Tag Archives: Health

Be-coming in Middle Age

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With every year that goes by, there is an invitation to drop deeper into a relationship with self. There can be many selves, faces and parts of a story that make up one human.

As I listen to podcasts of people’s stories (shout out to current fav Heavyweight), I’m often in spontaneous tears for qour fragility, our hopes and our regrets, longing and loving as humans, a rare delicate species of contradiction.

Here I stand at 46, more wildness with smokey colored hair yet a steadiness within that was never there in my 20s. More grounded than my frenetic 30s of managing the necessary self-sacrificing involved in child rearing. The constant busyness surrounded with thinking about others and neglecting my own needs.

There are still myriads of oscillating moods and ladders/snakes to ride in this game called life. But I embrace the narrative of becoming in middle age, instead of the BS about loss of external ideals (beauty, allure, worth). The hard won lessons begin to line up, the way callouses form on well worn fingers.

I am seeing middle age in terms of a doorway, a threshold of sorts that we reach and it’s a holy undertaking. It’s not some fantastical window, it is quite literally a choice to let go of baggage or otherwise be drowned by it. Be weighed down by past regret, joints stiff with suppressed emotions, nerves jiggling with unease unless we take stock.

I remember the slow realisation that I was not who I thought I was. The slippery soup of resentment and discontent started to show its face in subversive ways and my mind would go into defending my actions as a way to collude and keep the status quo. It can be confronting to get real with yourself. It was unpleasant to see the hidden anger that I’ve pushed down since birth to maintain the lie we are sold about being too much if we show it, express or unleash it. Somehow, we won’t be as acceptable or palatable, we will wander into un-becoming territory and be shunned for it.

So where does the energy go? We swallow and suck in, bite our tongues and tense our jaws, until it lies dormant in our bones, a dense layer of stuckness. A sleeping tiger that we may not even know is there until the peri-portal of menopause comes to shake things up.

Maybe that’s the purpose to purify and burn off what lies behind our masks or any false self operating in this world. And isn’t this world a lot? There is no wonder we develop ways of coping and surviving. There is no shame in how we survived up until this point. But there is a reckoning, a call to evolve beyond our coping strategies, to become more em-body-ied.

To do that, we have to face what lies within these skin sacks we call home.

I strained a relationship with a dear friend because of my anger. I could feel the burning rumble of its power with thoughts trying to marry up yet not quite making sense, the justification and entitlement came swinging out, and it hurt someone that I love deeply. It surprised me with its force. I was not prepared for its edge, its righteous possible ancestral depth, it felt more than me. And it was not pretty. It was brief yet volcanic, and it’s taken years to walk it out, to reflect and even now I don’t kid myself to fully understand. But respect it I do. That energy had spite and spunk in its fury, something I’ve needed to release before it hurts others again or makes me sick. I see its root in learnt beliefs about holding on to emotions, to battling, being silenced and continual striving throughout my life as a mode of operandi, yet all the while stuffing this repressed e-motion down below my awareness.

It was a painful lesson to nearly lose a friend and have a relationship permanently changed. Yet this was the price needed for me to take action. And even in that action, I pussyfooted around, minimised feelings and built more landmines in the process as I avoided the truth. The truth being I was afraid of being confronted, of falling short, of not knowing where to start…

This is the wrath of peri menopause, and maybe this is why it can last a decade or so, because we need time to digest its force and its messages. It required me to stop kidding myself, stop projecting or making excuses, and get quiet enough to listen to the shadows within.

If they say our body is our temple, it involves a thorough clean out of all the rooms, looking under the floorboards, behind the curtains and below the windowsills.

Not easy but worth it for some level of peace on the other side.

If the ‘how’ question remains unanswered, it takes time and effort to retro fit this personalised journey. I needed to call in my support crew (women who were ahead of me), educate myself about this transition and ask for support from multiple sources. I’m still doing it.

Search for self worth

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When I was in high school for about two years, I use to watch every calorie I ate and over time it became easier to skip meals and restrict the amount of food I had as well. My memories are a bit hazy, but it felt good to have self control and as our society rewards us for this trait as well as having a slim body, it was quite a reinforcing cycle. In my teen mind during the huge change of neural pruning that was upon its networks, somehow I internalised the idea that if I can maintain this socially acceptable appearance (which I believed was the only worthy thing about me) I would feel better. Furthermore, our culture bombards us with billboards, magazines and social media sprouting thin/beauty ideals about how we need to look to be accepted and secure in the social hierarchy.

Fast forward decades, I work as a therapist at an eating disorder facility. Whilst piecing the puzzle together as to how someone ended up where they are is often met with a solid wall of denial about what their reality has become. This makes me ponder on how difficult it can be to accept our reality as it is and as humans we construct, invent, defy, push, control and try to fix our experiences into a shape that is more palatable. However, the problem is that it can wear us out until our original pain is buried 10 feet under layers of suffering. It is so often about trying to avoid our feelings that we end up with endlessly complex behaviours to keep ourselves busy and productive, distracted and numb. Over time, we are disconnected from our bodies, our inner selves, and of course our emotions that we don’t know who we are or what we actually feel about anything.

One does not have to develop a raging eating disorder to relate to this predicament. I would hazard a guess that our modern lives and societal messaging programmes us for carrying on with chronic busyness, productivity and achievement-focused intellectualisation in the fruitless pursuit of self worth. I am not against goal setting or taking on challenges that shape and define us. Yet I am against the idea that our self worth is tied to what we achieve, how we look or what we own. Marketing has shaped these ideals as the path to happiness and fulfilment. Well if that was the case, why are there a lot of high achievers from affluent backgrounds reaching perceived milestones with poor mental health and low self esteem?

We need more of the idea that we are inherently worthy just as we are. It’s a concept that secure attachment to loving parents who put the onus on effort rather than outcome (achievement) can help to foster. Yet even with this protective factor, many people simply inherit these feelings of unworthiness in our competitive Type A culture. I’ve seen emotionally sensitive, empathic people internalise these beliefs as gospel which takes some effort and support to shift, until they realise that this not good enough narrative is not part of who they are, but what they’ve learnt.

Basically, the system is broken, not us. The system that portrays that external validation will lead to peaceful, contented lives. It’s like placing your worth badge on the jacket of a capitalist patriarch as they walk out of the door, never to be seen again.

I’m done with being told how I should look, act, spend money or get in debt to have arbitrary satisfaction. Outside the shoulds and shouldn’ts, I’ll meet you there.

Sculpture at Woodfolk Festival 2022, artist unknown.

How I found sisterhood in a sweat lodge

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Heating stones for ‘sweat bath’ in Supa. Circa 1924. Grand Canyon National Park Museum Collection

It’s a work day and after blowing off a meeting, I drive out of town where lantana rambles on the road’s edge. The first sign of smoke comes from a fire started at daybreak on a flat terrace. I stop by a Balinese-esque building and walk through wooden doors, stepping into another world.

Though it’s Thursday, a group of women have managed to claw some precious time to come together for a “sweat.” My first, and I’m feeling intrigued with a mixture of reverence and rebellion about a daytime meeting when I could be taking care of other duties.

We change into sarongs, the only clothing we will be wearing for the next few hours. I look around at the other women—a yoga teacher from the city, and a Spanish mum of three young kids down from the coast “who’s not sure why she’s come, but she has,” and other faces I’ve met before briefly. We sit and gather in a comforting circle.

Laurel, our Shamanic facilitator opens the ceremony with her flute. We each pick up an instrument laid out on the floor and begin to drum a beat. A tune forms quickly, energetic and curious.

After a light safety induction, we walk in silence toward a domed structure lined with thick canvas. Think of an igloo with a flat top, willow saplings holding up its walls. We pick mugwort and set intentions for what we wish to get clarity on during our sweat.

Native American cultures have used sweat lodges as a sacred ceremony for purification, however, there is evidence of other indigenous cultures practising similar rituals. It symbolises a kind of birth, death, and rebirth, much like a snake shedding its skin.

I crawl through the small opening, the sand surprisingly cool under my palms. The air is stale and so different from the vibrant wind whipping the tarpaulin outside. In single file, I find my place opposite the door. Our firekeeper, a practical lady called Luna brings the hot rocks known as the Stone People and places them into the pit. Sweetgrass incense sizzles when thrown on top. The four directions are noted. I realise I am due north, the place of moving into and through difficulty. I puff out my chest trying for courage and endurance as I feel stirrings of nausea.

It is very dark, and I can’t see anyone next to me. We take turns acknowledging ancestors and sharing sorrows. I am unsure who is speaking, nor remembering what is said—it is like a long trail of emu footprints across a desert. My back screams from lack of yogic fitness or just plain revolt. I feel the pull to lie down and surrender. Blackish sand marks my forehead as I curl up like I’m inside my mother again.

We welcome the last round of rocks mottled black and red as the older rocks cool dark. Drinking water is shared around the circle. I slurp hungrily out of my hands; forgetting to wash the sand off, I get grit in my mouth. I don’t care, I’m saved by its sweet relief. Gratitude rushes over me—I have never been this thirsty and lucky.

Photo credit: Valerie Everett

As the drum beats slow, Laurel begins to walk us safely home. We all lay together on the sand. I feel a hand reach for mine that awakens vague alarm, but I don’t pull away. Firmly our fingers close around each other and love washes over me. We stay like this until the end of the ceremony when the daylight pierces us from the door.

Michelle, the yoga teacher, swore she heard the prompt to hold hands inside the lodge though no one else did. But by reaching out her hand, the Spanish mum uncertain about being touched after a rocky start to life, felt her heart burst out of her chest. I also felt touched deeply by sisterhood and how we are never alone, no matter how hard it can get.

A Lakotan saying, “Mitakuye Oyasin,” which is loosely translated as “all my relations,” meaning all plants, animals, minerals, and humans are interconnected. This philosophy sits snug with me as I emerge feeling lighter, clearer and profoundly quieter.

As I retreat back into my routine, I feel more gratitude for my sparky family and thankful for a clean shower and a yummy salad. I may not see Michelle or my other sisters again though I hope I do,  I’m left feeling connected and realise by reaching out to others we can lessen any feelings we may have of loneliness or isolation.

This piece was featured on Elephant Journal

Whacking Technique

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Sangke River- complete with local fisherman

Sangke River –  spot the local fisherman?

Here in Battambang it’s been an unusually dry, rainy season. There is sometimes a pitter patter at night but not guaranteed. The heavens often frown with a shade of grey/brown only to tease us with sunshine once more.

When it rains, Quinn makes the most of it ! Street outside our house

When it rains, Quinn makes the most of it! This is our street.

The town’s water levels are low causing the water supply to be quite erratic. Last week, we had no water for 3 days. It coincided with an outstanding water bill that was going brown in our mailbox since August unbeknownst to us. A grumpy government official turned up at our house whilst we were at work. The nanny who comes to watch the kids for a few hours every day, tried to work her charm but he would not be deterred. Water mains switched off.

And as life sometimes has it….the Gods have a giggle…Murphy came a knockin……Tim went down with dysentery the next day. Copious diarrhoea and no running water is not a winning combination. We had the bucket and scoop technique down, using bought drinking water (you can’t drink the tap water throughout Cambodia) to flush away most of the damage. Soon sage incense was burning in every toilet in the house.

But as Tim worsened ending in a trip to the hospital (we didn’t get lost this time All in a Day) where they mainlined his veins with rehydration and antibiotics, I decided that we better address this water situation asap. In the midst of calling our boss who is far enough up the fishing pole to make a difference, ie. if he lodges a call at the water department, they listen; our resourceful nanny Sreypheak armed with two pieces of bamboo tried the good ol’ whacking technique. BiNgO. Nothing like a good smack to set things straight. The pipes chugged to life.

Beau has the 'whack attack' technique down pat

Beau has the ‘whack attack’ technique down pat

This technique is used liberally to fix just about anything here. When a motorbike is being temperamental, a hard slap on its engine is the first port. I never cease to be amazed how resourceful the Cambodian people are. The reuse, recycle, restart, retie, retry, reinvent method is everywhere you look.

Kite made by the neighbours- plastic bags, skewers and cotton reel.

Kite made by the neighbours- plastic bags, skewers, rubber bands and cotton reel.

Coming from the modern disposable culture, this is refreshing to see. It is not that they don’t have disposable products here- they are as ubiquitous as air, but the disposable part isn’t understood by people who have learnt to survive on nothing but their wits. Understood by a look at their history, being cut off from the world during Khmer Rouge days and the legacy that left, literally beginning at Ground Zero with memories of starvation fresh in their minds.

Tim stayed in a cot bed for 2 days sandwiched between two families nursing their palliative parents. I was warned by the nurse not to bring our boys into visit as Beau had the trots the week before, and who knows what germs he could catch in there. This knowledge was appreciated but didn’t put my mind to rest. Tim had many long hours in fetal position as the neighbouring Cambodians kept asking where his family was. Even though this is the best hospital in Battambang, patients’ families do most of the legwork from emptying catheters, showering, changing linen, cooking food to even administering medication. Loved ones camp out around the clock keeping a constant vigil at their bedside. Nurses are present but often on their mobile phones. It was a case of googling what drugs Tim was having to get any information. The Khmer doctor was approachable but very difficult to understand.

It makes you realise how far Cambodia has come from the KR days where all the medical knowledge was lost with the desecration of qualified doctors. Western influences shunned including the supply of medicine used for prevented diseases such as malaria. Talk about shooting yourself in the foot! 21% of the total population from 1975-1979 were wiped out mainly due to starvation as everyone were herded from cities and expected to toil in the soil.  The idealists in power believed that agricultural reform and total self sufficiency would help return Cambodia to its former glory days of Angkor Kingdom. Yet another historical example of extreme ideology defying logic. And possibly shows how countries need to trade and be interdependent, just like no one person can operate as an island. This fanaticism was spawned out of hardship- Cambodia had years of foreign occupation (Thailand and France had a go) and the brutal disregard for the Khmer people who had more US bombs dropped on their homeland throughout the Vietnam War years (1965-1973) than any other country.

These rascals have so much fun being....rascals

These rascals have so much fun being….rascals

I’m pleased to say Tim is back home with us. A thinner and more subdued version but thankfully cramp free. He reckons he got an insight into child birth! He found a weighted keyboard in a junk shop covered in dust. He’s been teaching himself. Enjoy!

 

Hope you’re health full where ever this finds you x

 

 

All in a day

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So we’ve been enjoying the food in Cambodia. Meat, meat, meat is what the Khmer love. Rusty, dissected petrol drums at roadside stalls with the sweet aroma of burning flesh… are a common sight. Chicken and pork being the most popular and easily accessible meat.

We inherited one of these beauties with our new house and I love nothing more than going to the local market early on Saturday morning to buy fresh pork ribs; marinating them all afternoon and throwing them on for a Saturday night barbie.

Our number 2 son, Beau loves his food.

Beau having his fourth bowl of chicken soup on a school excursion to a nearby village

Beau having his fourth bowl of chicken soup on a school excursion to a nearby village

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His teacher was so delighted by Beau’s appetite, he took many photos to prove it

Another famous Khmer dish is Fish Amok- everyone has a family recipe for this steamed fish curry, served traditionally in a banana leaf. The curry is a heady mixture of ginger, garlic, turmeric, chilli, lemongrass and galangal cooked with coconut milk.

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 The local Sangke River (the life force that Battambang town girdles) is home to small, tasty but bony suckers, the common fish used in the dish.  On my bike ride to work every morning people often flank her banks with extra long bamboo poles trying their luck.

 On Friday night we sat down at home to this delicacy. Saliva pumps started as we all took out first mouthful. Beau immediately gets a bone that he proudly pulls out of his mouth to inspect. Dad is doing the commentary to go with the show:

We don’t eat bones so put it on the side of your plate

On cue when our nearly four year old hears the word don’t , he does.

He pops the bone back in his mouth to see what will happen, he swallows. Gulp. Ahhhhhhhhh

It lodges itself in the back of his throat.  Faaarrrkkkkk!

Already on my feet after the initial bone sighting, annoyed that it had slipped through the security check. I’m hugging a slobbering mess- he’s dribbling and crying (a good sign) at least he’s not turning blue and gasping. I watch as Tim and Quinn continue to keep eating. It was delicious mind you. But my stomach is in knots and I’m amazed they can do it.

Tim calls our local Aussie nurse friend who asks how big? Oh 3 cm.. but it looked thin…

We need to find a hospital and get it taken out.

I’m running around, Beau in my arms bits of fishy goop on my chest, vague thoughts of medical insurance and passports in my brain. I grab the passports but can’t find the medical insurance papers.

We all pile on the family moto. Quinn up the front between Dad’s legs. Beau and I backseat trying to console each other. He’s managing to still talk (another good sign!):

 I’m gonna tell that fish bone to go away Mum.

Ok beautiful. Then he’s crying again in pain.

Not so Baby Beau

Not so Baby Beau

Google earth isn’t working and finding places in daylight amongst the scribbly Khmer language is a tough task. Now, with all our stress levels elevated, Tim sets off in the opposite direction. We head out along Highway 5, all madly trying to keep our wits.

I start bumble bee breath (known as ‘Omming’ and humming) just as much to calm my racing thoughts of unsterile gadgets going down Beau’s throat or contagious diseases he may never recover from. Every time I start to think I hum louder. I used this in child birth, maybe it was this memory or the moto engine but soon Beau is asleep! We are still looking in the dark for the only reputable medical centre. The others aren’t worth the risk – we stopped outside one and all the anti-hepatitis signs scared us off. Whenever the bike stops, Beau is disturbed and crying spasms start again.

So more humming later, Tim speeding and playing chicken with some trucks until I start barking at him to slow down. We finally find the right medical centre. On cue Beau MIRACULOUSLY comes to, looking refreshed from the snooze, with a

‘I’m alright Mum’

I can’t believe it so I ask him three times. I didn’t believe in God until now. I was sending some windy prayers to my dead grandfather (who I never got the pleasure to met) since  it was his birthday, I thought he might be up having a party.

We enter  the medical centre to get him checked out only to be sent out 5 minutes later with a

‘We don’t do throats only bones and fractures’

This centre really is exclusive!  And empty, it has that sterile, pristine, rich smelling sheen, only used by foreigners or obscenely rich Cambodians. Even if it is a classist establishment, they won’t check out his gob sending us to a private ENT clinic in town. With shady directions we find the clinic closed, but the Western ice cream shop next door open.

Assessing our options, Beau still perky telling me

‘The bone’s broken Mum and gone into my foot’

Feeling somewhat put at ease by his 3.5 year old prognosis, we decide food therapy may work. We all drop into an American-esque diner booth and enjoy a sundae.

Brothers in arms

Brothers in arms

Dodging bullets is hungry work.

Battambang Poos

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Tim got cleared to make the trip, albeit gingerly with no moto action allowed, and a few more days of bed rest (for a hyperactive, this is some feat!).

Importantly, he will remain a fully fledged male.

Our first impressions of Battambang have been positive: the town is circled by palmeries and the local mosque’s Call to Pray this morning, reminiscent of a Northern African town.  The streets actually have planted trees, an array of frangipangi, wisteria and native grapes.  A definable beauty here, that many of the other popup, factory cities lack.

Trees dimple the landscape

Trees dimple the landscape

For anyone out there who may be a little bit envious of our exotic experience, I want to honour the guts of the issue. Beau, the little trooper, had a 39+ fever last night as his tummy fought a war of its own. The fact little guy seldom complains amidst copious trips to the loo and even thinks about me (‘Mum, make sure you’ve got a blanket!’) is extra-ordinary.

Quinn has already staked out the hotel, made friends with the cool 20 something hotel manager and invited him to his room to play darts.

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Living it up

He tried to cut me loose in the local market this morning, I think his Ma cramps his style. The overpowering fishy smell flushed hot with humidity slowed him down though, and I managed to make him walk home with me and carry a washing bucket.

Central Market, Battambang

So we are acclimatising slowly: to the heat, the bacteria, and the mild deprivations- the shower that is over the loo, so you get a wet kiss when you you sit down, and the sink that leaks its contents all over the floor. Life out of a suitcase, in another hotel, for an unknown amount of time, whilst Tim recovers, Beau gets his pallor back, I some sleep, Quinn’s TV addiction grows, and we wait.

The Waiting Place… for people just waiting.

Waiting for the fish to bite

or waiting for wind to fly a kite;

or waiting, perhaps, for their Uncle Jake

or a pot to boil, or a Better Break

or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants

or a wig with curls, or Another Chance.

According to the Dr. Seuss, it’s a place that’s not for you! Instead there are many more (Oh) Places You Will Go. And yes, we’ve travelled to those Places, and yet paradoxically it took, these places to show us patience. So we wait it out.

There is much involved in sniffing out a house- every moto driver in town wants to show you their friends’ place, as the norm is that the introducer gets one month’s rent as a fee.  We have dreams of a romantic, French colonial house with a garden, cobra free (their numbers are quite plentiful throughout the dry season), rustic shutters with many different fingerprints, high ceilings for the geckos to play…  but this is all yet to be told.

Sending Oz some warmth, and mucho gracias for all the literary encouragement.