‘Tennis racquet…….tennis racquet!” Quiet snigger. ‘Tennis Racquet…..tennis Racquet!’ More sniggering. Louder this time.

The sound of those words and the cocky, intimidating voices of her tormentors made the blood rise to Rebecca’s cheeks and her heart race alarmingly. She fought the urge to cry. It was the crying that had got her into this trap in the first place. She felt the cracked vinyl of the school bus seat, sticking to the bare part of her legs. The urge to peel her legs off the sticky surface and pull her dress down further to form a barrier, was niggling at her, but she couldn’t bring herself to move, for fear of attracting some new kind of taunt.

Rebecca had never been possessed of the self-assured nature of some of her classmates. At this moment, she longed to be the sort of person who could just turn around, say, “Fuck off losers!” to be rewarded by approving chuckles and cheers from admiring onlookers. Unfortunately, she was anything but. She was a compliant people-pleaser. A good girl. The shame of having been caught out as a ‘dobber’ and the resulting humiliation was excruciating. If only she had even one ally on the bus, but as usual, she sat alone in the front seat.

Her most recent moment of humiliation (the second one in a matter of days) had occurred only five minutes earlier. Mrs Stepwell or ‘Steppy’ as she was known by most of the students had cornered Rebecca as she ascended the undercover walkway towards the school bus stop. There was a common catch cry amongst the students: “Steppy’s on the war-path”. This ‘war-path’, on any given day might be carved out of a need to ensure all girls were wearing the regulation navy blue ribbon (“It must be 2.5cm in width, girls”) or simply out of desire to create fear. Today, she had been on her biggest war-path of the year so far: to catch the perpetrator of an act of vandalism: the smashing of a year 7 girl’s tennis racquet.

“Show me these boys then. Where are they?

“But Mrs Stepwell,” Rebecca had backpedalled desperately “I’m not sure if they actually did it. They might just be saying they did as a joke or something.”

“Just point them out”, she had ordered, and with that, Rebecca’s fate had been sealed.

Still stuck to her seat, Rebecca closed her eyes and tried unsuccessfully, not to think about her initial moment of public shame: the way she had cried on Monday upon finding her shiny new tennis racquet ruthlessly smashed up and sticking out of the school dumpster. There had been a significant number of witnesses to her tears. She had cried in a way that could not have been described as composed or measured. Her shoulders had heaved and the guttural howl emerging from her had provoked great mirth from the growing group of voyeurs who had stopped for the entertainment. Her sorrow was born of a feeling of horror at the prospect of telling her parents that she had let this happen to the racquet they had only bought her a week earlier. She had left it on the court after tennis coaching (an initiative her parents had organised in an attempt to help their un-sporty daughter fit in at her new school), and by the time she had gone back to the tennis court, it was gone.

Among the group of amused onlookers had been Max and Mike, two popular Year 8 boys with trendy haircuts and a plethora of female admirers. She had recognised them as the boys who always sat at the back of the bus, having conversations littered with obsceneties, in voices designed to be audible to everyone but the elderly driver.

On that Monday afternoon, however, Max and Mike had chosen not to sit in the back seat. Instead, they sat pointedly in the seat directly behind Rebecca, something which struck her immediately as unusual and unnerving. Then the taunting began.

“We saw you crying today. You looked really upset! Do you know who broke your tennis racquet?” asked Max, in an elaborately insincere imitation of concern.

“No.” Rebecca kept her head down, studying the pale blue stripes on her school dress.

“Well we know who did it”, piped up Max gleefully.

Despite her instinctive grasp of their mockery, she whipped her head around to face them.

“Who? Who did it?”

Both boys smirked.

“Us. We did it.”

“What? But, why?

“For fun”.

In her state of shock, it wasn’t clear to Rebecca whether or not they were telling the truth, but as the horror of their words sank in, the two boys stood up and strode triumphantly to the back of the bus, laughing. Once they had slid into their backseat throne, they started to quietly chant the words: “Tennis Racquet………….tennis racquet….tennis racquet” like some maniacal broken record.  Other kids watched her for a reaction, while Rebecca just sat, looking deeper into the lines of her uniform fabric wishing to somehow melt into them. The sickening chanting routine had continued for three more painful afternoons.

Now, as she sat on the bus, overwhelmed with shame but grateful at least that it was Friday, Rebecca was full of regret. Why had she been stupid enough to report their taunting to Mrs Annesly, her homeroom teacher, that morning? Why couldn’t she have just toughed it out for one more afternoon, knowing that a two-day reprieve was in sight. Maybe if she had done that, a new victim would have caught their interest by Monday and she would have been off the hook. Now, however, she had reached a whole new level of vulnerability. Sure, she would have a break next week, while Max and Mike served their week of detention with Steppy, but after that, she knew she would be fair game.

“Tennis Racquet…. Tennis racquet…tennis racquet….”they chanted, their tone of amusement, today replaced with one of menace. As it built to a crescendo, Rebecca studied her lap with increased determination.

She felt a wayward tear escape and roll down her cheek. As it splashed between the blue lines of her school dress, she dreamed of being home, safe under her doona with a Milo and her favourite cartoons to distract her. Only ten more minutes to go.

The new year. Sharon gulped as it dawned on her that the entire committee, bar the president, was going to be made up of parents from the 3 year old class. All first timers at preschool. “Known unknowns”. With the exception of Rebecca. Fucking. Rebecca.

Passive aggressive bitches with scores to settle seemed to be a special sub-species of woman who would inevitably find themselves on a kinder committee 3 years after giving up their careers. Or 3 years after going part time. Or 3 years after choosing full time child care. It didn’t matter which choice had been made after the arrival of the first child, the result with chicks like Rebecca was the same.
Yes, the previous committee had been brimming with A types. All women, not a dad within cooee. My fucking KINGDOM for a dad, Sharon silently prayed. Loud, opinionated, flippant females. Most of them were a laugh riot with hearts of gold and a passion for chardonnay. A couple were positively giddy with power. When Rebecca meekly suggesting the sandpit be covered over night to decrease the instances of cat shit being eaten the following morning she was greeted with disdain and sarcasm. “Oh yeah. Let’s do that. Then, let’s wrap our precious ones in breathable bubble wrap before we let them out of the house. In our day, we ate cat shit every fucking day, and we turned out fine!!” – Squishing down a meek lady, it turns out, possibly not in the spirit of a committee who existed to run the day to day operations and processes of the first foray into education.
I mean, meek chicks concerned with the consumption of cat excrement just weren’t funny, were they? First, it’s the sandpit. Then, the edges of the Steiner approved building blocks would be sanded down, preventing injury. Finally, cordial would be outlawed altogether, thanks to these do gooders.  And now, now Rebecca was president, and she had some scores to settle, wrongs to right, a year of being dissed to turn around. Sharon poured a pint of sav blanc. She could smell a dramatic year in the offing.

Small decision

“She’s been in the same position for at least 6 hours. I’m sorry, but I really think we need to move her.” Anthony, the nurse with the kind eyes and easy charm, had a good point.

When you’d popped in that morning to give a twirl in your fancy outfit, Mum hadn’t budged. Not a grunt, flicker or glance. No grin. No “Jesus Mel, your tits are out for all to see, aren’t they?!”. Nothin’.  No, she sat propped up in the hospital bed, seemingly snoozing. She looked at total peace.

Well that was around 10:30am. It was now about 7pm. Visitors had come in and out between Mum’s bedside and the visitor’s lounge all day. Afterwards, you’d discovered she’d managed a few half sleepy smiles, approving murmurs and one “You girls are so beautiful”. This, after sitting up to a full breakfast at 7am.

“Yeah, that’s a bit long, isn’t it? Go for it”, you reply. Bed sores, you’d heard, were not grouse. Moving that sleepy lady seemed like a no brainer.

And that, my loves, is the moment you so badly wish you could take back. “Na, leave her Anthony. She’s comfortable”, you’d say. Yes, she’d likely have a numb arse cheek. She may, however, have lived a bit longer if her C2 hadn’t imploded upon being moved. Despite best practice, correct hospital procedure, with two nurses and a Philadelphia neck brace all in play, Mum’s cancerous vertebrae had turned to powder, and all you could do was watch and wish you’d said anything else but yes.

Kate the bouncer stood staring down the line stretching along the block and around the corner as the night grew darker. Young peacocks of every feather, preening, tilting their chins as they eyed each other jealously. Who would be successful in the mating dances and rituals of the evening? The night stretched ahead, glittering with possibilities. Kate knew she was but the first of many obstacles to be negotiated, and perused the queue, predicting in her head who would be a strutter, who a squawker, and who would use persuasive cooing in their endeavours to gain access. Some in noisy groups and some alone, they stepped up to submit to her scrutiny. She ran a critical eye over them, assessing their coloured plumage, exotic eye makeup, fanciful hairdos. Apart from the flamboyant customers were the ones all in sleek black, thinking they were safer and cooler than the noisy, bright ones who were making the night ring with their harsh mating calls.  They would pick over the leftovers and casualties of the evening like the carrion birds of the air. Sure, they were at the bottom of the pecking order, but they knew they served a purpose.

Then there were the ones who puffed up their chests, trying to disguise the fact that they were merely chicks and not fully-fledged adults. Those she rejected swiftly and calmly, unmoved by their squawks of protest. Most of the raucous, strutting ones were harmless, simply show-offs trilling their songs. The ones who argued stridently at the entrance were always refused. “If someone wanted to argue with you at your own front door, would you then invite them all the way into your home? Hell, no.” was Kate’s rationale. She knew all too well that those who wanted to pick a fight on arrival would then go on to cause trouble at the bar, on the dancefloor or anywhere else they went. They thought they could rule the roost. It was her job to nip that firmly in the bud.

Still others were trouble of a more subtle kind. Something about the eyes was not quite right. Glazed and unfocused, or sometimes feverishly bright, they brought problems. Some of the punters were already in lovebird pairs, but many more were in flocks, looking to find a mate, even if only for the night. Those fortunate enough to pass Kate’s inspection found themselves admitted to the Aviary, a vast dancefloor with a domed roof towering above. Beneath the soaring arches, the patrons perched in preening rows, eyeing those making their displays of courtship on the dancefloor below. The dark rafters above hid many secrets and despite the swirling coloured lights, there were plenty of dim corners. The Aviary was an ancient building and the dances had not changed, although the music and fashion had. The dances included attention-getting manoeuvres, displays of physical beauty and technical brilliance, and finally, the sweaty pairings of potential mates, excitedly ebbing and flowing to the rhythm. Some ended up in stolen embraces in the darkened nooks. Kate and the other security guards circled the crowd like watchful hawks, cruising effortlessly on the currents, alert for danger.

2014 was my Annus Horribilis. Disease, emergency surgeries, sexual assault and resulting court appearance, unplanned pregnancy, genetic diagnoses, forced house relocation, and near bankruptcy. The only trauma we weren’t touched by was death, and we came very close to that when my car was destroyed (with my husband in it) when another vehicle ran a red light at 120kph.

My husband and I decided to head off on a three day cruise as a circuit breaker. Just the two of us; our first time away together without kids since our honeymoon. It was an opportunity to take a rest from all the drama at home, spend some quality time together, and reinforce our strength as a team.

On the second night of the cruise there was a formal dinner. Portrait stands were set up along the main hallways for guests to have their photo taken while dressed up for the dinner. I didn’t want to participate because of my weight (I was over 100kg and big in the thighs, bum and upper arms), and my husband is very self conscious of his baldness and severe rosacea (caused by autoimmune issues), so we walked past most of the stands on our way to dinner.

Just before the dining room I noticed an older lady and her daughter at one of the portrait stands. The lady was in a wheelchair and was very thin and frail. She was also missing more than half of her face, to the extent that what was left of her teeth and jaw were visible through a giant hole that had once been her cheek. One eye was barely in place above a sunken cheekbone, and much of her nose was missing. She’d clearly had some kind of face, skin or mouth cancer and was most likely terminally ill. Yet she was sitting in her wheelchair, her daughter holding her hand by her side, having her portrait taken.

I was initially confused and repulsed by what I saw. And then it hit me. This was probably the last cruise the mother and daughter would ever take together before the mother’s death, and it was also probably the last opportunity for them to be in a portrait together. It didn’t matter what either of them looked like. What mattered was how they felt about each other, how they were sharing the mother’s last days, how they wanted to capture their limited time together photographically, and how they were still celebrating life and love no matter how much tragedy had befallen them.

After they had finished I spoke to the photographer and asked if we could organise a private portrait sitting for the next day. I wanted to get my hair and makeup done properly, pick out a flattering outfit, and steel myself mentally for the process. I also wanted to be able to relax in front of the camera with my husband and without a crowd of onlookers. Plus I knew that I would probably cry at some point; not just about how I looked and how alien my body felt, but about everything that we had endured that year. I truly was emotionally overwhelmed at that point.

So we turned up the next day and had a private portrait session. I actually hated every second of it, and I did cry at the end, but I pushed myself through for two reasons….

– My husband and I had no portraits of ourselves as a couple, apart from our wedding photos, and I was seven months pregnant in those (it’s a long story). Our history together in pictorial form was completely missing.

– Our kids had no photos of us at all; we were both so pre-occupied with our physical inadequacies that we either avoided photos with the kids, cropped ourselves out of them, or deleted them. Had my husband died in the car accident that day, the kids and I wouldn’t have had a single photo of him that was younger than six years old.

So we had the portraits taken, and also had very mixed feelings when we received the proofs. I looked chubby in the face (and not how I see myself in my mind’s eye) but I was glad that my thunder thighs and upper arms were tastefully concealed. My hubby hated his face and we agreed to opt for black and white prints to help tone down the rosacea (in colour he looks like he fell asleep in a solarium wearing sunglasses). Out of 50-60 proofs we agreed on five that we felt were OK.

Those five prints cost a lot of money and when we got home we put them in a cupboard because I didn’t want them mounted publicly in my house. I wasn’t ready at that point to combat the shame of my diseased body.

I pulled the prints out the other day because I regularly think of the old lady with most of her face missing, and I wanted to remind myself of how far I’ve come in the last year after finally sorting out my health issues and transforming my life. The photos actually look more flattering than I remembered; this is partly because I went to a lot of trouble to select the most flattering proofs that made me look slimmer than I was, and also partly because I’m looking at things through different eyes now that I’ve learned that health conditions were the cause of my body blow-out.

Where once I looked at my obese body with shame, I now see it completely differently. I see it as the body of a warrior, someone whose spirit and determination are not tied to her outward appearance. In those pictures I see a woman who fought incredibly hard to hold her family together through tragedy, who battled the medical establishment and its belittling and ignorant attitudes to get real answers for herself and her family, and who kept getting back up each day and moving forward, no matter how much adversity life threw at her.

I think my eight year old son summed things up pretty well this week when he said “You know Mum, you look really different now that you’re skinny. But I actually didn’t ever notice that you were fat before. You were always my beautiful Mum.”