I dreamed of you again. Your hands and your skin. I dreamed of the roughened bits on your palm and your strong fingers. I dreamed of the smell of you that comes from work and sun and the perfume of you. I dreamed of the muscles of your back and the coolness when the fan beats over us and the air is heavy.

For a long time I stopped dreaming. And still you touched my flesh and waited for it to respond. Your patience annoyed me and I used it as some kind of barrier between us. I hated every little thing about you and wanted to slap you away.

But now all my dreams are of you and the nights when the airconditioner rattled and smelled sweet and green. When the dampness of my body stuck to the dampness of your body and all the dreams we had were in that room.

Your pillow is empty and when I reach out over the sheets it's only coolness there in the middle of the night. And you would think that that would make me sad this big emptiness where you should be.

But I can't be sad because you are there in my dreams again and the fan is beating down over us. And my skin is like my skin used to be, when it only seemed to belong to you; and even though the darkness is laughing at me I am laughing too.

Because I have spent my whole life terrified of the dark and being alone. Of all the big emptiness. But tonight I am not afraid, because I dreamed of you again.

Christmas 2010

Christmas always starts on Christmas Eve for me. Since childhood it has been tradition and is a day steeped in cinnamon and brandy and that sharp tang of anticipation. I have never before spent it at work, and it was hard to remember (as I wrote the date repeatedly), that it was actually the fabled date of my youth. That longed for day for all of the very long year wherein that magic suspension of time and space betwixt not Christmas and Christmas hangs.

The week leading up had been hectic: late night, last minute shopping. Dinners with friends and frantic tidying as the waterlogged, housebound children wreaked havoc. The solstice marked with a lunar eclipse that I happened upon, not knowing what it was - marvelling at the ghostly clouds of the oversized crescent moon as it grew before my eyes. The change from red to milky then ghostly white as she rose into the sky on the clearest night I can remember for weeks.

Staying up late to cut out the girls dresses by the glow of the twinkling Christmas star and the fairy lights, satiated by the reflection off the shiny floorboards. Waking up at dawn to dress for work and trudge through the rain to finish another full day before coming home to prepare yet more in a manic frenzy. Friends would laughingly tell me it was "just another day" while Bingley, becoming wise now in his 4th decade refrained from all but a questioning eyebrow as I pieced together the Christmas dresses before realising I had lost my standard sewing foot AND my bobbin.

The girls hopped around on Christmas Eve with so much innocent delight that it made me feel vindicated in all of my late night efforts. Coming home from work tired I pushed it all aside as we laid the table with our wedding china and sparkly crystal and turkey and stuffing and all things good. The girls ate though they were excited, bouncing in their chairs and clinking goblets together delightedly saying "cheese" instead of "cheers" while the Possum inhaled his turkey. 

The Elfling collected a plate after dinner and filled it with things for Santa - digging through the bottom of the drawer of the fridge looking desperately for a carrot for the reindeer and choosing a beer for Santa - all of which she laid out for him by the tree. It was standing there in the light of the tree with the Santa sacks laid out hopefully, the stockings hanging by the window and the little golden Wedgewood plate filled with treats that I suddenly felt the prickle of tears behind my eyes at the sheer hallmark perfection of that moment. I tucked the girls into bed where the excitement hovered over them in a shimmering cloud as we read one of the Christmas stories from the stash, and they Elfling knitted her eyelids shut, willing sleep to come so that it would be morning soon.

As per tradition I turned on the Carols in the Domain and sang softly as I sat at my sewing machine, the whirring keeping time with the ancient hymns as two bright dresses formed under my hands. And then with a jingling of bells, Santa has there and the sacks were stuffed with mysterious wrapped packages and Bingley helped to assemble the scooters and the little ride on 3 wheeler and the blackboard. I hung the completed dresses by the bulging stockings and looked at the loveliness and sighed. It was so pretty it hurt my eyes. My heart bubbling like warm champagne as it frothed around my veins.

I curled into bed next to Bingley and it was my turn to squeeze my eyes shut and wish for sleep so that tomorrow would be here: the room not entirely dark as the muted glow bounced its way around the room, reminding me that Christmas was right next door.

We woke in the darkness of Christmas morning to hear the Possum in that limbo between falling back to sleep and waking, and being far too early for the latter I tiptoed into the kitchen and mixed a bottle of formula, stroking his forehead as he sucked and fell back asleep. Smiling as I walked past the room of loveliness and curling up in bed, unable to sleep.

Dawn tickled around the window frame around 5 and not long after came the unmistakeable sounds of the girls waking up. The delighted, awed, hushed cries as the girls walked into the lounge room had me tearing up in bed, listening to the surprised delight as the Elfling realised that Santa and his reindeer had eaten their treats. The thud as the new scooters were exclaimed over with thrilled squeals and ridden up and down the hallway. The Monkey debating about whether or not she could open her presents yet, and guiltily satisfying herself with opening her sack and seeing the wrapped booty within, exclaiming to the Elfling to check hers too. 

Bingley and I lay in bed and listened to it - the sweet symphony of childhood and appreciation and sheer radiant joy - and he laughed as I cried a little bit, because if nothing else I am a sook. Finally overcome, and knowing they were not to open anything until everyone was awake, they tentatively came into our room and pleaded to be allowed to wake the Possum. Their faces glowing in the half light - the Elfling especially looking so beautiful it made me ache, the innocent happiness making me grateful all over again that I get to be her mother.

We allowed them to open their stockings while they waited, knowing the exquisite torture of waiting and delayed gratification as we lay in the new day, celebrating when so many days it has not felt like a celebration - grateful that today I want to be nowhere else, but with my family, listening to the raptures over finding new undies in the bottom of a stocking when they were sure that there was nothing else to find.

Eventually I allowed the girls to check, surreptitiously, if the Possum was awake. Stealthily they opened the door, tiptoed over to his bed and bellowed that it was Christmas, disconcerting a peacefully sleeping Possum who rubbed his eyes and looked tearful at this noisy interruption to sugar plum dreaming. The exuberance of his sisters causing him to retreat into the safety of our arms until he had woken up enough to appreciate what was going on - which at that point was a veritable orgy of paper ripping as the girls were unleashed on their Santa sacks.

It's all a bit blurry from here, as presents were exclaimed over, and alternately dumped into my lap to open as the girls jumped about like mini Christmas sprites, eager to pass out as many presents as they opened and cajoled the Possum to start ripping into his. I smiled as I opened the pyjamas I'd asked for, and thrilled a little bit at the silly Eiffel Tower bag they came in, as if they'd been made especially for me. But it was the very very heavy oblong gift that made my heart do that tiny gleeful butterfly releasing jump as I opened it.

It is a massive coffee table style book and they had had an older edition of it at the place we stayed a few weeks ago. I had sat there in the corner but the window that ran with rain and the cool grey light and pored over this book. It is travel-lite. It is not a dissertation into travel or in depth. It is the readers' digest of travel books, but I loved it. I loved that it had every country, with pictures and little facts and maps. How I love maps. It made me want to get out a little packet of post it notes and place them all the places I want to visit until I realised the futility of this as I want to go everywhere.

To many books like this are pointless - I can upload more information and more full screen pictures than are in this book to my lap in seconds. But owning it made me as thrilled as I was as a child to receive the latest Roald Dahl book, or any other of the most cherished books of my childhood. It is *mine* and it was sitting, heavy and beautiful in my lap, smooth shiny pages under my fingertips, that smell of new books and just the promise of it all. That yes I will go there. And there and there and there. Bingley often buys me nice things, but this is the first time that he got it completely, irrevocably perfect.

I sat in my chair for a long time reverently turning the pages of my book as the girls, finally finished with all their gifts tore around the verandah on their scooters, the Possum joining in on his little trike. Bingley busied himself in the kitchen making poached eggs on toast with Christmas ham and I bundled all the ripped and torn paper excess to be recycled as garden mulch and spoke to relatives who had been woken by the joint cries of excited children and a surprise cyclone that had crossed the coast that morning.

The rain did not dampen our spirits as we headed up to my Mum and Dad's place, the Possum and the Monkey falling asleep on the way as the rain beat a steady rhythm on the roof. Arriving to smiles and hugs and all the other Hallmark cliches as we dashed inside with the big washing basket of gifts, all strange shapes and sizes, the wrapped umbrella in the middle looking silly tied with a bow.

We chatted with Mum and Dad as Mum laid out platters and checked the turkey buff as it filled the air with it's juicy scent and I decorated the pavlova as is my yearly tradition.

Then the last of the relatives arrived and the orgy of gift giving continued - watching the surprise and delight of those receiving the perfect gift and the polite cheerfulness of those who didn't. I was especially proud of the Elfling, who on realising that she liked a gift the Monkey had been given instead, picked up her fallen face and smiled delightedly at me before giving me a cuddle.

Then lunch and cocktails (or mocktails for the little ones, who thought that the maraschino cherries floating in their sparkling apple juice were the last word in magnificence) and far too much turkey. Ridiculous cracker jokes that make me laugh out loud and paper hats. Tiny plastic gifts that the Elfling and Monkey collected up and played with for half an hour together, bemused by their junkiness but loving them anyway. The Possum pulling his own cracker with an expression of simultaneous terror and determination that still makes me chortle days later.

Putting together the mini fusball table after lunch, when not a single extra morsel of food could be forced into groaning stomachs and the heated games thereafter. The wii sports tournaments fought in the living room while I crashed out on the couch. Eating pavlova even when there was no room and the gluten free trifle. And maybe a couple of celebratory chocolates.

The girls were so well behaved all day I wanted a medal for parenting brilliance (as if I had anything to do with it) and the Possum was his usual sunshiny self. It was such a perfect day that I thought I would burst from it, filled with food and love and cheer and happiness.

We drove home into the soggy night and loaded sleeping children into their new pyjamas and bed and smiled. And smiled. And smiled.

Unsettled

I am, as has been pointed out sometimes, someone who sways between moods. I'm ambiently happy, but I swing between gloriously euphoric and melancholy. I've learned to embrace this and just go with the flow. On the days where the sadness starts to swell I don't sit in the corner and rock, but I do allow myself to take things quietly. I withdraw a little but try not to completely shut everyone out. I ignore housework and talk as little as possible.

On the days where the pendulum swings towards the Gleam I try and harness it, breathe it in, divert it like a golden river into channels in the reservoir in my brain that craves ecstatic highs. I can be equally selfish in both extremes. Sadness because I'm protecting myself and happiness because it is so hard to share, not everyone follows the Gleam.

At either extreme I crave music. Matching lyrics and chords to my emotions, letting what I can't say flow out with each chorus. It's my release, my catharsis, my language. I don't often sing along, I just let it absorb through my skin, into my blood. It's how I cope, how I stay balanced.

But some days I can't find my balance. I turned 28 on Thursday and ever since I've felt wobbly. I don't know where it's come from but it's pervasive. My dreams, oh my God the dreams, I wake up and my heart is racing. So intense they take my breath away. And I can't find my music. I can't find my outlet. I'm trying to write it but the words won't come.

I got really quite intoxicated on Saturday night (The Possum happily will take a bottle if a boob is not on offer) andn felt relaxed for the first time since Thursday, my skin stopped crackling and my keel stayed even. But vodka is not a solution I'm willing to embrace. I need to find my music, and relax and unfurl.

I'm not sure if it's some sort of "nearly turning 30" issue or something else. I just feel jumpy. Like a cat before an electrical storm. If you stroked me now there would be sparks.

it is an ever-fixed mark

This afternoon I am reviewing neonatal examinations and also cardio-respiratory and CNS examination while pinging e-mails back and forth to LH. We had one of our strange weeks the other week, where I go completely off the rails into scary territory and he looks on in bewilderment and waits for the dust to clear.

I think sometimes, that I wonder too much about the “what ifs”. The “where I would be if I hadn’t got married or had children”. These what ifs always seem to strike at a time when I’m particularly stressed about work, and probably stem from some envy of those that are footloose and fancy free at those times.

When LH and I got married was one of the most stressful times of my life and indeed our whole relationship. It was my first year back after having had the Elfling and the first time I’d had to do uni while juggling someone else’s needs that were more important than my own. 2nd year medicine is widely regarded as the hardest year, and the exams are legendarily difficult. So we decided to plan a white wedding for nearly 100 people right smack bang in the middle of it. Even just recalling it is welling a sense of panic up in my chest. So much responsibility, so much stress, so many things to do. To make it even more fun, this was the year of the worst job that LH ever had, where he would at a moment’s notice be sent overseas for work (with NO bonuses, overtime etc etc). Two weeks before our wedding, one week before my major end of semester exams, LH was sent to Qatar. Here is a map showing Qatar.



Yes, as in the Persian Gulf 5 billion miles from home. With a stressed out, freaked out, already skittish, commitment shy fiancée at home with their baby daughter. I can remember crying to him on the phone and him crying too just a week before the wedding, unsure of when he was going to be home and me being out of my brain. I wanted to jump ship then and run far far away from all this commitment and responsibility and just act like a regular 23 year old whose biggest decision was “vodka or Midori?” at the pub next weekend (Vodka obviously – Midori is VILE). I thought about running away with a friend of mine (just a friend – we were never “involved”) simply because it just seemed so much easier than dealing with all of this.

I have a selfish streak and when I am stressed I seem to resort to it. Even though LH is my best friend, at that time, even though none of it was his fault and he was even more stressed than I, it was easy to blame him when I was trying to study through tears as I got a call from daycare saying that the Elfling couldn’t stay there being as she had conjunctivitis. I wasn’t one of those dreamy, ethereal, mooning brides spinning fairy castles in the sky. Even on the morning of our wedding (he got home in time!) I wasn’t calmed down yet, and driving there I was still tempted to jump out of the car and run away.

We got to the park in our polished vintage cars in the brilliant mid winter sunshine with me in my beautiful meringue dress and elbow length veil and I took a deep breath as Dad arranged the filminess over my face. I thought about all the reasons I loved LH and all the reasons why I needed to walk down this pathway to where 80 or so people were gathered around a pagoda facing out onto the sparkling river. The breeze lilted gently off the water and my 2 bridesmaids swung the Elfling down the “aisle” as we proceeded to Pachebel’s canon in D played by a string trio. And with every step I took in my brand new ivory coloured shoes under the heavy brushed satin skirt with my hands clutching the simple but heavy bouquet of trussed red roses I wondered if I was doing this for the right reasons. Was I doing it because it was all arranged and I had to? Was I doing it because of some stubborn obligation?

As I sang the words to Canon under my breath (it was my favourite choral piece of music from the days when I sang regularly in choirs) I reached LH’s side just as the music canons with hallelujahs. As they reached crescendo around us we were silent – looking at each other, and at that moment there were no other people on Earth. Just him and I, surrounded by the haunting music of the cello, separated by a translucent pearly veil. LH reached forward and lifted the veil, and with it went all my fears and trepidations. As the music ended, and all that could be heard was the birds in the trees, all I could see was LH’s eyes, emotion welling up in them, and suddenly I felt the prickle and sting of tears hit my own. There was no doubt, there was nothing there but pure unadulterated love for the man in front of me and there was nothing I could do but bite my lip hard to stop the tears cascading down my face and ruining my very expensive make up.

The ceremony was simple and brief and poignant as we held hands in front of the celebrant. We didn’t write our own vows and we didn’t want to do rehearsed, tacky, “symbolic” kitsch. The symbolism was in the fact that we were making promises to each other in front of people we loved, and in the incredibly plain and simple matching gold bands that we exchanged. We had two short readings (1:13 Corinthians and Shakespeare’s 116th sonnet) and in the shortest possible time I was able to finally move into his arms and be kissed as his wife.

The rest of the wedding day is but a mere blur. I remember going through the paces of having photos taken and picking at our fantastic lunch and listening to speeches, but all I really wanted was to be alone with my husband. To escape from all the well wishers that were taking my attention away from him and our magical little locked kingdom that only we had keys for. Of the utter relief of getting into our taxi to go to the hotel, and the joy I felt at walking into our luxe room where it was just him and I. I remember the shyness and strangeness we felt as we looked at each other, a mix of love and lust and some sort of undercurrent as well. We’d thought that being married was merely a formality, but standing here, in our winter finery in this plush suite it was the start of a new beginning. Our new beginning.

Sometimes still, when I am snowed under and stressed, I revert back into the selfish “if only” mindset. Wishing for the lack of responsibility and the lack of people who depend on and rely on and love me. If pinned down I will start thinking about escape plans and how life will be when I don’t have to worry about everything and only have to worry about one thing at a time. And I am so lucky, because I am sure that some husbands, when confronted with a freaking out, implode-y wife would dust their hands or would start throwing out lassos to tie me down and force me to behave. But I married the most patient, beautiful and loving man on Earth who trusts me above all else. Who when asked why he doesn’t come down on my behaviour and force me to act like a mature responsible adult ought, simply says that I am free and he will never cage me. That I have to make my own choices and he will never be the one that I have to rebel against. And it is this simple trust, this simple unswerving faith that he has in me that forces me to behave myself. To love him more fiercely and to be even more protective of this special (Nat calls it sickening :p) relationship that we have.

Even last week, the scene of my last meltdown (in spectacular style – I don’t like to do things by halves), was met with his steadfast clear statement that we love each other and that we will get through everything. As I lay on my back with my head in his lap under a tree and the tears coursed down my face I thought about how lucky I am and how no one else I will ever meet will have the strength that he does. It’s funny because so many people see our relationship and think I wear the pants and run the show and whatever other dodgy clichés are out there. But the truth is that he does. He always has. While I am headstrong and passionate and free flying and spontaneous and visible, he is the rock that allows me to be the best that I can be. And for that, and the two most perfect children that ever existed (because of course, they were made from us) I am the luckiest woman on Earth.

The Gleam

Part two of Nina's topic...

I am a dreamer. I always have been. Even in the midst of conversation I often drift into dialogue with my own ethereal whimsy while maintaining social grace. It takes little to distract me from everyday things, and if I get a whiff of The Gleam, then I am lost to it, beholden to its call.

I was about 15 when I first found an old copy of Tennyson's poems that had belonged to my father at college. A small red, cloth bound book, pages the colour of weak tea in very plain print. It is not a beautiful book to look at, it is very simple. But inside, o, the beauty and the song that leaps off every page... The first time I opened it, I flicked straight to the poem I knew - The Lady of Shalott, and thrilled to its melody. Even now a good 18 years since I first read that poem those opening stanzas still reveal The Gleam

On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky;
And thro' the field the road runs by
To many-tower'd Camelot;
And up and down the people go,
Gazing where the lilies blow
Round an island there below,
The island of Shalott.

The introduction to metaphor, the abililty to describe things so beautifully - "that clothe the wold" - that description is so perfect. It brings a vivid image to my eye instantly. It is why I love Tennyson.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver,
Little breezes dusk and shiver
Thro' the wave that runs for ever
By the island in the river
Flowing down to Camelot.
Four gray walls, and four gray towers,
Overlook a space of flowers,
And the silent isle imbowers
The Lady of Shalott.

But the second stanza, the melody is the breeze, it darts forth and gently raises the hair on your arms such that you yourself are dusking and shivering by the river that flows to Camelot. I still am entranced by the beauty of this work, and have spent many a day hiding in some greenery or other looking up at blue or misty skies and feeling the wind tumble and play at my feet like a kitten as I drank it in. But once I had finished the LoS, I began to delve further into this slim book of poetry, and found still more works that enthralled and enraptured me. One of those was Merlin and The Gleam.

Obviously, from the title of this blog, The Gleam resonated with me. The mention of it throughout the poem teased me, called me to it, but those final words...

Launch your vessel,
And crowd your canvas,
And, ere it vanishes
Over the margin,
After it, follow it,
Follow The Gleam.

...I cannot describe how they inspire me. The passion in them - the absolute need I have to pursue The Gleam, La Vie Moins Ordinaire, whatever I name it. It is something greater calling me. I see it glimmering before me, sometimes I actually dance in its light. I can only describe it as this is why people believe in heaven. A glimpse of something so ascendant it must be of another world. But to me it is incredibly unholy as well - it is earthy, primal, primitive, pagan.

I see The Gleam sometimes in the purple haze of dawn, when I awake before I am fully conscious and see the smokiness on the horizon and know as the cool jovial music of twilight pervades my soul that I have a window to somewhere other. I smell it in the balsam of the forests when I run through the trees of my ancestral home and I chase it with eyes sparkling and amber. Some days I catch it, and it runs through my veins quick and golden and light and I hover in some space that is not quite of this world. I am almost always alone in my pursuit of The Gleam, I have tried to explain it to LH and lovely though he is, he does not see The Gleam. He is happy to follow me as I chase, but he doesn't quite see the gold that we're after. Others don't understand it at all, and it is the most precious thing that I possess so I don't share it often.

I can't make it come before me, things that one day will have me lost I will another barely notice. I possess only the ability to see The Gleam, not to bring it to me, or I would spend all of my time drunk with its beauty. It comes most often when I am lost in my imagination and dreams, though being around beautiful things always brings it closer. I am always on the search for great beauty. And in the meantime I dream and spin fancies and imagine - the castles in the sky where LH and our little pixies will live. I've asked him what he imagines our perfect home to be and he simply says that if I am there... then that is his perfect castle. I adore him for that, but I wish he knew of The Gleam.

Til Kingdom Come

Today as I pulled into kindy to pick up the Elfling a song started playing and as I switched off the engine, I sat there, in the rapidly heating up car, my chin on the steering wheel unable to move as I listened. It was hot and sunny, and through the windscreen I could see my caramel pigtailed Elfling dancing like the sprite that she is. When the song finally finished, I pulled the key out of the ignition, shook myself, and went to collect the light of my life.

It hit me then, in an avalanche of sorrow and grief and absolute pure emotion how much I love her, and her sister, but above all else how much I love their father. In the last few weeks I have made analogies to being in a turbulent sea that I couldn't get out of. But today, I ran out of the water and straight into the arms of the man I love.

We buried Grandad today, in a ceremony as simple, understated and shy as Grandad was himself. No frills, no tizzy bits. Basically the opposite of Nana's choreographed funeral last year. Even the bouquet on the coffin was pure Grandad - Mum had arranged some boughs from the jacaranda tree, some avocado leaves, some red roses, some red gums all from Grandad's garden and tied them simply with a plain ribbon. And it was so beautifully fitting. A simple good bye.

Grandad laid to rest next to his wife of more than 50 years, calm and peaceful and never alone again. Til Kingdom Come. As the celebrant said the last meaningful words, I stood with my head nestled into LH's shoulder, in that perfect way that we fit together as he gently caressed my back and I was so grateful that he was there. No tears fell there at the cemetary - it was so peaceful and warm with the most beautiful lilting breeze and the trees overhead swaying gently.

Afterwards we wandered around the park that I played in every year of my childhood, smelled the intoxicating perfume of the state's rose garden, and eventually sat and ate and reminisced. Afterwards LH and I wondered around the overgrown garden of my childhood, before sitting under the jacaranda tree surrounded by green with the breeze playful around our feet and teasing our hair. And sitting there, out the front, where my grandparents had sat so many times before, I flashed forward 50 years, where my LH and I would be the ones sitting in the breeze, with our grandchildren dancing in front of us.

I have written before about how much I love him, but today I fell in love again. 9 years almost to the day that I met him.

From June 06

I haven't really talked about DH on here and don't mention him nearly amuch as he deserves to be - usually only when I'm angry and frustrated.

I met DH during my second week at college. I was barely 17 and excited to be living away from home for the first time. I was meeting so many new people and was enjoying my freedom and independence and the fact that no one knew me and hence I got to "start over" with regards to how I wanted to portray myself. The only thing that was slightly difficult was that I had no money and that I didn't drink. Both of which are a bit of a social issue when you're at College.

But I quickly made friends and found myself hanging around a specific wing of college where most of my new friends lived. DH was a second year and I met him in the corridor of Merrington Wing in second week. I would love to be able to say that my first impression of him was love at first site but that would be lying . I thought he was very weird. But he must have made an impression on me because I can still remember meeting him more than 7 years later.

I obviously made an impression on him as well because from that date on he would often spring up beside me wherever I was. He also made it abundantly clear that he was "interested" in me. And being a typical nonsensical teenager I found his obvious interest a complete turn off. Plus he was weedy and weird... not cool boyfriend material. (Ah the shallowness of youth )

As the year progressed I started going out with someone and spending time with our large group of friends (DH was part of the group). I can remember thinking at one stage that I was the happiest I have ever been in years. I was social, I was skinny, I had a job, I could buy my own things, I was happy, I was popular, I had a boyfriend and life just felt fabulous. I think I embodied joie de vivre. And DH was still there. Always around, still making it abundantly clear that he liked being around me and that he wanted more than being friends. And I remember thinking of him like an annoyance, someone nice enough that just did not get the hint that I was not remotely interested.

One night we were watching TV and he reached over and held my hand. I can remember feeling, the spark that flew up my arm and rendered me mute. At the time I brushed it off as annoyance that he was still harrassing me when I had a boyfriend! But even then I remember my subconscious whispering that I should have been more angry at him, and that I could stil feel the pressure of his hand around mine for hours afterwards.

After that incident I tried to avoid DH. Even when my "relationship" with the other guy ended messily and tearfully (I was still very seventeen) I still stayed well away from him. It wasn't just his keen-ness, or hiw weird-ness. There were things about DH that just bugged me like his propensity to say complely inappropriate things at the worst moment and his social awkwardness. He was still a very nice person though and I couldn't bring myself to be mean as others were.

At the end of that first year he left to go to the USA to teach skiing and snowboarding in Colorado. And before he left he basically let me know that he was still interested. And I brushed him off.

So the new year started much as the first year of uni had. Fun, exciting and full. With the added bonus that I was now 18 and could go out on Thursday nights with everyone else and get stupidly drunk, dance and sing around the piano bar at the top of my lungs. I was also in the grip of a pathological desire to make my ex-"boyfriend" fall in love with me and spent far too many hours wondering about how he felt about me. I corresponded sporadically with DH with light, fluffy and inconsequential e-mails and life just moved on.

DH came back to college but I saw him much less as my popular friends and I had moved to a different wing of the college and life was full on with the social whirl and studying and classes etc. Wasn't quite as happy as in first year what with the unrequited love and all (looking back I still have no idea what I was thinking!) but still enjoying life.

Then Nana got sick. At first it was just sick, something that happens when you hit your late 60s, things get worn down, colds and flus can be serious and Nana was always healthy, it obviously wasn't a big deal. Life continued on pretty much as normal.

Then she started deteriorating. She was sick, she was in pain and there was no diagnosis. Her face changed as it became thinner and paler. Her mannerisms changed, her very person seemed to be ill, her stuborness and opinions began to be less prominent. To me that was when I knew she was sick. She just didn't seem to be Nana any more. And suddenly my light fluffy social world didn't seem quite so fun any more. And my friends were for the most part as light and fluffy as my life was at that point, that was one of the major reasons I loved being around them - they were so happy and positive.

I withdrew a lot. My friends to be fair didn't abandon me or anything, but they didn't understand and to be honest they had their own lives. They helped, or at least tried to, but they were still having fun. And their grandmother's were either fine or had died, afterall - it's kind of an expected thing.

Then Nana was diagnosed. I was still living in dream land where even though she had metastatic, indolent, late stage T cell lymphoma that you treated that and she owuld be OK. Only a month or so ago she'd been fine. She was going to be OK. That's why we have doctors and hospitals.

It got worse.

Then on my 19th birthday my Aunty called to let us know that Nana was in palliative care. I didn't really understand what that meant - they were giving up? How does that work? Does that mean that she was going to die? She was perfectly fine3 months ago...

She died 3 days later with everyone there with her exactly as she would have wanted.

I was a mess. The day of her funeral I barely remember, but I turned to one of my (male) friends to try and cheer me up. His method of cheering me up is one that I will not talk about here. The fact that I still had my virginity afterwards though is something that I will thank God for for the rest of my life however. My brain was not in gear at all that evening.

After that day, I was very flat. I associated with my quieter, more empathetic friends. And one night while I was wandering around at some stupid hour I noticed DH's light was still on. I chatted inanely for hours with him while he maintained a somewhat bewildered expression on his face. But I had not felt so safe and at home as I did that night in months. I eventually fell asleep on his bed - and unlike my other "friend", DH tucked me in and kissed my forehead - aside from that he didn't touch me.

A few weeks passed with DH and I spending more and more time together. I didn't think that we were starting a relationship at all - just that he was such a good friend. And that I just relaxed in his presence. He made me feel happy again. He made me smile. And he made me feel special and important and loved.

Our other friends were watching this with smug amusement and waiting for the moment when we'd announce that we were "going out" (Hey we were only 19 ) but I still was just coasting and enjoying feeling comforted. Til one day another friend pulled me aside and asked me how I felt about DH. Until that moment I hadn't honestly thought about it. And it wasn't until my friend smugly declared that I was in love with him that it dawned on me that I did care about him. And not just as a friend. I will never forget how surprised I felt at that moment. IT felt like the twist in the plot that king hits you because it was so glaringly obvious.

And from that day we were a couple A very cute, very highschool couple. I didn't sleep with him for months. We did fun things like go to the beach and build sandcastles. He took me to meet his parents in northern Qld and we went fishing.

And I have never felt as at home as I have with my DH. He is the most beautiful person I've ever known in my life. And he loves me. Deeply, wonderfully, completely. He is my safe place to fall but he is also the one who lifts me up and inspires me. He is the one that makes me shine. He held me as I brought the most precious light into our lives and will be there when we go through it again in September.

I could write for hours in here and I still could not convey how much I love my husband. And right now I miss him so much it hurts.