When I was in my fourth year of Medical school, my mother died.
Soon after I became a goth at the age of 23. My aunties whispered loudly it was a little old to be a goth, so I changed to gothic Lolita instead. I had always loved the Japanese style of dress and at this point, felt I had nothing to lose. It helped that I stopped eating unless absolutely necessary, thus reducing my dress size down to a stylish size 8, then an admirable size 6 and then a not-so-admirable size 4. The aunties could not call me an angst-ridden teenager when my skirts were so scandalously short, and my white blouses so revealing and long.
At the age of 24 years I buried my father too. I always knew he never wanted to live longer than his wife, and with all the love in his heart, had willed himself to die with her. My brother finally married his girlfriend after eight years of dating and procrastinating. Not being capable of being close to him since before we were teenagers, I was the obligatory usher at their wedding. The bride was exuberant, the groom tickled pink, and it was a joyful affair, aided with the copious amount of alcohol supplied. Soon after they relocated to Perth, where all our family members flee after awhile. At present count I have four separate family members, with their attached families, living in Perth whom rarely speaks to each other but for the dreaded and mercifully short Christmas phone calls.
When I turned 26 years old I had my first baby. I was unmarried and her father was a boyfriend who was still not yet ready to become an adult with responsibilities. Being familiar with this attitude and how to swindle it, I was happily granted frequent child care support payments and a gurgling baby who like to expel her stomach contents on my favourite armchair. I named her Jade after my mum.
Working from home was not an option for a young Obstetrician in training and raising a child, so I thus took an extended break from life. I then met my husband-to-be at the supermarket whilst wearing a vomit-stained old shirt and toddler-mussed hair. He was captivated by my beauty and felt obligated to take us out to dinner – or more likely, felt guilty for tripping over my little offspring, causing her to have a gargantuous tantrum right there and then. In a whirlwind romance that I had only read about in steamy over-the-top Harlequin novels, we were married six months later. His name was Jasper and he blessed me with a set of twin rambunctious boys before being diagnosed with pancreatic cancer like my mum and dying one year later.
Thus at the age of 31, I was a widow and sole carer of a curious 4-year old and a set of 1-year old boys with their father's eyes. I finally understood my father's deep and undeniable wish to die with his partner and grieved. Alone but for my three children, I grew older, wiser, and was finally allowed to die after I sat through each tearful wedding of my children at the age of 59.
In reality, when I was in my fourth year of Medical school, my mother was dying. And there was nothing I could do about it but dream and grieve.