N = Never

When you’re young, anything seems possible. I seemed to spend my childhood filled with excitement for the future. My mother and father grew up in that small rural district, married, had children, joined in community affairs, sat on the School Boards, ferried us to and from sports events, music lessons, girl guides, etc. But despite rarely leaving the area, they never allowed us to feel restricted, hemmed in, or limited. Not in that cheesy, TV movie, American (no offence intended) kind of “you can do anything you want if you just believe in yourself” way. Opportunity was always implied, but unstated. We were never discouraged from aspiring to things.

Of course I was lucky. I was born in an age when, for the first time in history, being a girl was not a disadvantage. Likewise I was at school and more importantly university when education was free. And I was lucky that things came easily to me. Schoolwork, music, sports, friends. There was no reason for me to think I couldn’t do things, because to be honest, there weren’t a lot of things as a child that I felt I couldn’t do. And I dreamed. Of owning and riding a horse. Of living in Wellington and meeting the Prime Minister. Of exotic travel, of glories. Winning Olympic medals and being in the Silver Ferns (the New Zealand netball team). Being Billie Jean King, as I hit my tennis ball against our house. Of money and good clothes. Of an exciting life.

Then you start getting older. You realise your dad is never going to buy you a horse. And even in your teens you start narrowing your options. I knew early on I would not be Miss World. That’s not something I regret, I’m pleased to say. Then gradually the other dreams fall away. The Olympic medals were never an option – winning school sports events was good enough. I knew too I’d never be a concert pianist. That was okay too, as I got tired of practising.

Then you graduate from university and start working. I realised some of my dreams were too small, but some were too big. I realised there were a lot of other talented people out there, and I would need to work hard.

Now in my forties, there are a lot more nevers, and they stack up more each day. Some of them are regrets. I’ll never have children. I’ll never see my dad again. These ones I deal with every day.

But there are definitely some nevers I can live with, relish, embrace:  

I won’t be Prime Minister or a politician. I’ll never run a marathon. Thank God to both.

I’ll never be a beauty, but never have to worry that noone will love me once my beauty is gone. It’s good to be comfortable in my own skin. 
I’ll never own a private jet, but will never have to feel the guilt of such elitism, not to mention environmental impact.

I’ll never bungy jump. Not. Negotiable.

I’ll never get back to my honeymoon bikini body. But I can be fit and healthy.

I’ll never be a Silver Fern and my knees will never allow me to re-enact that dream anymore, leaping light as air for that ball. 
 I’ll never make my fortune on the tennis circuit.

And, let’s face it I’ll never win Lotto unlike this guy.  (I even had a ticket in that lottery, dammit).

M = Marina

I parked under a Norfolk pine in Oriental Bay earlier this morning, and set off. The weather was so beautiful I decided my morning work-out would be a walk around the harbour. The air was still, the water was flat, reflecting the buildings from the city, softly lapping the shore. Usually I walk away from the city, around the bays, but today I chose to walk in the opposite direction.

So I joined the dozens of regular morning walkers heading into the city. The girl with her uncomfortable looking shoes setting such a smart pace it took me a while to overtake her; the man in his business suit, jacket left at home today; the obese young man taking what I like to think were the first steps of a new lifestyle; the woman in her silky top, pretty skirt and trainers, carrying her business shoes, to name only a few. We dodged those on their bicycles, the odd skateboarder zoomed past us, and I watched amused at the middle-aged man racing past on a kick scooter, reliving his youth or trying hard to hold onto what is left of it.

As we neared the city, the numbers dispersed into their shops and offices. I stuck to the seafront, and walked past the boathouses and the yacht club. There’s a good seafood restaurant there, right on the edge of the small marina. We like to eat there at least once every summer, taking advantage of daylight saving and watching the activity in the marina. The yachts coming back in after an evening sail, the people doing maintenance on their boats, or sitting having a drink with friends. The stillness as the evening fades, the sun setting and the masts casting long shadows. The masts were casting their shadows in the opposite direction this morning, but it still had that still tranquil atmosphere you only get early and late, it gets burned away by the midday sun, drowned out by all those normal daytime activities.

Further around there are apartments fronting another marina. Living here would feel like being on holiday every day. I would need to win the lottery to afford it though. The cafes at the bottom of the building looked like the perfect spot for a relaxed coffee and newspaper or a good book. I think I’ll go there tomorrow morning.

And I’ll buy a lottery ticket too.

L = Languages

I grew up on a farm in the South Island of New Zealand. That’s a long way from anywhere. I studied French and Latin at school, but language teaching is not a strong point of the New Zealand education system. We struggled to even have opportunities to practice speaking French, our teacher preferring to instruct us in English. We never met anyone French, and the only person we knew who had been there was our teacher. Whilst I loved French, having an interest in foreign parts from a very young age, for most of my peers it was hard to imagine why it might be useful to learn a foreign language. Especially when our nearest and largest neighbour speaks a similar version of English to ours, and anywhere else is too far to visit on the weekend. Studying Latin was more relevant for me - at least it helped me translate some of the Italian instructions on my sheet music for the piano I spent my youth studying.

In the 1960s and 70s, New Zealand was a very monolingual society. Maori had been through a difficult time, when speaking their language at schools had been prohibited, and many Maori were growing up fluent only in English. We grew up knowing only a few words of the Maori language. The one word that was already part of New Zealand’s language at the time was mana.

Mana means respect, status, authority. It is a word that has no direct translation into English, but has been absorbed into our wider language and culture. We understand what it means, we appreciate the honour and significance of mana.

So when, 28 years ago today I learned I would be living with a Thai family and attending a Thai secondary school, I knew I would have to learn another language. It would be sink or swim. But I was told before I left home that the Thais speak quote “ a local dialect.” Dialect made it sound easy. I’d be chatting in Thai in no time, was the implication. But that local dialect, I discovered, is one of the hardest languages in the world for an English speaker to learn, ranked right up there with Mandarin, Japanese, Korean, Russian and Arabic.

But over my year as a student I learned to converse, read and write in Thai. Just as I was getting more confident it was time for me to go. Ten years later I returned as a diplomat, and in my refresher course realised that I had to relearn the language. I had learned to speak Thai as a deferential schoolgirl. I now needed to relearn it to speak as a diplomat representing my country. It opened doors for me. With my language and my AFS contacts, I was able to attend political meetings where I was the only foreigner attending. I had so many opportunities to talk with the locals, gained so much insight, and felt as if I belonged. My husband worked on the language as well. His accent was atrocious, he had no understanding of the tones, but he was cheeky and supplemented his language with a type of charades, and managed to be understood and make friends. The number of Thai speakers in the foreign diplomatic community was small. Most learned enough to get a taxi or tuk-tuk and to order in a restaurant. They expected their maids to speak English, not to speak to their maids in Thai. Single men tended to learn Thai to speak to girls, and you could usually tell the social class of a man’s girlfriend (and consequently the circumstances in which they met*) from his accent.

I was not fluent. Fluency is a funny thing. You ask two people with the same language skills if they are fluent, and one will say yes and another no. Perhaps it is simply a matter of confidence? For me, the more I learned, the more I saw the goal of fluency disappearing over the horizon. The more you learn about a language’s complexities, the more you begin to realise how fiendishly difficult it really is.

Since those first Thailand days, I have studied Japanese at university, performed well on a language aptitude test and encouraged by that, spent a year studying Mandarin full-time (long story that I’ll tell you about one day) reaching the level of a bachelor degree in Chinese. I also taught myself to recognise the numbers in Arabic (does that count?), so you could say I’ve knocked off 4 of the 6 most difficult languages. Russian is next. Depending on where my next travel destination is, I’ve taught myself varying degrees of Italian, German and Spanish, and periodically brush up on my schoolgirl French. I would like to reach a degree of “fluency” or at least comfort and confidence in a language, but realise that that is unlikely now. I’m fickle. I flit from one language to another. Fluency requires dedication. But I figure I’ve still got a good 30-40 years to pick a language and work on it.

But back to my point. It was in Thailand that I discovered how a language can be a window to the culture, or maybe it is really the manifestation of that culture. It is impossible to understand a culture without the language, and impossible to learn a language without absorbing the culture. For example, sabai and sanuk are Thai cultural concepts of well-being and fun that go beyond the simple English translations of the words.

For this reason, and this reason alone, I wish everyone could learn a language. For a start, I find it fun. Quirky facts about the way people see the world comes through in language.** Learning a language forces you to put yourself in the position of someone from that culture, living in that environment, and to think like them. It teaches you empathy, gives you understanding. We need more of that these days. To understand others, to understand ourselves, to understand those who live among us. And it shows respect.

Maori is however one language I have never formally or seriously studied, and I’m ashamed of that. In New Zealand these days, Te Reo (Maori, but literally translated as The Language) has had a resurgence. Maori words are now commonplace in New Zealand conversations. In the last ten years it has become accepted practice to sing the national anthem in both languages.

We experience and talk about powhiri (ceremonial welcome), karakia (prayer/blessings) and waiata (song) at hui (meetings) at a marae (Maori meeting house).

A Maori will know their iwi (tribes), hapu (subtribe) and whanau (family), tamariki (children) and koro (grandparent), tipuna (ancestors), kuia (elderly women) and kaumatua (elders). They are the tangata whenua (people of the land/ indigenous people).

We routinely use Maori greetings and farewells: tena koe/koutou or kia ora (hello) and haere mai (welcome) , haere ra, e noho ra and arohanui (with love)

We talk of aroha (love) and tell people kia kaha (to stay strong).

I have two brothers-in-law who left New Zealand before this renaissance began. They would not be able to understand a typical news bulletin in this country these days. Our language has changed. Our country has changed and is changing. Our culture has changed and is changing. We understand more. We understand better. We give respect. I like that.

Arohanui.

* Enough said! ;-)
** The Meaning of Tingo is a great book dedicated to this.

K= Knees

The traffic light turned red, and a group of teenage girls crossed the road. They were out together making the most of the last days of summer freedom before the school year begins again later this week. They were all so beautiful, young and slim.

I ached for the days when I too, wore shorts unselfconsciously, my knees enjoying their public exposure, not realising that there would be a time when I wouldn't want to do that anymore.

I didn't know what I had at the time. The young never do.

J = Joy

Joy is:

• A sunny day or a good storm
• A simple tomato sandwich
• The first basil of the season
• The smells and sounds of provencal lamb, aubergine and capsicums grilling on our new barbecue
• The pop of a champagne cork
• A glass of 2003 Kawarau Estate Reserve Pinot Noir
• A drink with a good friend last night, watching the yachts playing on the harbour
• A purring cat
• Soaring music
• Floating in warm water
• A clean sheet of paper and a good pen
• A new book
• A job well done and procrastination shown the door
• A happy client
  
• Our painting from Quebec City
• Business class
  
• Arriving somewhere new
• A clean house and freshly ironed clothes
• Helping someone
• A tui singing
• Pohutakawa in flower
• Agapanthas on our driveway today
• A good workout, feeling virtuous
• Sleeping in
• Laughter
• My sister (in fact and name)
  
• My man
• A list of things that make me smile

I = Ironing

Why is it that ironing seems to be a uniquely female chore? Men cook, they clean, they care for children, they take out the rubbish, maintain the house and car etc. But few of the men I know will voluntarily do the ironing. Including my beloved.

When we were first married we divided up certain household duties. We shared the cooking, cleaning and shopping, but my husband organised and took the rubbish out and maintained our beaten up car, and I of course got the ironing. Oh joy.

Then we moved to Thailand. Found Gorn our maid. What a joy it was coming home from work every day to clean, ironed clothes hanging in my closet. Ah, bliss. But all good things come to an end, and after three years we returned home. I found the ironing much harder to tolerate after that. In fact I hated it. With a passion.

I noticed though that gradually I was doing more of the cooking, and decided that ironing should no longer be one of my duties. So I went on strike. My husband eventually noticed when he ran out of business shirts. His reaction was one of disbelief. “You’ve stopped ironing?” Yes! He adapted. Got by without ironing as much as possible, and managed to iron a business shirt every morning before work.

My sister-in-law was newly married. I discovered her doing the ironing. In fact, I witnessed her husband yelling at her annoyed that he didn’t have enough ironed shirts for a business trip. Like us, they were both working and equally busy. He did little else around the house unlike my husband). So I shared my philosophy. “Withdraw your services. Go on strike” I urged her. She did. He resents me to this day.

Gradually over the years our incomes improved, and once again we managed to find and afford cleaners who ironed. Happy years.

Then I decided to leave full-time employment and enter the uncertain world of the self-employed. Guilty about having downtime and less income in my first year, we dispensed with our cleaners. And for the first time in years, I began ironing.

But …

shhhhhhh …

I discovered that when I wasn’t tired or in a rush, doing the ironing was a wonderful time for contemplating life, for listening to music turned up really loud, and even for learning languages. My Spanish grew to an acceptable level thanks to time spent ironing. I hate to admit that these days I almost find it therapeutic. When I have time. Almost.

But if I ever get given an iron as a gift … it (or the gift giver) is going on Ebay.

H = Hillary

I grew up on the east coast of the South Island of New Zealand. On a clear day, from our home within sight and sound of the Pacific Ocean, we could see Mt Cook - now also known as Aoraki, its Maori name – peeking through a gap in the mountain ranges from the Island’s west coast. It was always a thrill to see Mt Cook, New Zealand’s highest mountain, capped with snow winter and summer. On the edge of the plains and the ocean it seemed an impossible idea that men (and women) would climb it.

We learned about Mt Cook at school. It was 12,349 ft high. These days children learn the height in metres, but I have no idea what it is. A few years ago the top fell off Mt Cook, so now it’s not even 12,349 ft high anymore. My knowledge is obsolete.

Even though I could see Aoraki Mt Cook almost daily until I left home at 17, I didn’t get up close until I was 19. After they retired, my parents spent a lot more time in the MacKenzie country, the area surrounding Mt Cook. My dad loved the wide open spaces, and in his little Lada four-wheel drive he explored river valleys and camped out fishing. Now that he’s gone, my mum doesn’t get up there any more. So, at Christmas, we decided to take her for a drive. It was a beautiful day, and when we were half-way – at Tekapo - we decided on impulse to head for Mt Cook.

On arrival, we saw the new Sir Edmund Hillary Alpine Centre which had been opened only days earlier. There was a statue of Sir Ed out front. I remember thinking that he would be in his 80s now, and that soon he wouldn’t be here anymore. New Zealand would go on without Sir Ed to keep us honest. It pained me and I was surprised at that, at the emotion I felt all of a sudden. Little did I know that we had just a few short weeks left to appreciate him.

I grew up in a country enormously proud of Sir Ed. Tiny New Zealand, tucked away on the edge of the world, had produced a man who had climbed the highest peak on the planet, thousands of miles away, before anyone else. It made us feel as if we had a place in the world. That we belonged. That we mattered.

Not that we focussed solely on Sir Ed’s accomplishments. In my experience, Sir Edmund Hillary and Sherpa Tensing were always spoken of together, never individually, when it came to the Everest climb. Sir Ed would have never had it any other way. Likewise, he was as proud of the humanitarian work he did in Nepal as in his exploits at Everest, and later at the North and South Poles.

New Zealand was a better place with Sir Ed in it.

Let’s face it. The world was a better place with Sir Ed in it.

G = Grief

Snap out of it.

It’s time you were over it.

It wasn’t a baby anyway.'

You can always have another one.

At least you …. (fill in the gap … weren’t very far along; can get pregnant; didn’t die; have your health; didn’t really want children anyway; have a good job; etc ...)

Grief is something that comes to everyone at some stage. So why is it that we are so terrible at dealing with the grief of our friends and family? Why is it that we don’t talk about grief? That we don’t understand that we need to listen? When we offer platitudes or solutions, we are often trying to help ourselves to feel more comfortable, rather than thinking about what the grieving person needs. So we end up not permitting them to feel the way they feel, trying to get them to cheer up, in effect, denying them their grief.

Sadly, over the years, I have been involved with hundreds of women who have lost babies, and almost invariably their grief is accentuated by the insensitive or simply ignorant behaviour of their friends, families, and colleagues.

I shared those experiences.

• My best friend gave me a book to cheer me up in hospital. It was about a woman who had a miscarriage that destroyed her relationship!
• My mother said that she could relate to my feeling of isolation, because she felt that way when she was in hospital waiting to have her baby and all the other women had already given birth! (ummmm, NOT the same Mum!)
• Another friend, when emailed and told about my losses, emailed back and said “thanks for your email. We’re pregnant and attached is a photo of our scan!”
• A friend tried to tell me that it would be “good for me” to see another friend’s brand new baby.
• My sister-in-law said I should come and visit her, just days after getting out of hospital. And that while I was visiting I could babysit for her, as the Chinese believe that you’ll get pregnant if you hold a baby.
• My mother-in-law asked what was wrong with me that it kept happening.
• My brother-in-law reminded us that his wife had no problems getting pregnant.
• A friend said that I’d never had anything (ie a baby), so I hadn’t lost anything.
• I was asked if I needed psychiatric help, after only a few weeks and whilst still undergoing treatment and surgery, because I wasn’t “over it” yet.

The sad thing is that my experiences were very mild, compared to those of many women. I knew my friends and family cared, and my husband was amazing, our relationship strengthening and deepening through all this. I might have lost a future, but I would go on. And now I can actually laugh about the lack of tact of these people!

Even though my experiences of grief have been related to loss of a baby, I feel better able to deal with others’ grief now as well. I was able to help my mother through the loss of my father. I recognised the feelings, the different stages. It helped me through his dying and death too. I knew that as horrible as things might get, I could and would survive it.

Grief has been part of me, and made me who I am.

So maybe G is also for Gratitude.

F = Family

“Do they have a family?” is generally the first question my mother will ask about someone. She means, “do they have children?”

As if that makes them more interesting.

More worthy.

E = Ectopic

I heard today that Sophie, Her Royal Highness the Countess of Wessex, this week gave birth to a baby boy. It seemed appropriate. I often think of Sophie in December, remembering that she had her ectopic pregnancy a few days before I found I was pregnant for the first time. Perhaps my only royal connection, I too suffered an ectopic pregnancy that year.

A year later, December 2002, I was pregnant again. But waking on Christmas Day I knew things were not quite right, and before New Year I had lost the baby. Another couple of weeks of poking and prodding, tests, scans, medical and surgical treatment, hospitalisation and suspected cancer, it was finally diagnosed as a cornual ectopic pregnancy. It took five months three surgeries five hospital stays countless blood tests and specialist appointments before I was given the all clear.

About 1 in 80 pregnancies are ectopic, which means a pregnancy outside the womb. The baby will not survive. And if left untreated, in many cases neither will the mother. Ectopics are often misdiagnosed, and every year women die as a result, even in the richest countries of the world.

About 1% of ectopic pregnancies are cornual. I was told that about 1 in 400,000 pregnancies were in the same position as mine. Suddenly I realised what it is like to be on the wrong end of the odds. When you’re the 1 in 400,000, and that is 100% of your experience, odds become meaningless.

You realise you are not infallible; things you thought would come easily do not; things which everyone assumes would be yours simply by right of existence are not.

You come face to face with your own mortality. Life seems more uncertain.

You endure invasive medical or surgical treatment, sometimes both, often on an emergency basis.

You have concerns about your future fertility – some women lose their tubes, sometimes ovaries, and cornual ectopics such as mine run the risk of losing part or your entire uterus.

Saddest of all, you lose a baby.

Pregnancy, which everyone else takes for granted, becomes something that can kill you.

So now I volunteer for a Trust that raises awareness of ectopic pregnancies, supports research into causes, treatment and prevention, and improves the diagnosis and treatment. Literally, the Trust saves lives. Just as importantly, as far as I am concerned, it saves spirits and relationships as well.

But every year at this time, I remember.