ENDINGS

“We’re calling it a day.”

There was no emotion in her voice. Sarah had never been one for over-emotional scenes. But today it seemed even flatter. Not as though she was concealing something but more because I really believe she didn’t care.

“When did you decide that?” I asked cautiously, trying to figure out the most appropriate reaction.

In all honesty I didn’t want to hear it. I’d only just been married and didn’t want to hear about a divorce.

“Simon came over for the last week. We just agreed that it was for the best.” She paused, sighed. “It’s been a long time coming.”

I wanted to agree whole-heartedly with that but chose to remain silent. The pair had been living apart for some time and the end had been forcast by everyone but her. She had clung to the hope that coming home would make everything all right again.

That somehow landing on Australian soil would make Simon rational again.

When they’d gotten married Sarah and Simon had lived together quite happily. He had a high flying job and she was working herself towards a career in teaching.

But then they began to travel further and further apart. Simon’s job took him further and further away from home leaving Sarah behind to keep the household running smoothly without him. He’d turn up on weekends and then be gone as quickly as he came.

“So, now what?” it was all I could think to say. I didn’t want to say I was sorry, because I wasn’t. I didn’t want to advise her about what to do next. I didn’t want to tell her that everything was going to be all right because I didn’t know that it would be.

“Well, would it sound strange that I’m relieve,” suddenly he voice rose with enthusiasm. “I mean, it’s not like he was around very much any way and now I can finally start making plans for my own life. I’m going to get a job, find a school for the kids and find a place of my own.” She almost began to gush.

“What about, you know, love?”

There was silence and I wondered if I’d over stepped the boundary. That this question was a little out of place when consoling someone about an imminent divorce. But the pause wasn’t that long to make my concern grow any more than a momentary concern.

“I want to concentrate on me. I’m not giving up on love but I figure that when I’m who I want to be and where I want to be that it’ll turn up – like it did for you.”

Until this point the whole conversation had been weighing me down. I didn’t want to talk about divorce. I don’t even want to consider that one day Tom and I may go our separate ways. Right at this time that is the furthest thing from my mind. I couldn’t imagine a world without Tom in it.

I acknowledged the comment and wished her well. We’ll catch up soon and talk a little more about things. Then we hung up.

“So what’s going on in Sarah’s world?” Tom asked.

“Her and Simon are getting a divorce.”

Tom pulled his face into a grimace. “Bummer.”

“Yeah.”

Nothing more was said for a while. He continued pruning and I sat with my eyes closed against the sun. I could hear Tom’s boots shuffle towards my across the grass but didn’t move to acknowledge it. Then he planted a rough kiss on the top of my head.

:”Love you.” He said and I looked up at him with the biggest smile and tears in my eyes.

I know.

DONE WITH

“And?” Tom’s response once I finally vented about the anguish over my niece puzzled me.

“And what?”

“And what does it change?”

Um. I stopped. In all honesty, over the past two weeks my niece’s diagnosis was all I could think about but I hadn’t once stopped and asked myself this question.

“It means that all of her actions are now determined and dismissed. It means that she’s trapped because no one will ever expect her to be more than her condition.”

It sounded so feeble when I said it our loud.

“But she’s still who she is? Right? I mean does it mean she’s going to die young?”

“No”

“Does it mean she can’t have children?”

“No”

“Does it mean she will become deaf and mute?”

“No. But… But it means that they’ve explained away her uniqueness. They’ve labelled her and limited her and …” I paused, a little embarrassed that this is what’s really been on my mind. “What does that mean for me? I mean we’re identical in behaviour. Does it mean that I’ve got this syndrome too?”

I was floundering. The truth is after two weeks of running around in circles I had come to him for some answers. I rely on Tom to show me the alternative perspective, and he’s yet to fail.

“Well if it’s worrying you that much go through the testing, get yourself analysed and checked. But really, what will it change?”

I had to admit it and Tom knew it too. He stood there looking at me across the kitchen I had lapped in my frantic search for understanding.

“Nothing.”

Once upon a time a person with Aspergers was considered quirky. They would have been dismissed as having an artist’s temperament. They would have been called highly-strung.

Now she’s got Aspergers.

Maybe it’ll make people more accommodating to things they can’t understand. Maybe it’ll give them a handle to be crueller than they already are.

Nothing’s changed really, just the name.

I could use it as an excuse.

I could become one of those people who are content to give in to their beasts (“I can’t work I’ve got depression.” “I’m a single mother with two kids so I couldn’t possibly work”) and become a professional victim but then that wouldn’t be me.

Now I think about it, Aspergers isn’t me either. I honestly don’t think it’s her either. I believe that it’s just the trend of the moment.

But for the time being it’s making life easier for those around her and I have to accept it has its benefits.

With at least 80 years ahead of her I’m certain my niece, like me, will prove that people outgrow their labels no matter how genetically entrenched.

So that’s that done with. Time to move on.

WIRING

For the past few months they’ve been “testing” my niece.

They’ve poked and prodded and assessed her to find out what is “wrong”. She’s over-emotional, doesn’t seem to get on with other children very well and seems to get bored easily.

I was exactly the same in primary school. Once I mastered a skill I just couldn’t see the point of repeating it endlessly. I would read the designated books in a day and then face being lectured about not doing my work properly when in fact I had a better grasp on the books then the teachers themselves.

To me, once you achieved something it’s time to move on to something else and for my niece it is the same.

“I can already write the letter D,” My niece screams after abandoning her homework. “Why should I write it again and again?”

To me it’s incredibly logical. To me it makes complete sense. But to her teachers and parents they simply couldn’t understand why she was so stubborn.

As far as I was concerned she was displaying all the reactions of a normal, if highly intelligent, child who simply doesn’t like being caught in crowds.

There had to be a reason for her behaviour. Behaviour my sister-in-law and brother couldn’t relate to. They want so badly to give her everything she needs to be happy and healthy. So they took her to doctors, psychologists and had cat scans and intelligence tests (which shows she had an IQ in the top 25% for her age group).

Now I relate to my niece. I always have. I’ve watched her in a room and seen how the crowd bears down on her. I’d seen how she lashed out when overwhelmed and did everything she could to push away the people around her.

When she’s had a tantrum I can sit with her in her room and not have her lash out.

“So you’re a little overwhelmed huh?” I’d ask as I quietly slipped into the room. She’d nod, her eyes bleary from crying. “It’s just too much when everyone’s talking at once and no one’s listening. But is it ok if I just sit in here with you, I need a break too.”

And there we’d sit, not doing much. Talking lightly and tucking ourselves away from the overwhelming chatter of a family function.

After their months of research they have their answer and I’m faced with the real possibility that rather than being simply “different” to the people around me she is disabled.

What’s more disturbing about this is that now, when I’ve finally discovered my voice, I may not be the person I think I am.

Asperger’s Syndrome is a much nicer way to say it but the syndrome is actually a mild strain of autism. This diagnosis explains everything. It explains why I, and now my niece, see the world the way we do.

And I’m torn between accepting or rejecting it.

I’m wondering if having a name for the beast will make it easier or simply be an excuse for failure to battle against it. After all, if she has the syndrome then there’s nothing she can do about it? Right?

Right now the general consensus is that she has “limitations” and won’t be able to function “normally” but can still have a full and rich life.

My whole life I’ve struggled against the assumptions. The assumptions that I’m fat because I eat too much when in fact I eat very little and simply don’t exercise. The assumption that by talking with big words I think I’m smarter than everyone when in fact I feel like a moron most of the time. The assumption that because I don’t want to do something means I can’t.

And for the past two days I have grappled with the diagnosis. I’ve tried to understand what it means. I’ve wanted to kick and scream about the fact someone else is defining my niece (and by default me) because of a list of “symptoms” someone decided were an indication of disability rather than uniqueness.

My niece has been defined as having Asperger’s Syndrome. I may have it. But I don’t want to believe that we are “typical” and that we are so definable.

My niece and I are wired differently. Why are people so determined to label us because they can’t understand?

BOSWELL GETS MARRIED - PART III

Finally seeing Tom eased the anxiety. He smiled and squinted against the sun which was shinning in his face.

They’d been predicting rain which is every bride’s nightmare but despite two days of crappy weather Saturday was a glorious, clear sky. The sun heating up early in the morning and partly responsible for my happiness.

I paced myself down the garden isle, ever aware that the heels of my shoes were sinking into the soft ground.

We exchanged our vows without hesitation and slipped the gold bands onto each other’s finger before returning down the isle to Kiss You Till You Weep by Paul Gross.

It was all too quick. It ran all too smoothly. I came to one conclusion at this moment, while family members tugged at us for quick kisses of congratulation, this day was perfect.

As guests swanned around with cocktails in hand, Tom and I posed for photo after photo. We were then rushed into the venue and the official ceremony began.

Entrees were served. We had rolls of fish with a tomato dressing and chicken crepes with a creamy mushroom sauce. Then a pause while we mingled with the guests - although I can’t for the life of me remember what I said or who I spoke to.

Dinner. Lamb medallions with vegetables or a chicken breast with vegetables.

Then mingling again.

And then desert – a rich chocolate mousse or a piece of cake with ice cream on top and a caramel dressing.

Then a little more mingling. All the while, champagne in hand. The floorless staff floating in and out of the room unnoticed. Their ability to keep every glass full and to remove all the dirty plates without intruding on the day was nothing short of amazing.

Finally the time came for the speeches and while this entry is no more than dribble because the day was a blurr to me, I will do my best to transcribe these speeches in another entry. Particularly my father’s which was witty and sincere.

The venue then had a few surprises for us including a fountain of love which consisted of a tower of champagne goblets filled with dry ice which we poured water on to so soft, cold, clouds floated all around us.

And, you’ll love this, seven nights accommodation in Bali so that we can have a real honeymoon.

Then we danced. And this is a moment that I can’t seem to shake from my head. Tom, singing every word, to Ben Fold’s The Luckiest and staring deep into my eyes.

But pretty soon that was it. It was all over and we were taken away in a golden Jaguar to the Carlton at Parramatta.

But that’s a story for a more adult themed board. Suffice to say our honeymoon basket thrown together by my brother and sister-in-law and friends included a can of cream, chocolate spreads, strawberries, a dog collar and a plunger.

Paint your own pictures.

BOSWELL GETS MARRIED - PART II.

Arriving late to your wedding isn’t conspired. It just happens.

My father pulled up to my house at 9.45am (Tom and Mr 10 had left an hour before). The time we were supposed to leave. We were anything but ready.

I was a mess. Rushing and flustering. But it seemed as though everyone else around me was fine. They weren’t the slightest bit worried.

“Calm down,” Sister-in-law cornered me in the bedroom as I rummaged through my drawers trying to find a set of earring I had borrowed but which were alluding me in my panic. “He’s not going anywhere. He’ll wait until you arrive. Besides, you’re supposed to be late.”

“I don’t want to be late!” I pulled the earrings out from the drawer and unclipped my sleepers as quickly as possible. “We had this all planned. We should have been gone by now.” My voice strained by my anxiety.

Still my father, Ms 8 and Sister-in-law kept it together. My bridesmaids dressed themselves as quickly as possible while I fumbled with underwear and jewellery. And then the time came. Sister-in-law slipped the dress over my head and did up my shoes.

I felt, I’m a little embarrassed to say, like a princess. And I acted like a pretentious princess at that.

“In the car, in the car,” I bossed and everyone went to battle stations. As we drove I bossed my father, told him how to drive and basically made an ass of myself.

“We’ve got plenty of time,” he said in a calm measured tone.

“No we don’t. Look at the time, look at the time. It’s 9.58. We’re not going to make it and he’s going to get sick of waiting.”

And they had the hide to smile. Ms 8 remained calm and looked out the window but in the front seats my father and my sister-in-law had know-it-all grins across their faces. I figure now it’s a case of been there and done that for them and if it had been any other situation then they probably would have had a fair dose of the irrits with me. But they didn’t.

They were calm. I, on the other hand, was ready to jump out of the car and run to the venue in high heels and a wedding gown but I was packed in to tightly to move.

At 10.10am we pulled through the gates and drove in behind the bushes. Tom obscured by the greenery. All I wanted to do was run down that isle and grab onto him – tradition be damned.

But the swarm of people around me soothed my nerves and paced my stride.

Insert here the Theme from Men with Brooms. The song we had chosen as the most appropriate isle march.

Ms 8 went first and nearly ran down the isle – the venues manager harshly whispering “slow down” when she took her first steps.

Sister-in-law followed second, carrying our ring-bearer who decided he didn’t not only not want to walk but didn’t want a bar of the ring bear.

And then finally I came around the corner and began walking down the isle – green grass made all the greener by the rain the week before.

There Tom stood looking more hansom than any man on the globe.