She Said She Said: Love, Loss, & Living My New Normal

By ANNE M REID

"My husband wanted to be a girl!"

Anne M Reid had the perfect life with her perfect partner. She and Paul had been together for 12 years, married with three beautiful children, when one night, without warning, Paul admits to a life-long feeling of disconnection with his body, only recently understanding why: as a young child, he had wanted to be a girl. The book explores the anguish Anne feels as Paul begins transitioning to Paula, and all the confusion, bewilderment and social stigma surrounding a gender transition.

Paula not only crosses the gender divide, but now has different likes and dislikes, and a different take on the world. The husband Anne knew disappears from the world. How does she cope? How does she manage what is now a same sex relationship? How do the children adapt to two mothers?

As Paula expresses disdain for any photographs or reminders of her earlier times as a male, Anne begins to wonder if her marriage has been some elaborate lie. Even happy times in the past are now tinged with sadness. Yet Anne also manages compassion and understanding. Despite all the fallout, Anne and Paula remain together. And there's humour, for example, when the kids are deciding what to call the new 'Paula'.

This book is written from the unique perspective of a partner of a transitioning person. It's a matter-of-fact, day-to-day account of what really goes on in a transitioning household. And it's told by an author who is comfortable with describing her deepest emotions, fears and anxiety. You befriend the author at an intimate,emotional level.

Paula has penned some chapters to explain her desperate need to transition, and the process that takes place from her perspective. 

At times this is an incredibly emotional book. Anne lets fly with feelings of anger, betrayal, sadness, despair and loneliness. For Anne, writing She Said, She Said is a cathartic exercise. It helps her keep sane in the face of massive change she never anticipates.

The book includes a section on the phenomenon of gender dysphoria and transitioning which Anne researched to enhance her own understanding. She Said, She Said offers unique insights not only to those who find themselves wearing Anne's shoes, but to anyone curious about gender dysphoria and its impact on a family.

• Language: English
• Publisher: A Sense of Place Publishing
• Release date: Apr 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780994479174

Book preview

She Said

She Said

loss, love, & living my new normal

Anne M Reid

For Hazel.

Prologue

June 2015. It had taken me some time to meet the man I would marry and have children with. I was thirty-five when I finally met Paul. I had to suffer through a few relationships, have my heart broken a couple of times, and turn down several marriage proposals.

I was beginning to think that my only option to have a child was with one of several gay friends who longed to become parents themselves. But I figured this would be fraught with potential logistical and emotional difficulties.

I was so happy to meet Paul. He offered me solace. He was truly a soulmate. He supported me in everything I was ever interested in. Every lamebrained notion and crazy idea. Paul was firm when I needed firmness. Kind when I needed kindness. Compassionate, empathetic and loving. Of course, Paul was a total geek, and with him I welcomed technology into my life—and a slew of Apple products. He followed his own interests with a passion, a zeal, and could become obsessive. I had always said I wanted a life partner who would love me for being me. Someone who would adore me. Paul adored me. He loved me passionately, tenderly and wasn’t afraid to let anyone know of his love and devotion.

Previous partners had been preoccupied with the length of my hair, or my skirts, or how I presented myself. One was really uncomfortable expressing love or affection in front of others or in public. Paul wanted me to feel the best about myself, so he would offer honest opinions when asked, or constructive criticism, but never in a judgmental or selfish way.

Paul looked after himself. He was fit. He ate well and, like me, was not afraid of any foods. Paul swam daily and worked with a personal trainer. He worked hard at his job, but was not a workaholic. He was very good at making me leave work at the end of my work day. Life with Paul was really well balanced.

But after 12 years together, married and being the parents of three beautiful children, we had a late-night conversation in which Paul removed the chocks from under the wheels of the roller coaster that was to become my life. Unbeknownst to me, the roller coaster had been sitting at its apex. Now it was in rapid free fall and out of control. I didn’t know if it was safer or more comfortable to sit in the car and weather the rapid twists and turns and g-force momentum or be thrown out and crash smack bang against hard and fast reality.

First came the mind-boggling term gender dysphoria. I had no idea what this meant. But it didn’t sound good. Then the revelation that as a young child Paul wanted to be a girl. What? Huh? How? The more I felt I was in free fall, the faster the revelations came out. Secretly dressing in his mother’s clothes. The feeling of total disconnection with his body. The attempt to castrate himself. The fear of being found out. The absolute heartache when testosterone took hold of his body during puberty. The ostracism for being somehow ‘different’. The suicide attempt. What? Stop! This was too much. Then the locking and shutting away of everything that felt natural and normal. Trapped within the dark recesses of the mind. Not fed. Not indulged. Not acknowledged. A sadness bottled up and hidden far, far away. Secured and forgotten—only to be uncapped decades later. And now. Out it all flowed, engulfing me in a torpor. Then a trigger to a whole range of emotions, many of which were new or unfamiliar to me. Tears flowed. Incomprehension welled.

Not for a split second had I ever contemplated the prospect, not even a glimmer of an idea. I was blindsided, hurt and betrayed. Not only had the life I had lived to this point unexpectedly become shaky, but the structure of the past twelve years suddenly seemed to have been unknowingly fortified on quicksand, with cracks appearing in every direction, bending, shaking, transforming into a shape, a shell I had neither envisaged, wanted nor even perceived as being possible. This sort of thing happens to other families. This roller coaster was heading straight towards Trans Land.

My husband wanted to be a girl?

I did not see this coming.

Anne M Reid

Part 1.

Early Years

Meeting Paul

February 2003. Brisbane, Australia. She placed down the fourth card.

‘Hmm. That is the Creation card.’

I had no idea what she was talking about. This was my first, and only, tarot card reading. Having a fortune-teller at Tania’s hens’ night (bachelorette party) was organised by one of the bridesmaids as a bit of a laugh. The fortune-teller then explained the meaning of the four cards.

‘You will meet your soulmate. You will have lots of travel. You will have a change at work. And the Creation card—well, that can mean a baby.’

As a single mid-thirties sort of career girl with a serious relationship breakup that had taken years to recover from, one recent and horrible internet dating experience, and no romantic prospects on the horizon, this did make me laugh.

She went on to explain several things to me. ‘Take some risks in your life. Don’t be so fussy about those you choose. Don’t measure romantic prospects by a list.’

I did have a mental list of prospective partner qualities: tall, darkish, slim-to-athletic build, smart but not cocky, intelligent but not a nerd, great sense of humour, successful but not arrogant, kind but firm, flexible but not flaky, family-orientated, never been married but not commitment-shy. Of course, Mum always told my sister and I never to get involved with a Catholic or a redhead (both of which we had managed to accomplish). This man would be quite the catch. If, of course, there was any possibility he ever existed. In the entire history of mankind!

After drinks, dinner and revelry, we ended up at The Caxton Hotel in Petrie Terrace, Brisbane. Despite being very close to my home, this was not a pub I typically went to. It wasn’t really my scene, except for the occasional early dinner, before the rowdy crowd appeared. The most notable dinner I’d attended here was an eat-athon challenge between two work colleagues who boasted they could out-eat one another. It was not the prettiest sight.

During the evening, the groom’s bucks’ party joined us at the Caxton. We did have fun, and lots of dancing—the kind where you imagine you look really good, with graceful twirls and well-timed manoeuvres but in reality look more like a squid having electro-shock therapy. Of course, we were in need of refreshment, so I left the dance floor to those with obviously far less expertise, and sauntered to the bar, where my friend Jacque was talking with a man.

After some time, she turned to me and explained to him, ‘Well, I actually do have a boyfriend. But here, meet Anne. Anne, this is Paul. Paul is from Chinchilla and knows Gina.’

Gina was a former colleague of Jacque’s and mine—often teased for her prowess at spitting watermelon seeds. (Chinchilla, a four-hour drive west of Brisbane, is the watermelon capital of Australia, and considered a little outback.) With a common topic, we had something to chat about. A little while later, Paul confessed that this was his first visit to the Caxton. He had been curious about it and dropped in on his way past after dinner with a friend. He was tired, as he’d recently returned from a work trip to the US, and said he’d be heading home but would I like to meet up again, for a coffee, sometime soon? I’d usually politely decline such invitations but, remembering what the fortune-teller had told me earlier, I decided to take a ‘risk’ and give Paul my business card. (After all, with a common connection—he wasn’t entirely a stranger—I figured he would be traceable in the event of some axe-murdering outcome.)

I was at work on Monday when he called. ‘Hi. This is Paul. We met Saturday night. Now I know how things can be on a Saturday night, or change in the meantime … but if you are still interested, I’d like to meet up for coffee.’

This, to me, included the perfect opt-out clause, and did not in any way resemble the in-for-the-kill-never-give-up-until-she-agrees-to-go-out-with-you tactic that I had encountered in the past. For some reason, my social calendar was very full that week: Friday had been a leaving party for a colleague, followed by a goldfish racing party, Saturday was the bachelorette/fortune-told party, Sunday recovery day, Monday I had a function to attend at Brisbane’s Parliament House, Tuesday was film night with girlfriends, Thursday I was meeting a friend up from Melbourne, so I agreed to see Paul on Wednesday, in the city, after work.

We met in Queen Street Mall in broad daylight. I was able to see him without the nightclub haze or beer goggles I had probably been wearing at the Caxton. He was shorter and stockier than I remembered. Not much taller than me. As I am five foot eight, I was at a loss as to why I never seemed to meet tall men. Was that the preserve of really short women? My parents had a height difference of one foot. I reminded myself that ‘tall’ did not actually equate to ‘nice person with one’s best interests at heart’—a mistake I’d made with my disastrous internet connection.

Paul obviously worked out. He was very muscular. He was blue-eyed, pleasant looking, blondish, with a very short haircut. Not really my type—but hey, here I was taking a risk. We had coffee at a cafe on Albert Street. We chatted. We kept chatting (or perhaps he did more of it) for hours. We ended up having dinner and continued to chat, until it was quite late (by Brisbane standards) and time to drink hot chocolates and return home. Paul spoke fondly of his family. He was the first of seven children—spanning some 17 years. I immediately figured he must be Catholic, being from such a large brood. He admitted that he was, but it was more a case of defective contraceptives than divine intervention. He was bright, engaging and seemed like a really nice person. It turned out we belonged to the same gym. He was pleasant to be around, and I was beginning to enjoy his company despite no apparent mutual attraction. I had discovered that Paul loved film, so I invited him to the Tropfest film festival on Sunday. This is a festival of films no longer than seven minutes and the compulsory inclusion of a signature item, which that year, 2003, was ‘Rock’. Tropfest began ten years before, with screenings held in the Tropicana Caffe in Sydney. It had since grown in size and stature, and was being broadcast from Sydney to cities around the country. I had planned to see Tropfest at Southbank Parklands in Brisbane.

Friday afternoon. Too many late nights had done me in, so I planned an early night. Paul rang me at work. ‘I know we are meeting Sunday, but just wanted to know if I could take you out for dinner tonight?’

I was too tired, but succumbed to having a beer beside the Brisbane River. This led to two beers. Again, lots of chatting. My resolve to have an early night was eroded by a rumbling tummy and good company, even though he had admitted his nerdish proclivities. We sauntered over to Eagle Street Pier and had dinner at Pier Nine, a renowned seafood restaurant at the time.

After a lovely dinner and perhaps a wine too many, Paul offered to drive me home and I gratefully accepted. We arrived at my house and he walked me to my door (or front steps, as I lived in a high-set Queenslander cottage). I was determined he was not going to kiss me. I was taking a risk, but I had no intention of taking a fast risk. He leaned in for a peck on the cheek. I’m not sure what happened, but it ended in a full-on pash and a fireworks connection I’d never experienced before. Paul ended up in my house and staying the night. I had never felt such a passionate connection to anyone before. It was totally unexpected. I was convinced that Paul felt exactly the same.

Saturday morning, we wandered over to West End, to have brunch at one of Paul’s favourite cafes, and to collect some clothes from his shared house. I had discovered by this time that Paul was married but separated and was going through a divorce. He and his wife had sold their house and completed their property settlement. I also found out that Paul had been through a post-breakup relationship already. As my friend Jacque noted, all people need their ‘transitional’ partner—to get over a breakup, before moving on to the next meaningful relationship. I was quite happy to not be a contender for the ‘transitional girlfriend’ role.

Sunday morning. My friend Jodee had asked me to meet another friend of hers who had just arrived in Brisbane. The friend was looking to make some connections. Paul had stayed the night, so I asked him if he wanted to stay at my house while I paid Jodee’s friend a visit. It felt kind of weird leaving a ‘stranger’ in my house, but as we’d had such a great connection, I was more trusting than usual. Paul asked me if it was OK for him to stay, as he too felt uneasy being left alone in a stranger’s house. I quipped on the way out, ‘Make yourself at home. Just don’t go through my underwear drawer.’

That evening we wandered over to Tropfest. I met my friend Mia there, and somewhat sheepishly introduced her to Paul. Mia was a little taken aback with a ‘where on earth did he come from?’ expression. We watched the films—a great mix of funny, creative, dramatic and thoughtful; with the winner, a very dark film titled Buried. It was late, we were hungry, so I suggested we stop at Hungry Jack’s in Queen Street Mall for a late-night burger dinner. I think that at this point Paul thought he had found the perfect woman—someone who looked after herself, yet wasn’t afraid of junk food in an emergency. I think it was the only time we ever did go to Hungry Jack’s.

We spent just about every non-working moment in each other’s company. We got along really well. We went to the gym together, shopped together, cooked together. We both loved food and Paul had no food hang-ups, so this was easy.

Paula says: It turned out that when Anne finally opened up with me, she was one of the smartest people I had met. She had such a wide and interesting range of interests and experiences. She was deeply caring, and extremely artistic in so many ways. She did not have a large group of friends, but she was very giving and loyal to them, and they adored her.

After a couple of weeks I was dozing and dreaming of her. I realised that I was falling in love. A minute later I started thinking, ‘Wait! Did I say that out loud?’ This woke me instantly, and I spent five minutes staring at the ceiling thinking I might have just doomed this relationship. Luckily for me, it didn’t work out that way.

Two weeks after meeting Paul, it was Tania’s and Craig’s wedding. Paul attended the church ceremony, a beautiful affair at St Mary’s in Kangaroo Point. Paul accompanied me to the ferry stop as the wedding guests made their way down the Brisbane River to the reception. Torrential rain was falling and we huddled under a too small shelter. I was astounded at how chivalrous Paul was, protecting me from the downpour as his shoes filled with water. On the ferry, some guests asked me about Paul and I gushed about how wonderful he was, about how I had met such a caring and giving person.

Paul encouraged me to take up swimming. I was a lap swimmer—a lap at a time with a spluttering pause at each end of the pool to catch my breath. With perseverance, and much encouragement from Paul, I was able to improve my stroke and stamina and worked up to swimming my very first kilometre without having to stop. We celebrated with a bottle of champagne.

As Paul spent so much time at my house, it made sense for him to move in. He was more than happy to move out of a shared household, and I was really happy for someone to help allay my costs (as I had to pay rent to my ex-partner to help pay off his portion of our mortgage).

It was my birthday in March. Paul had told me to pack a bag for the weekend and picked me up from work on Friday. I had no idea where we were going, until we arrived at the Marriott Hotel at Surfers Paradise on the Gold Coast. Paul had organised a total pamper package for me at the hotel spa (with several visits to get a facial, massage and waxing). One of the masseurs noted how lucky I was to be spoiled. I mused, ‘I think I’ve found the perfect man.’ We had my birthday dinner at the Benihana teppanyaki grill, where I managed to artfully catch one flying egg and totally miss a second as it flew past and crashed behind me in the restaurant. On a lovely sunny weekend, far removed from normal life, we spent time swimming in the pool lagoon, taking long walks along the beach and dining at some lovely restaurants. It was so super indulgent. I felt so spoilt, relaxed and happy.

Fast-track relationship

Paul and I were at a stage in our lives that we really did not give a toss about what others thought. We spoke candidly about what we sought in life: a partner and our futures. There was none of the crippling ‘I wonder what he’s thinking’. Maturity is a wonderful weapon in the dating arsenal. We were direct and honest. Gosh, this was refreshing. We both wanted children. We decided that we wanted children together. I had been seeing a gynaecologist for years for suspected endometriosis, and Paul had spent many unproductive months while his wife suffered mood swings and hormonal imbalances resulting from her taking fertility medication. We therefore thought that becoming pregnant would be a long-term prospect. Particularly for my ‘advanced maternal age’—now thirty-six.

I made an appointment to see my gynaecologist. ‘We are thinking of having a baby,’ I told him. ‘What should we do?’

He looked at me incredulously, with ‘surely I don’t have to give her the talk’ written in bold in his expression. ‘Oh, I get what you mean,’ he said. ‘I’ll check you out—do a Pap smear, general exam, and test for Rubella/other immunity.’ He explained that falling pregnant might take time, and we should plan on giving it six to twelve months of ‘trying’ before any intervention. I had my period during the time of the examination, so cycle dates were pretty evident.

Given that having a baby would take time, we threw caution to the wind. Some four weeks later, a work colleague asked me why I was so happy. ‘I have no idea,’ I replied. A pregnancy kit gave the answer. I was full of happy hormones. Overjoyed and positively glowing.

I made the first available appointment with my gynaecologist, now to be my obstetrician. He was smirking when I entered his office. ‘Just referring to my notes,’ he said. ‘You were thinking about having a baby. I believe this is the most amazing case of positive thinking I have ever seen.’

Our first trip to Melbourne together was the first opportunity to finally introduce Paul to my parents. Paul and Mum seemed to bond instantaneously. Mum reminded Paul, in some respects, of his beloved Nanna, whom he had had a very close relationship with. At one stage, Mum made some vaguely sarcastic comment about never having grandchildren. Paul implored me, ‘You have to tell your mother our news.’

I started with, ‘Mum …’, then switched to ‘... Paul has something to tell you.’ I threw him right in. Paul said, ‘Anne is pregnant. We are going to have a baby.’

Mum looked at me. Mum looked at Paul. Mum looked at me. Mum looked at Paul. Mum looked back to me and as the news dawned upon her, Mum’s face broke into the broadest smile. This was it. It was finally going to happen.

Dad’s first reaction was, ‘Let’s have some champagne.’

I politely declined. ‘Go ahead, but that’s not the best thing for me right now.’

Paul and I were over the moon about me being pregnant. We were bursting to tell people, but knew we could not do so until we had waited the requisite fourteen weeks. I had my ultrasound scan at the same hospital and at the same time that Mia had a biopsy for a suspected breast cancer. I took the day off work and Mia stayed with us during her recovery. The baby looked good. We were now free to tell people. Mia’s biopsy results were good news too.

As we told Paul’s grandparents, his grandfather gave me a wink and said: ‘You know, us Grey men are real men.’

I was a little worried, as Paul had told me he wanted five children; his grandfather and father had fathered seven children. Each!

We lived such a happy life. We were able to walk to work. We lived a healthy lifestyle, swimming and running together. I was doing prenatal yoga as well. Paul became extra serious with exercise and became involved in triathlon training, joining a triathlon group and competing. We ate very well—shopping at the James Street Market for specialty fish, Meat-ting Place butchers in Paddington for organic meats and the Powerhouse Farmers’ Markets for fresh produce. I became particularly addicted to the smoked olives, the wonderful Greek yoghurt with fresh passionfruit and the fruit-packed Jocelyn’s bread we bought each visit. We both were the cooks in our previous partnerships and cared about our food, yet we managed to work so well together in the kitchen.

We saw a number of films and attended many film festivals including the International, Greek, and French film festivals. We prepared French food for Bastille Day lunch, went to picnics and spent weekends at the beach. It was lovely spending time with someone who was happy to take me as I was, who shared so many interests, but enough different ones to keep things interesting. We spent time in Sydney visiting my brother Ian and his partner, Amanda, and Paul’s sister Mary, husband John and new baby. We climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge on a wet and blustery day. The sun broke through the clouds just as we reached the top. I travelled up to Bundaberg in Queensland on a couple of occasions for a recreational open space study I was involved in for work.

Additions

The company I worked for amalgamated with another landscape firm and we moved to larger premises to accommodate more staff. I asked to have a private chat with my supervisor. He said, ‘Oh no. You’re going to tell me you are leaving, aren’t you?’

I told him, ‘Yes. I am. But it won’t be for a few months—until the baby is due.’

He was astounded, happy and relieved all at once. The news slowly filtered through the office.

In the next few months, Paul bought out my ex-partner Stewart’s share of the mortgage. We started to think of ideas to create more space in the house. We invited friends Paul (architect) and Jacque (interior designer) over for a long lunch and brainstorming session. During a wet rainy day, with lots of sketches and ideas flying around, we discussed options for raising the house and building underneath, adding an extension out the back. Jacque came up with a straightforward and cost-effective solution: to build in part of our front veranda. This involved building a new wall outside the main bedroom and relocating the French doors in this wall. This would provide a small nursery space off the bedroom, a space which might later become an office or walk-in robe.

Work on the house modification started just before our baby was due. I went for a lovely swim on the due date. It was a beautiful sunny day, I glided through the water and all felt right with the world. But no baby. The next day, I went for a swim. The pool was crowded. I was worried about being kicked in the belly. It wasn’t as blissful as I had hoped. I felt it was time for this baby to arrive. Paul was instructed to ‘do his duty’, as semen, a prostaglandin, was considered effective means of inducing labour. He dutifully complied. My contractions started just after 1 am. I tried to get some sleep but eventually woke Paul around 4 am to let him know we were on. I rang the hospital around 6 am. I was told to relax, have a bath. I did, and the contractions slowed down. No! I wanted the baby today, so we walked up the street to get things moving again. Paul dropped into work to let them know he wouldn’t be in that day. We had breakfast and walked home, with regular stops to deal with my contractions. We got home to a house filled with tradesmen. No power, due to electrical work, meant we had no air-conditioning or ceiling fans. We were in the middle of a heatwave and it was getting hot ¹. I really felt I needed to go to hospital, so I rang again.

I was asked, ‘How long will it take you to get to hospital?’

I replied, ‘Around five minutes.’

‘Can you make it fifteen?’

We finally arrived, only to have to sit in the waiting room for what seemed like an eternity. Electrical storms the night before had been blamed for bringing on many babies a little early, and no delivery suites were available². I finally got into one around 11 am. As I thought I’d be there for some time, I decided I would delay an epidural for as long as I could. I had a warm shower while bouncing on a Swiss ball, until I felt an overwhelming need to sleep. I lay down and the midwives turned down the lights. Paul was concerned I wouldn’t sleep, as the contractions were too close together. The midwives told him not to worry. ‘She could use some sleep.’

All of a sudden, I gasped with a sudden overwhelming knowledge. ‘The baby’s coming.’

Paul buzzed for an attendant. A midwife sauntered in to have a look, and then, after surveying the situation, exclaimed, ‘Quick! Call the doctor!’ This was pain. Paul, seeing the expression on my face, asked if I could have some pain relief.

‘No time for that. All she needs to do is push, and she’ll have a baby.’

My obstetrician arrived, after my first push. He was out of breath, having run from his consulting office. He unwrapped the cord from the baby’s neck. Two more pushes and out popped a baby. It was a boy. Paul called the family to share the happy news. Mum apparently tried to get Dad in the car immediately to drive up to see us and, more importantly, her very first grandchild. Dad made her wait until the next day to leave.

It took time to name the baby. Our chosen girl’s name was not appropriate and our boy’s name, Gabriel, didn’t seem to work with this little guy. We chose the name Louis Preston. Preston was after my grandfather, it was also his mother’s surname. Grandpa was thrilled.

My parents arrived on February 14, after travelling more than a thousand miles. We met them in the hospital reception area. Mum was surreptitiously ‘bumping’ Louis’s crib with her hip, to try to wake up her precious grandchild.

‘Mum! I know what you are doing.’

My parents doted over their very first grandchild, as did we. Paul had way more idea of how to handle a newborn, as he had been there for so many of his younger siblings in the past, so I followed his lead. I truly was clueless about how to deal with a little one so dependent upon us for everything.

As many independent, professional, ‘older’ women have discovered before me, looking after a baby is indeed very difficult and falls outside the realms of being an organised, planned and in-control individual. This took some getting used to. I was amazed how such a small baby needed so much paraphernalia and could generate so much laundry. I remember one occasion when I planned an outing and—after feeding, changing nappies, an emergency bath and clothes changes for both baby and mother—we were not ready to leave the house until 11 am. I cried. I did go a little insane. I had some respite from the monotony of being at home as a part-time assistant lecturer for a postgraduate class in urban design. This was for one afternoon per week, with Paul’s brother Albert looking after Louis. This gave me an escape, some much needed adult company, and some academic stimulation.

We spent Louis’s first Christmas out at Paul’s family’s farm. This was lots of fun. We were not able to get much mobile phone reception there, so it wasn’t until we were driving into the town of Chinchilla that we heard the news that Paul’s company had been closed down by the new venture capitalist who had, ironically, been brought aboard to expand the company’s operations. The venture capitalist had wanted to tell the employees this news on Christmas Day but the company’s founders, David and Bernadette, refused to ruin everybody’s holiday. We also heard that my brother Ian’s partner, Amanda, had lost her battle against a very aggressive melanoma. I burst into tears. This wasn’t the ideal way to round out the year or begin a new one.

I got in touch with my employers and let them know that I was ending my maternity leave and looking to return to work full-time. I somewhat reluctantly went back to work. Coincidentally, the day-care centre where we had put our baby on a waiting list when I was about four months pregnant, finally had an opening for three days per week (Louis was now almost eleven months old). Paul looked after Louis on Thursday and Friday and took him along to my baby clubs. I was a member of two. The boys developed a lovely bond, and Paul doted over Louis.

Paul’s brother Ray and his American fiancée, Sophia, had organised their wedding in Maui, between Australia and the US mainland. We didn’t think we could make it, but a very generous gift from a great-aunt enabled us to attend. We took Louis on his first long-haul and international vacation. We spent some time on the Big Island and visited the lava flow from the active Kilauea volcano, attempted to drive the Road to Hana on Maui (Louis threw up three times) and drove around Honolulu on our last day. It was a lovely week. We celebrated Louis’s first birthday after we returned home and decided it was time to think about a second baby.

Voilà! The positive thinking worked, and I was pregnant again.

Not a shotgun wedding

We had been entertaining the idea of getting married later in the year, at the same time as Paul’s sister Lacy planned to marry, so we could have overseas guests attend both weddings. We now decided that, perhaps, we should get married a little sooner. I joked to our friend Tania that we had to plan a shotgun wedding. She scoffed, ‘I’m not too sure you qualify, seeing as you already have a child.’

We gave ourselves four weeks to organise a wedding to be held at the beginning of May. It turned out to be a great strategy, giving ourselves so little time, as this prevented over-thinking or over-planning. I asked Mia whether she would be my bridesmaid if my sister couldn’t make it. I was very grateful when she accepted. Paul asked his brother Albert to be best man. Paul had been through a large wedding ceremony and reception before with his first marriage, and really didn’t want a repeat of all the stresses involved. We purposefully planned things a little simpler, a little smaller, and far less formal. I’m not a princess type, so I was extremely happy to err towards a casual wedding. We chose to hold the ceremony at the inner-city Roma Street Parklands with a very small reception in Olivetto’s Italian restaurant afterwards for family and close friends. I bought a dress off the rack. Mum and Dad came up to Brisbane to help. Mum lovingly baked, iced, and decorated small wedding cakes, individually boxed for each reception guest. Dad and our friend Craig organised the tables and chairs in the park. Mia’s partner, Greg, took our wedding photos. My hairdresser arranged the flowers for our reception dinner. Paul’s cousin Bronwyn was part of a string quartet, and they offered to play the music for us in the park. It was all such a lovely cumulative group effort, by people who were close and cared for us. I had some friends and family fly in especially for the day to wish me well and be part of the celebration.

I woke up to rain on the wedding day. I was dismayed. We had a contingency plan to move to a shelter for the ceremony, but didn’t want to. The sun eventually came out, and a brisk wind dried the ground, leaving a stunningly warm, clear and dry afternoon. The wedding ceremony was lovely. Dad walked me into the park, dodging lots of one-year-olds. It was spontaneous and joyous, with all the little ones running amok in their finery. We had platters of Vegemite sandwiches and fresh fruit especially for the littlest guests. There was beer, champagne and ‘mature’ food for the slightly older ones. It was low-key and casual. There must have been enough evident love, for there was a marriage proposal that day involving two of the guests.

Paul secured contract work with former clients of the firm he had worked for, and this required him to travel to the US several times. He had written a blog about his research and this had been read by someone from a firm in Chicago, who offered him the possibility of a job. On one trip, he was persuaded to spend a weekend in Chicago to meet the prospective employer. Paul was immediately smitten by Chicago. In summer. After returning to Australia, he was offered a position.

I was intrigued by Chicago. It was a city I had not visited, but had heard such wonderful things about. I was willing to go. I thought it would be a great opportunity to live in another country for a couple of years. However, I was not prepared to deliver a baby in the US. I had heard horrible things about the American health system, so I wanted to have my baby in Australia. With my obstetrician. With family close by. In a hospital I knew. Paul accepted the position, with the proviso that he would work remotely until after the baby was born.

November 11, 2005, Remembrance Day. We experienced a hold-up in the processing of our US visa application. We couldn’t get visas until furnished with all of our passports, including the baby’s. We couldn’t get a passport for the baby until we had a birth certificate. But we couldn’t get a birth certificate until we had a baby. A birth certificate could take months to process, but could be fast-tracked if we had a flight itinerary. But we couldn’t get a flight itinerary until we had booked plane tickets. We couldn’t book plane tickets until we had visas. We felt trapped in an infinite loop.

With the baby apparently having no intention of entering the world, I agreed to have an induction on November 11, nine days past the due date. This seemed an appropriate date, being Remembrance Day. I did not, however, promise to honour the traditional minute of silence at 11 am.

We arrived at the hospital around 8 am. I thought we were supposed to be there earlier, but didn’t trust my ‘placenta brain’. My obstetrician, noting that we were late, said, ‘Oh. I thought you were a no-show.’

After coaxing with a prostaglandin,³ walking up and down stairs for some time, membrane rupturing⁴, and the placement of an IV to administer Pitocin⁵, contractions finally got under way. My obstetrician promised to stay in the labour ward this time, so he needn’t dash back. Again, I had an overwhelming desire to go to sleep. The lights were turned down and I attempted to sleep. Again, I felt the baby was coming. Again, no time for pain relief. Sure enough, two pushes and out popped the baby. Again, the anticipated and joyful cry of a new life, and the now familiar chorus of, ‘It’s a boy.’

We were presented with the most beautiful baby—he was truly gorgeous for a newborn. Again, the baby did not ‘look like’ a