MEN!

My rant for the day.

What is it with men? Why do men continue to make lousy choices about their mental and physical health? And why are they consumed by fear of appearing "unmanly" in front of their mates? I am so frustrated by these questions today. Hence this diatribe.

Here is the scenario. Michael continues to wrestle with The Bitch. He is back on the fags. I caught him, literally, with a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, two days ago. Furious. Have promised not to shout at him. So, I clipped him around the ear instead. Took custody of fags. Now doling them out to him one at a time. Again.

He also has a tooth abscess. Went to the dentist without me on Monday. Came home without antibiotics. Grumpy as buggery. So, I had to book a doctor's appointment yesterday to get him on antibiotics and convince him to take the day off. Now added antibiotics and painkillers to his drug regime.

We woke up late this morning. Michael was anxious because he'd agreed to meet one of his mates at the shops at 9 am to start working. He was going to leave without eating, drugs or patch. I told him to get stuffed and ring said mate. Idiot man had left his phone at home, so Michael couldn't contact him. Michael's anxiety skyrocketed, but I refused to let him out the door until I'd made sure he'd had food, drugs and nicotine patch. He was in such a bad mood that he broke open his fish oil capsule trying to get one of the packet. He left, still whinging.....

Gary, Michael's long time friend, who currently rents the tiny residence at the shops and is also working on the building's renovation, looks awful at the moment. Another long time smoker, he has lost weight and is drawn and gaunt. Apparently he is taking drugs for a chest infection, but they obviously aren't working. Michael talked to him yesterday about his health, going back to the doctor and looking after himself. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

I have had to take charge of Michael's health as he seems unable to fight for himself. I have told him I will do this until he chooses to do this himself. He says he wants to be with me and I sure as hell want him to stay alive and as well as possible. We've actually talked about death not being the worst outcome for him. What would be the worst outcome is debilitating illness, which would kill all the activities he loves,

I had a quick look at male suicide rates in Australia. The stats are dreadful. Twice as many men are killed by completing suicide than in car crashes. Why? What a bloody tragedy.

There is so much awareness out there about men's health. but are men reading these posts? Why do men persist in neglecting themselves? Why do men appear to see suicide as a viable option to living? When are men going to take charge of their lives, their well being and their long term health?

I believe there must be major change in how Australian men view themselves. And they need to take responsibility for their physical, emotional and social health. Am I dreaming or is this hope possible?

I would really welcome comments to this post, particularly from men out there. Please.

Adventures of a Computer Luddite

Before I start this post, let's get something straight. I am not a Luddite of the original meaning. I am not a nineteenth century textile artisan, nor do I smash or destroy machines. I'd probably hurt myself if I tried...

I am a computer Luddite in the contemporary sense. The main reason I persevere to become computer savvy is because I intend to blow the minds of my grandchildren when I reveal I am older than the Internet.

I was most distrustful of the new technology that reduced computers from the size of an entire room to a device that could sit on my desk. I was very unsure of actually owning one and trying to drive it.

I recall my first home computer in 1997. It was a boxy, unwieldy, dust gathering contraption that sat squat and self satisfied in my study. It took great delight in mysteriously deleting my agonisingly slow attempts to produce a document. Its screen would freeze at inopportune moments and resist my pathetic attempts to revive it. I became an expert at pressing The Button.

Its start up machinations produced interesting noises that I later discovered were entirely for the benefit of the dumb human operator. I regarded the computer with a mixture of frustration and wonder. When I could make it work, I was in love with it. When it inexplicably sent a document somewhere into cyberspace or shut down without warning or refused to upload a stupid piece of clip art from Microsoft Works, I would stomp out of my study and resist interacting with the smug example of advanced technology until my feelings of inadequacy had reduced somewhat.

I gradually became more proficient in using my computer. I graduated from complete dummy to Slightly Better. The more I played with the computer, the more my shaky confidence increased. I discovered I could actually make the bloody thing work. Sometimes. It even became my best buddy as I undertook my year of study. We still had a love/ hate relationship, but my growing understanding and knowledge made me more comfortable with The Thing.

In 2007, I received my first laptop, courtesy of the Sicilian Philanderer. I hesitated using it for months, worried that I would revert back to Complete Ignoramus. Surprisingly, I did not self destruct, Neither did my laptop. And I loved Microsoft XP. I hung onto XP as long as my laptop survived, such was my devotion.

Wine is not a computer's friend, particularly when poured over the keyboard. This was my lesson in 2013. I somehow salvaged my laptop but had to hook up an additional keyboard. If I used the laptop keyboard, it would start typing 44444444s or bbbbbbbbbs or other numbers or letters. Stopping this maniacal repetition became an ongoing hassle. Then it started typing random letters or numbers with no provocation, just to annoy me.

I bought my new laptop in April this year. I am now besotted with Windows 7. I had played with Michael's version prior to getting my own. Hence I was more familiar with the system. But don't get me wrong. There are times I still have to walk away in sheer frustration, such is my longing to headbutt the screen.

As for the Internet....our saviour? Or our nemesis? Probably both. This week I have had another lesson in the inconvenience and the insanity of conducting business online. I had booked a lightening trip to Queensland for my Dad's 90th birthday in a couple of weeks. All through Webjet. With Michael's latest hospitalisation, the trip became untenable.

When I pulled my finger out and actually started the cancelling process, it turned into a major hair pulling, eyes rolling, teeth gnashing hell, which took several hours to complete.

First off - cancel the flights. No problem I think. Have travel insurance. Flights will only give credit. Fair enough. Have to activate travel insurance to get refund. Travel insurance asks why I'm cancelling. Explain about Michael's hospitalisation. Now we have to get a letter from Michael's doctor, Scott Claxton saying Michael didn't deliberately intend going into hospital on 10th November. They'll consider my claim when they get Scott's letter and the claim form. Give me strength.

Next - cancel car hire. As I didn't cancel within 48 hours of booking, I lose 20% in fees. Explain with my tongue firmly in my cheek that Michael only became unwell 7 days after booking.Doesn't get me anywhere. And I will wait up to 10 business days to get the rest of the refund into my credit card. I won't hold my breath.

Finally - try to transfer my accommodation into my brother David's name. He has had a bit of a rough time lately. At 62, he has chronic leukemia and is supposed to avoid stress. Recently lost his job. Great for his stress. Has a mortgage. Also great for his stress. So, I decided that I could give him and his wife Kerin a bit of pampering as they are going to Dad's birthday. Rang Webjet through whom I'd booked the accommodation. They told me to ring accommodation direct. Accommodation told me to ring Orbitz, who actually organised the booking. Accommodation rang me back to give me Orbitz's contact number. Orbitz put me through to Webjet customer service in...wait for it...the US. Webjet in the US told me to ring Webjet in Australia ...again. Feeling a tad disagreeable by this time, I explained my tale of woe. Webjet operative had to check. Rang me back. After numerous phone calls, my three days of accommodation were finally transferred to David's name. Oh, made another phone call to accommodation just to check...

All sorted. Except the process took every bit of my patience and tact, And could not be completed online!

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I am a computer Luddite.

On Friendship

Friendship reminds me of the ocean. It ebbs and flows, according to the moon and the tides. It can be calm and relaxed and enticing. Or it can rip our feet out from underneath us or worse, dump us unceremoniously upside down, until we're gasping for breath and wondering what the hell happened.

I have to admit that I am anxious and sensitive about friendship.As a lonely and awkward child, I spent a lot of time in my own company. Friendships could be  fleeting, fragile and fraught with danger. At 12, I lost my best friend, my brother Michael, when he surrendered to the relentless grasp of drug abuse, I think that's why I married so young. I yearned for a friend.

Needless to say, marriage wasn't enough to sustain me. I made friends tentatively and seemed to lose them to distance or the drift that often happens in relationships My then husband didn't help. He was jealous of all other influences in my life, including our children.

Then miraculously, as I grew older (and hopefully a bit wiser), true friendships became easier to find and establish and grow. This accelerated with the end of my marriage. My house was filled with laughter and noise and love and belonging. Everything I'd always wanted.

I began concentrating on giving friends space. I practised letting any perceived barbs wash over me and then back and away. I remember a hilarious episode; a close girlfriend coming to my door, apologising wholeheartedly for her behaviour about three months previously. My response was -"that's OK. I just thought you were having a bad day!"

And I am very lucky that the light of my life, Michael, is my husband, lover and best friend. And I have maintained other close friendships over time and distance. They are the Beverley Blossoms, the Lush sisters and the Bolshy Divas. As well as making new, eclectic interesting friendships now in Heavenly Beverley.

Which is why losing a friendship, now,  has come as a terrible shock. The speed and intensity of  this relationship's disintegration has confounded us both. Because Michael shared the friendship with me. We thought we knew our friend, but apparently we didn't. An unexpected spat escalated into open warfare. And this happened on my watch, under our roof.

I have been devastated, particularly by the aftermath. I have had to choose the many over the one. Because this breakdown didn't just affect me. A whole group has been left burnt by the fallout. So what could I do? Support the one (who alienated the others) or support the rest of us left damaged and wounded. I have tried to do both since the episode of disaster that triggered the end.

And of course, I can't be successful. The one is defiant, absorbed and resistant to any suggestion that doesn't agree with her comprehension. She is like an injured beast who stepped into a maelstrom of her own creation and is now out for recompense. Which I can't support. So the friendship is currently and completely lost.

Can this relationship be repaired? Anything is possible. Time will tell. And even is that does happen, I will be wary. Once bitten, twice shy.

And in the meantime, I have my other friendships to sustain me, to support me, that carry on, both in spite of and because of, the chaos of this breakdown. And I have Michael, who has just found me, in the patient lounge of the hospital, and enveloped me with a loving embrace that has renewed my optimism for us, for my other friendships and for our lives.

Best of all, we're going home to the House that Rocks in Heavenly Beverley!

Friendships - November 2014.

Another Round with The Bitch.

She's always there, lurking in the shadows, whispering in Michael's ear. She waits for any opportunity to reassert herself, jostling for position, ready to pounce. And cause havoc to Michael's fragile health.

He's had a very energetic and very stressful few months. Renovating the Forbes Building is like being in Ginger Megg's billycart. It's the ride of his life, often making decisions quickly or taking a punt that a restoration idea will work. Which causes his anxiety to skyrocket.

And he's creating miracles with our meagre financial resources. Gary is assisting him for two reasons. As an old friend, he knows Michael's brain and is reasonably innovative in his own right. And we can't afford to pay much.

Gary smokes like a chimney, in the building, out of the building, leaving the lethal trail lingering around Michael's nostrils. Michael, a 40 year smoker, finds this very difficult, but hates rocking the boat. At present, he can't risk losing his offsider.

Michael is on a cocktail of drugs, all of them having side effects. He was having hot flushes and persistent tachycardia, which we eventually traced to his anxiety meds. A beta blocker fixed the pulse, but reducing the anxiety meds was a disaster. As his anxiety rose, he began pinching fags from Gary. And sucking in any second hand smoke. And then the ultimate lunacy - he bought the first packet of cigarettes. Which the local IGA was happy to sell him.

He was trying to limit himself and failing miserably. The wheezing started, so we added twice daily ventolin to his regime. Then four hourly. then more frequently, particularly at night.

In the leadup to the Beverley Blossoms weekend, he was coughing at night as well. His oxygen sats were dropping, not a lot, but cause for concern. He was cutting down his work effort at the shops, because he was becoming shattered. The girls' break was actually a blessing because he was home more than away and I could monitor him.

The last night at home was awful. He was starting to cough up stuff out of his infected chest. I woke at five and decided to get up, water and clean up more of the chaos still left from the weekend. I rang Scott Claxton's rooms at eight, then again just after nine. And unbelievably, his staff found an appointment for us.

I woke Michael and flew around like a whirling dervish, packing, organising, leaving keys with our neighbours, emptying the stinking scraps bucket for next door's chooks, placating the dogs. I was pretty sure Michael would be admitted, so we needed to bring enough gear for the duration.

We arrived at Scott's rooms at 1pm. He examined Michael and we talked about our options. A chest infection, probably bronchitis, was exacerbating his emphysema. Oral or IV antibiotics? Given his previous history, we chose the latter. Michael was admitted at 3pm last Monday.

We felt a bit like frauds the first night. Michael's symptoms lessened and we wondered if we could go home after all. But the Bitch was just warming up. The next three nights were action packed, filled with breathlessness, sweating and panic (from both of us). He could breathe in, but he couldn't breathe out. He sounded like a freight train. Oxygen and saline nebulisers were started. Then salbutamol (ventolin) nebs. Scott was musing about the possibility that Michael had asthma on top of the bronchitis and emphysema. Prednisone and a Symbicort turbohaler were added to the mix.

And we moved wards, back to H4, the dedicated acute medical ward we'd been in April. The staff knew Michael, knew me, knew his health status. Suddenly I felt like I could actually go to sleep because I had additional support. And Michael stopped getting worse.

We've been here almost a week. He is exhausted, but better. The wheezing has stopped, the coughing reduced dramatically and the breathlessness much improved, thanks to the nebs. He sleeps after breakfast, to give him any extra boost to get through the rest of the day. Now he's getting bored as well. Thankfully, with his computer, he is researching our next Goldfields trip, which helps pass the time and keeps his brain occupied.

Scott and his team have been superb as ever. We have landed on our feet to have Scott Claxton as Michael's specialist. And there are new kids on the block with him - feisty, go get them Kate, quiet, reassuring, pregnant Megan and softly spoken Brittany (as least I think that's her name). Yesterday, they didn't come in for the first time. As it was Saturday, I think they'd all earned a break.

Scott wanted Michael upright as soon as possible, to help clear his lungs. So on Thursday, I drove him down to Lake Joondalup, so we could go for a short stroll. It was a cool, breezy day but Michael's face brightened as we took a path into the banksia and paperbark scrub. Fifteen minutes was about his limit, but it made his day. We took selfies on the jetty.

Vanessa's been to see him and has roared up to Beverley to save the day, the dogs and the garden. The cat is studiously avoiding Vanessa, much to her amusement. Ruby will regain her good humour when her lover returns from hospital.

Callum and Bron have been twice and Alex announced his presence in his inimitable style and introduced Pasquale, his support worker, a lovely bloke from Mauritius. Michael's mum, dad, his sister Sandra and his brother Darryl all came en mass. And Judy couldn't resist. She argued with Scott about her belief that evaporative air conditioners cause bronchitis. Michael was quietly smug. I'll apologise to Scott when we see him next.

Tracey, my oldest friend from Marangaroo days, came in on Friday evening, kicked off her shoes, ate chocolate and icecream and curled up on my one person sofa bed. We had a riot of non stop talking and laughter with her for a couple of hours. I only threw her out because I was dead on my feet.

Sian and Bruce will be in this morning. We haven't caught up for a while, so really looking forward to seeing them. She has been my friend for over twenty years and we just seem to be able to pick up from where we left off. And arrange to have them up to the House that Rocks. Friends like that are priceless.

I'm starting to think about discharge. Michael knows he can't smoke. But he knew that in April as well. As memories fade, the Bitch will attempt to return, like Voldemort. I asked Scott what I could do to try and keep Michael on the straight and narrow. His response - "keep a copy of his original CT to show him". And I'll need to remind him of the fear we both experienced during those very long, very scary three nights. And reminisce  about swabs in embarrassing places! Hopefully, all of those memories will do the trick. This time.

At Lake Joondalup 13 November 2014.

A Well Deserved Break for some Beverley Blossoms

I have a very eclectic group of friends, some of whom are caring for family members who have disabilities or chronic illness. One of my newer friends is "lucky enough" to have a disability herself, on top of providing support for a couple of her children.

Being a carer can be utterly exhausting. There are times that are pretty cruisy and then several crises will descend on us, usually all at once. I liken it to putting out spot fires; I resolve one issue and then another and another and another. And so on.

Most of these women I have known for ten or fifteen years. We have laughed and cried and shared together. A lifeline for us all has been taking a break a couple of times a year. We really don't need to be trained or educated or counselled. Most of us have had a gutfull of that. What we need is to recharge our batteries, rejuvenate body and soul and relax together in an emotionally safe place.

As for me, I've had a rollercoaster of a year. Michael's illness and recovery dominated several months. In addition to my care of him and our children, I had gone into battle with the Australian Health Professional Regulation Agency and the insurance company for the WA Education Department. The matter with the Education Department has been finalised. The other is still ongoing after seven months.

Due to a familiar respite option becoming unavailable, we took the bit between our teeth to create our own break. Slowly, the Beverley Blossoms were born. Brenda and I e-mailed, phoned and met to plan for a weekend in Beverley. The number of women had to be limited because of pressures of sleeping and toilet facilities. We could only invite non smokers due to Michael's ongoing respiratory issues. We wanted to have women who knew each other and would be comfortable with each other without any angst.

I organised a visit from a representative of  MIFWA (Mental Illness fellowship of WA) for an interactive session, a close friend providing massage, a new friend giving us laying on of hands, two morning teas at the Red Vault Cafe and dinner at the Freemasons Tavern. We traipsed through the renovations at the shops and dropped into the East End Studio, Secrets, Stickybeaks and Lucky Find, all businesses on our main street in Heavenly Beverley.

And we talked and hugged and cried and laughed and played. We ate and drank all weekend. Bed arrangements were chaotic and hilarious. Two gazebos in the back yard, all well as our study and guest room were all filled at night. The toilet received some first aid on Saturday and performed admirably for the rest of the weekend.

Sunday was very hot, so massage tables were hastily moved into our air conditioned house. With nine extra bodies, the House that Rocks was jammed to the gunnels. Tolerance and good humour were essential for the success of the day. We were all happy to oblige.

Michael became an honorary lady for the weekend. Denese, masseur extraordinaire, had to bring her seven year old energetic dynamo, Caleb, on Sunday. He was cheerful and well behaved and enjoyed morning tea at the cafe along with the rest of us.

The Three Stooges were reunited with old friends and made new ones, all of whom showered them with cuddles and attention. The cat left in a huff and retired to Somewhere Else for the duration of the weekend. She returned on Sunday evening in a dignified and disapproving manner.

We all had a blast. The weekend had the potential to go pear shaped if  the Blossoms had not jelled so well. But we did. And we reinvigorated a long standing mantra that added to the break's success - make no judgements, make no comparisons, delete the need for understanding.

Roll on the next Beverley Blossoms Break.

Sunday Morning Tea @ the Red Vault Cafe, Heavenly Beverley.

9 November 2014

Wild Women of the West.

Today, I attended the fourth annual seminar of "Wild Women of the West". It was my first time and I was nervous. I hadn't hooked up with another woman and was unaware which table I was assigned. Arriving at just after 8.30 am, I checked for my name on the notice board. My heart sank, somewhat. I had been placed on a table with two women with whom I was not not enamored. Having explained my unease to two of the organisers, I was moved to a table with women I knew and liked. I met a lass, new in town and we clicked immediately. Bit squishy but I was much more comfortable.

There were stalls of clothing, shoes, beauty products, African condiments, Tupperware, a Cancer Council stand and giftware. There were a lot of women. The guests were Sara Macliver (a professional singer) Jen Atkins ( a "life coach"), Tomas Ford ( a cabaret artist) and Patti Chong ( a prominent lawyer). The marvellous Marlene Willson was MC. In between the guests' appearances were morning tea and lunch, with plenty of opportunity for browsing the stalls.

An interesting mix. Personally, I really enjoyed listening to Sara Macliver and watching and listening to Tom Ford. Sara talked about her life, her singing, her family and her struggle with anxiety and panic attacks. Tom was a one man tour de force, a singing, fast mover and shaker. He pushed the boundaries - too far for quite a few of the women - but watching his energy, his bravery and his showmanship, I was left feeling unafraid in my own personal journey of creating our story.

Jen Atkins was an advertisement for herself and her books, CDs and workshops. I was not very impressed. Patti Chong gravitated from being rivetting to slow. Perhaps as she was a last minute replacement as a keynote speaker, she was unsure and hesitant with her speech. I was prepared to give her the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps, the organisers could have  left the keynote speaker's spot absent for this time and just explained that there had been a cancellation at the last minute.

All in all, I had a really enjoyable day. The "Wild Women of the West" seminar is a fabulous community effort for a town the size of Heavenly Beverley. I am undecided as to whether I'll go next year. But I still think it's a fantastic opportunity for women in the wheatbelt to get together, talk, laugh and share their experiences. Long live "Wild Women of the West"!

Sara Macliver

The awesome stall holders

Organisers - Amor, Marlene and Sam

"Wild Women of the West" display

happy customers, such as Lou

more happy participants

Jen Atkins

The delectable Tom Ford 

Patti Chong - lively lawyer pretty in pink!

About a Boy.

Callum is twenty five, the elder of my two surviving sons. He is also clever (very), competitive (sigh), courageous, compassionate (sometimes surprisingly), combative (infuriatingly), and uber cool (I can say that - I'm his mother!).

 My pregnancy with him (my fifth) was a topsy turvy ride of joy and terror. After three babies dying in a row, I did a lot of praying. And poking. And panicking.

My obstetrician, who had dragged me kicking and screaming through the pregnancy, helpfully went on leave towards the end. We had arranged a date to meet at the delivery table in another two weeks. Almost as soon as he left, question marks were being raised about the viability of the baby in utero. My obstetrician's partner, confronted with the enormity of my file, asked me what I wanted to do. As 14 April 1989 was a Friday, and most of my obstetric adventures had occurred on weekends and holidays, my answer was unequivocal. "I don't think I would survive another pregnancy loss" were my exact words. His answer was just as straightforward. "Fine. We'll deliver you tonight".

Callum was born a perfectionist. This eternal truth became evident from very early on. From the moment he was pulled out into the world, roaring with indignation, he would refuse to do any learnt skill until he could do it just right.

He was born at 6.33pm. The first night was a battle. Callum had hyaline membrane disease due to prematurity. Noel French, his wonderful neonatologist, worked all night to try and keep him oxygenated and with me at the private hospital, instead of being transferred to the Level 3 nursery at the Women's hospital. If Callum had needed to be ventilated, he would have been moved. Through sheer will, Noel manged to stabilise Callum in a "head box". Awake at 3 o'clock, I was loaded into a wheelchair to see and touch my baby. Noel was still there. And he was back, checking Callum, later in the morning. I will never forget Noel's care and his skill.

So Callum learnt to breathe on his own. Then he learnt to breast feed, a slow laborious process.We came home after two weeks to his delighted sister. I finally had succeeded in having another pink, round, living little human being.

He was such a beautiful baby. He would smile with his whole body when I went to fetch him out of his cot. He was only grisly in the evenings, when he would feed almost non stop. I actually believe he was watching and learning all the time. And he was a giant sticky beak.

He helped me relax and really enjoy the experience. I stopped clock watching and if he cried, I held him and fed him. We took him everywhere. With his wispy blonde hair and super long eyelashes around his glorious hazel eyes, I was always being complemented. I glowed.

He was only unwell twice in his first year. He scared the hell out of me both times. Once was when he was only five weeks old when a heavy respiratory virus. The second time was more serious. He developed cellulitis in his eye socket. He was very sick and we were admitted to the children's hospital. Cracks had already started to appear in my relationship with my husband. He demanded my presence at home whilst Callum was in hospital. After five days, Callum had recovered and I was exhausted. He eventually walked unassisted at seventeen months after nine months of walking around furniture.

Alex was born just before Callum turned two. Callum amazingly took to his additional sibling with characteristic good humour.  In the years that followed, he became the glue that held our family together. He was very social and loved daycare. That was a relief as he was dumped there regularly during Alex's frequent hospitalisations. He toilet trained himself in a day when he was three and a half. He just decided himself the time had come to use the toilet.

He started preprimary with enthusiasm and sailed into Year 1. He enjoyed the early years of primary school immensely. He coped with Alex's endless therapy sessions and Vanessa's eccentricities. To him, there were just everyday occurrences. Only once did he question my love and commitment to him.

He handled the adversity of upper primary and high school with perseverance and bravery. He was becoming very academic, an unwritten no no for boys, so it seemed. He was mercilessly bullied over a number of years. I lost count of the number of times I complained to the schools. They seemed powerless to help him and I was furious with a system that failed him.

With his ongoing social difficulties, he started counselling with a gentle, softly spoken, giant psychologist, Martin Exell. I was concerned about autism in the family. Martin tested him. Autism - no. ADHD - almost for sure. IQ - huge. Medication - definitely not. Martin was not in favour of medicating Callum, as he was concerned that would slow down the speed of Callum's thought processes. Instead, he taught him chess, offered himself as a role model and gave him as many strategies as possible to survive.

Two activities became his escape from the relentless bullying. He attended karate with a switched on set of instructors who worked hard with him on self discipline. He also won a year's scholarship to a ballroom dancing studio. He discovered he absolutely loved dancing. I would drive him every Saturday to his classes. Dancing would give him a sense of worth, a second family and  passion, which helped to use his vast reserves of energy.

High school continued to be a nightmare for Callum. In Year 10, the private school he attended, admitted they had a serious bullying problem in that year and had no idea how to tackle the issue. I was gobsmacked. I had been thinking of trying another school for Callum, so I went to Martin for advice. He responded "When I was a young psychologist and knew very little, I would have said you can't get away from your problems. Now I'm older, wiser and have children, five years is a very long time to be unhappy. Move Callum".

So so he went to a smaller public high school. The move wasn't perfect, but better. He started enjoying life again. He had to make a choice between karate and dancing in Year 11. He chose dancing. By this time, my marriage had broken down and I had made the decision to move to Queensland. Callum chose to stay with his father. I crossed my fingers, as the children's father was volatile and unpredictable, particularly as they were growing up and forming their own opinions.

The Queensland experience unravelled almost immediately. And the inevitable happened to Callum - his Dad became unreasonable and aggressive. When I returned to Perth, his father refused to let Callum come and live with me again. We bided our time. Three months later, he tossed Callum's possessions onto my front verge and drove away. Callum returned to live with me.

Callum graduated Year 12 and started primary teaching at uni. He had finally found his niche. Between dancing and uni, he turned back into the social being that he'd been as a young child. He thrived on dancing competitions and he and his partner generally placed well. He'd  had a few girlfriends in the mix. Some of the relationships fizzled out and one ended badly, causing him a degree of guilt and distress.

He became a contradiction at home. At times he was happy, content, helpful and charming. At other times, he was cranky, miserable and a king size pain. I began to realise that life was too good, too easy for him at home. I had been a tough mother, but he knew how to work me to his advantage.

There was open hostility in the house between my three children. I was constantly negotiating truces that never held. I'd fallen with love with Michael. He was also living in my home. I'd had enough. I announced to my children that the house was on the market, Michael and I were moving to the country and they weren't coming.

The boys returned to their Dad's house, who was delighted that he was removing them from my evil influence. Their stay was not a success and quickly degenerated into another disaster. Fortunately, by this time, Callum had met a gorgeous, strawberry blonde, firecracker of a young woman. Bronwyn refused to put up with any of Callum's rubbish and frequently brought him back to earth.

We helped Callum move into a share house. Alex entered into the first of two unfortunate boarding houses. Callum continued to juggle Bronwyn, uni, dancing and part time work at a cafe in the Hillarys tourist precinct. They broke up for five minutes and Callum was inconsolable. We received an unexpected phone call from him after midnight which Michael immediately passed to me. They swiftly reconciled, much to our relief.

Callum and Alex moved in together into a suburban unit eighteen months ago. It suited both of them - central, quiet, close to transport and facilities.Callum became Alex's unofficial carer, giving me additional time and energy to chase other issues.

Callum finished university in November 2012. He worked as a support and relief teacher for a year, whilst still dancing and being upgraded to manager status at the cafe. He thought he's hit the jackpot with a 12 month contract as a full time pre primary teacher at the beginning of this year. He and Bron started planning for their own home.

His teaching position turned very sour. Sixty percent of his students came from homes where English wasn't their language of origin. He had one student with severe language and behavioural issues, and he was asking for assistance for this child from the first week. He had other students who had never been away from their homes and mothers.

He was working fourteen and fifteen hour days. Teaching, preparing resources, studying, gathering information. His life was unravelling. Dancing, his only escape, went out the window. Then on the final day of term 1, the principal came to see him, verbally telling him his teaching was substandard and he either needed to resign his position or came back on probation.

He was devastated. He fell to pieces. I galvanised support for him through a good friend, a pre primary specialist and the union. The principal had used similar tactics in the past. Callum decided he didn't have the emotional strength for a protracted fight, even with union support.

He resigned from his position, went on holiday and returned to relief teaching, cafe managing and dancing. His mental turmoil passed. He was working three jobs but he was happy. He and Bron began building their house. Their lives were back on track.

Callum is still undecided about returning to full time teaching. His first experience was so awful and very stressful. He is continuing relief teaching and enjoying it again. Dance teaching will be and running up again with school graduations looming. He is picking up plenty of shifts at the cafe.

He is a wonderful son and I adore him. He asks me for advice when he needs help and usually follows my suggestions. He is also self opinionated, prone to irritability, can be pompous and is quick to open his mouth to take one foot out whilst putting the other one in!

He and Bron drove in yesterday morning in his little blue Mazda hatchback and spent the night here. I do miss them both and love their visits. They are currently going through the stressful process of building their home. I reminded them that building a house is similar to changing careers or dealing with a death! I am sure they will emerge from this challenge relatively unscathed and with their first home together. I have promised Bron that if he upsets her too badly with his tendency to be a motormouth, I will cheerfully beat him to a pulp for her. And he knows it.

ECU student

At the Great Western Competition with dance partner Francesca

my three men

Callum and Bronwyn in the kitchen of their home