is affecting us all, even if only psychologically or via our wallets. At least for now.

I was out with my granddaughter the other day, making our way down a trendy café lined street in Canberra, when I noticed a message written in chalk on the footpath. It was somewhat faded, but I could still make out the words.

What mini
adventure
could you
go on today?

Having stopped to read it, my first reaction was to laugh. Not because it was laughable, but because it challenged me to look at the day differently. I decided to take up the invitation and embarked on a mini adventure.

Haig Park was only a few minutes away. It was an obvious place to start. I pushed the pram along the path and noticed an adventure playground for kids. My little possum is too young for such adventures, so we kept going. Next, I saw a dog agility course. Who knew? Unfortunately, I don’t think my dog would be very interested, but it is good to know it is there. To my right, I saw a building I have often walked past. What was its purpose, I wondered? It turned out to be a community centre with a lovely garden, BBQ area and seating for a large group of people. I took some photos and continued the quest.

On my way back, I came across what looked like a street library. It wasn’t. The small, bright yellow wooden structure was in fact ‘The Teeny Weeny Mini Museum of Art.’ At first glance, I didn’t see anything special in the display case, only some pine cones and bits of paper. Then I saw a stack of yellow cards and had to find out what was printed on them. I opened the cabinet and, to my delight, found a card that on one side had this quote:

‘Shoot for the moon. Even if you miss you’ll land among the stars.’
Less (sic) Brown

A lovely sentiment, but it was the other side that stopped me in my tracks. It was another invitation to many mindful mini adventures for each day of March. While Mindful March is almost over, I intend to keep the card and do each of these ‘Actions for happiness’ in April. My favourite one is: ‘Discover the joy in the simple things of life.’

And so I have come full circle. I was attentive to the call and followed the invitation to go on a mini adventure. As a reward, I have been offered 31 additional opportunities for joy. I share them here so you may be enticed to go on your own mini adventure. You never know where it may lead.

The gift

My sister gave me a gift the last time I saw her. She handed me a little red felt box and said, ‘I know this isn’t your kind of thing, but I want you to have it. And don’t sell it.’ When I opened the box, it contained a small brooch, possibly made of ivory. I recoiled. She knows full well what I think about the ivory trade. What to do?

There is a ten-year difference between my sister and me but it has often felt more like twenty or thirty. From a young age, she had to mother me and although we lived apart for many years of my childhood, she still sees herself in that role. I cannot see that ever changing. This has made situations like receiving unwanted gifts difficult between us. I did say that while it was beautifully carved, I would not wear it, but she still pressed it into my hands. So now I have it, along with a large gold pendant with a silver coin from my birth year, and a couple of German porcelain figurines, apparently collectors’ items, stored away in a cupboard.

I keep reading about baby boomers wanting to downsize and give their precious belongings to the next generation, to no avail. Nobody wants the things we have loved and cherished and it breaks my heart to think of my beautiful mahogany chest going to an op shop one day. Of course, I am aware that I will have no say in the matter. My daughter will have enough of a headache going through my books and personal belongings. Why should I burden her with ivory and kitsch figurines as well?

I am loyal to a fault and will probably keep things I do not like because I do not want to offend the giver. Or maybe I keep them because I really do not know what to do with them and cannot make the decision to try to sell the items or give them away. To whom? Many of my friends are of a similar age and certainly do not want anything else to add to their stash. They too are at the ‘Do you want this?’ stage of their lives.

When I think of our house when I was growing up, there were probably no more than a few hundred items in the whole house. I would have more items in my kitchen now than we had in that entire house. My wardrobe consisted of two pairs of jeans, maybe three blouses, a couple of windcheaters, two jumpers, a jacket and a parka. Footwear was a pair of sandshoes, a pair of leather shoes, sandals and a pair of treads. I wore them day in and day out as we had no uniforms at school. Now we would call that a capsule wardrobe.

Reminiscing about times gone by does not help with my present-day quandary. Do I keep the brooch, do I sell it, or take it to the op shop? I am not a Marie Kondo who can say arigato, think nice thoughts and then send it on its way. I have much more in common with the hamster I kept when I was eight. Keep stuffing it in even when it seems no more can possibly fit, then run furiously on the wheel, hoping that if I run long enough, I will arrive at a decision.

Arriving Home

Recently, I had to spend a couple of days away from home. Not for pleasure, although I did catch up with a couple of dear friends while I was away. As always, I enjoy their company and feel looked after and enriched by their presence in my life. Good friends know how to hold you gently. They also know when it is time to let you go.

The drive back home was long and uncomfortable. I stopped at Eling Forest Winery to stretch my legs and have a cup of tea. How many times have I driven past this little gem? If it hadn’t been at the behest of a friend, I would never have stopped. How well she knew that I needed a rest in picturesque surroundings.

The rain pelted down, allowing only brief glimpses of the road ahead. Wind gusts pummelled the car while large trucks barrelled down menacingly from behind. Clenching the steering wheel, I drove on, my shoulders inching steadily upward. There were moments when I dared not breathe. Then, as I crested a hill, we left the wet road behind and were greeted by blue skies. I relaxed my grip, returned to my audiobook and breathed steadily.

There is a particular point on the Federal Highway where Telstra Tower appears in the distance atop Black Mountain. I can’t help but rejoice at that moment. It is as if a banner were stretched above the road declaring WELCOME HOME. My heart quickens every time. There is still another ten or fifteen minutes to go, but my heart has already arrived.

As I park the car, reach for my keys and walk towards the front door, I notice myself exhaling. The key in the lock, the small click as it turns, and I step inside. I am home. There is still washing to do and emails to answer, but for a moment none of that matters. Arriving is enough.

Six Days Horizontal

Getting sick is like sitting down on a chair that’s much lower than anticipated. You land hard and wonder why you didn’t see it coming. The signs were all there – lack of energy, headache, a bit of a cough but it didn’t seem that bad. Until it was. And then the crash landing.

Six days in bed felt like long drawn out weeks. There were nights where minutes felt like hours and hours stretched into infinity until dawn. Unable to breathe through my nose, I sat half upright, sipping endless glass after glass of water in a futile attempt to keep my lips moist. It was pretty grim by Wednesday night. Thoughts meandered irrationally in and out of my consciousness. At one point I was writing scripts for ‘Vera’; trains of clever dialogues rattled by without ever stopping at a station. At other times I was coming up with ideas for Podcasts. Perhaps that synapse of an idea will make this suffering worthwhile.

Being sick for a length of time gave me ample of opportunity to appraise my life. Existential dread arrived on cue between the hours of three and four a.m., no alarm necessary. Had I done enough with my one wild life? Clearly not. My shortcomings lay exposed, expectorating. I was condemned, guilty on all counts. My optimism fled at the first sign of the tempest raging in my head.

The week has been confronting. I turned into a creature I barely recognised. I could have walked out of the pages of Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas. Any veneer of humour was chipped away, hope no longer resided in my soul. And my old friend, gratitude? She too deserted me and has only fleetingly reappeared in the past two days. A fair-weather friend on whom I thought I could rely. Faith too had deserted me.

Here I am on day eight and the fog is slowly lifting. I am now fully dressed and have even eaten a meal. I’ve stopped trying to wrestle with what I can’t control and settled into reluctant acceptance. My mood has steadied and the storm has eased. I am emerging, somewhat battered but essentially intact. I tell myself I’ll never take my health for granted again, and even as I think it, I know it’s probably horseshit.

It takes a village

My granddaughter was born two and a half months ago. She’s generally a ‘good baby’ (as if any baby could be bad), but she does struggle with sleep. In this regard, she reminds me of my daughter as a baby. She was a wakeful child, who would become overtired and then unable to sleep at all.

Now, of course, my daughter wishes she could sleep. Even a ten-minute nap is bliss, and she catches rest whenever she can. Her husband is a hands-on dad, which means both of them are running on empty. Nothing can prepare you for parenthood. It can only be understood through living it. I look at them and marvel at their resilience, but I also recognise that fine line between coping and breaking point.

One unfortunate inheritance I’ve passed on to my daughter is chronic migraines. She remembers me lying down with a bucket beside the bed, waiting for her father to come home and take over the evening routine. It probably happened once a week, certainly often enough to leave an imprint. Like me, she can only lie down, hope to sleep, or ride out the waves of pain. I know what she’s going through, but all I can really do is empathise, bring her medicine, prepare food, and care for the baby so she can rest.

Today she called me in desperation, asking where I was. After hours of trying to settle the baby with multi-day migraine, she had reached her limit. She did the wisest thing she could, put the baby down safely and walked away to her bedroom. I remember the guilt of those moments, when I too had to step back. Yet that distance, that breath of space, is what saves both mother and child. No-one can prepare you for motherhood and the contradictions it carries: joy and frustration, love and exhaustion, light and shadow.

She’s fortunate to have a close friend nearby who stepped in until I arrived. Together we cared for the baby, giving my daughter the reprieve she needed. Watching her, I thought about how difficult it can be raising a child in a nuclear family. How much gentler it might be if grandparents, aunts and uncles lived nearby, ready to lend a hand or a listening ear. There is much to be said for the extended family networks that are woven naturally into other cultures. As for us, we simply muddle through, doing our best, one tired, love-filled day at a time.