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The Word ‘Can’t’ Is Not in My Vocabulary

Ready. Set. The sound of the starter’s gun. And we’re racing in the Little Athletics Cross Country competition.

All these years later, I can clearly see my 13-year-old self wearing my runners with the green stripes.

I remember shaking with cold on that freezing Melbourne winter morning. I remember the biting, cold wind and the sheer drudgery and effort of running.

I hated cross country.

I hated any sort of distance running.

I hated Little Aths, really.

I just wanted to please and impress my dad. Well, impress wasn’t really on the table. Just please. I was never going to impress. I was a hopeless runner.

Dad ran all his life, and ran across the globe wherever work took him. Dad was also a firm believer that anyone could do anything if they set their mind to it. “The word ‘can’t’ is not in my vocabulary,” he would tell us kids regularly.

When Dad mentioned the upcoming cross-country season at the dinner table, I was in. Straight away. No hesitation.

Without a pause, my competitive (and much more athletic) younger sister, Michelle, said she wanted in too.

“Great,” said Dad. “I know you’ll do well, Michelle.”

I looked up from eating my dinner. No one appeared to notice that Dad ignored me.

Anyway, back to that Saturday. The competition was at Jells Park. The track was hilly and windy. Perfect for cross country.

About three-quarters of the way through the race and most of the field, including Michelle, was already way out of my sight. I rounded a bend and I saw my sister on the ground. My first instinct was to run past her.

“Wouldn’t Dad be proud seeing me in front of Michelle?” I thought. I could just say that I was so focused on the race that I didn’t notice her. This was my golden opportunity to beat her.

I couldn’t do it, though. Guilt got the better of me, and I ran over to Michelle.

“What happened?” I panted.

“I tripped over the branch. I didn’t see it. Nothing really hurts, but my leg is stuck under the branch. And I’m freezing,” said Michelle, starting to cry.

I pulled the branch off Michelle and helped her up. She was OK but wet and covered in mud. She didn’t want to keep running.

“Come on,” I said. “The finish line isn’t far.”

Dad saw us coming around the last bend. I saw his quizzical look. As if to say, “Why are you girls running together? Why isn’t Michelle well out in front?”

“Michelle fell,” I called out to him. “She’s OK, though.”

We crossed the finish line. Dad came straight over to Michelle and said, “Never mind. You’ll do better next week.”

I knew that I wasn’t likely to do better next week, but I’d show up anyway.

The word ‘can’t’ was not in my vocabulary.

Still isn’t. All these years later.

~~

I’m Late

I’m twelve days late.

Too long for any more denial.

I need to know.

So I can decide what to do.

I drive to a chemist a couple of suburbs away (I don’t want to chat to my usual chemist nor run into any of the school mums).

I buy the test.

I skipped my period before.

I have been under a lot of stress. I cling to the hope that stress is keeping my period away.

I arrive home and dutifully wee on the stick.

I set my phone alarm for ten minutes.

Time never ticked by so slowly.

My mind never raced so fast.

The fact is that things have not been great between Ricky and me for months. Nine years of marriage, two young kids, and a crippling mortgage do their best work to snuff out romance. Even love. As for sex, well, that’s likely to be a five-minute ordeal to be endured every two weeks or so.

The fact is, I’m not sure I even like Ricky anymore.

I don’t actually know whether I like Me anymore. The Me that is frazzled all the time. Snippy. Exhausted. The Me that stares out from the mirror and doesn’t look like Me.

Where did the fresh-faced, sparkly-eyed, smiley young woman go? This woman in the mirror is greying at the temples. Peaky. Dull-eyed.

I check my phone.

Five minutes to go.

I distractedly twirl my hair.

Oh God, I just want this problem to disappear. And I don’t even know if it is a problem yet.

Well, I do know there is a problem regardless of whether I see a blue line or not. The problem is the work trip I went on a couple of weeks ago.

For three nights, I was ME again. No snoring husband, no annoying kids, no school lunches to prepare, no dinners to make, no clean up after, no endless piles of washing.

All I had to do was get myself ready and be wined and dined. I may have taken the ‘being wined’ part a bit too seriously. One thing led to another, and I ended up in Duncan’s bed.

I’m not proud of it, but I didn’t think I’d ever see Duncan again, so what did it matter? A one-night fling with a supplier who lives overseas, and that was that.

Well, so I thought. But I did spew a few times the next morning. That will happen when an infrequent drinker mixes wine and cocktails over a few hours.

I never gave any thought about whether the vomiting would affect the Pill.

Should have. But didn’t.

I could kick myself now, but I can’t rewind two weeks.

My phone alarm goes off. It’s the hour of reckoning.

I am almost too scared to look, but look I must.

And there it is – a distinct, blue line.

A permanent reminder of Duncan. Or of Ricky?

“Shit. Shit. Shit! What do I do now?”