From Headache to Intensive Care - A Lesson in Trusting Your Instinct

“Mum, I’ve got a headache”

It was a reasonably innocuous declaration for a typical Sunday evening and I treated it that way, initially.

“Ok hon. Well, lay down next me and have a rest”

As he lay there, wincing, I went through my tried and tested ‘Mother Triage’. No temp, no swollen or tender glands, no rash.

“Is there anything going on at school tomorrow that you’re worried about?”

“No. But Mum, it’s REALLY bad. And my head is super itchy!”

Oh. God. No. Itchy head = lice. Lice = my greatest fear (at that point). I begin, somewhat frantically, combing through his hair like a gorilla. It’s a totally clean, non-infested head. So I give him a dose of Panadol and have him rest his itchy, sore head on my lap while I wait for the paracetamol to take effect.

An hour later and he’s still hurting. And wimpering.

“It feels like there’s a war going on inside my head Mum. Like I’m being punched from the inside.”

Hmmmmm.

I sat and watched my youngest son, screwing up his face in apparent pain as he lay on my lap. He’s not one to complain unnecessarily BUT he is known for his drama.

“Ok, so what else do you feel? Can you see properly?”

“Yes. I mean, no. I mean I can see straight ahead but it’s fuzzy all around the edges.”

“Anything else?”

“My ears are ringing. Really loud.”

I sighed. I was looking forward to heading to bed early after TWO nights out in a row [unheard of these days] and now it looked like I had a late night ahead of me. I left him on the couch while I put my shoes on, grabbed some water and my phone charger and put my coat on.

“What are you doing?” asked Mark.

“I’m taking him in to emergency.”

“What? For a headache?? Why don’t you just call a locum and wait to see what they have to say?

“I don’t know. I just really feel like he needs to go to hospital. I feel like we need equipment or something to have a look at him.”

Mark frowned but he was used to me following my instinct, particularly when it came to our kids.

“Ok. Drive safe and let me know how you go.”

I have to say that bundling Stefan up in the car, just after 9pm on a cold Sunday night did seem a bit over the top for me too. I second guessed myself the entire way to hospital and continued my questioning of Stefan at every moment. In fact, I got close to almost threatening him with hospital, “Do you still have your headache Stefan? Because we’re GOING TO HOSPITAL you know and I’d HATE TO GET THERE and you suddenly tell me it’s gone away and then I FEEL LIKE AN IDIOT.”

“Yes Mum. I still have it and it hurts so much. Oh and my head is soooo itchy. I can’t stand it Mum!’

So I park the car and head into emergency. I almost apologetically tell the triage nurse why we’re there but I find more confidence when I tell her that I just feel that something is not quite right.

I have always believed in the power of intuition and it has never been stronger in me than since becoming a mother. I think that’s largely due to the innate sense of protectiveness and hyper-vigilance that seems to kick in once a baby starts growing inside your guts.

If nothing else, then this story is evidence that my instinct to trust my instinct is right.

The triage nurse did not bat an eyelid when I told her why we were there. She didn’t look at me like I was an overprotective mum or a fruitcake or someone there to waste her time. She didn’t make me feel like an idiot. She processed me quickly and efficiently and sent me straight through to paediatric emergency and within minutes we were ushered into our own bay and another nurse was asking what brought us to her on this cold Sunday evening.

As I repeated my story, she wrapped a Velcro band attached to a monitor around Stefan’s insignificant tri-cep as he lay on the bed and waited to record his blood pressure, all the while chatting to us about the symptoms that caused us to head in to emergency. She measured once and then turned the machine off and on again, repositioned the cuff and measured again. She asked how long he’d had his headache for, any other symptoms… y’know, the usual palaver. Then she excused herself with a sigh and returned with a manual blood pressure monitor. The kind you pump up with your hand and measure with a stethoscope and clock.

“That’d be right” I thought begrudgingly to myself “The fucking machine is faulty”

Of course, there was no rational reason for me to think that. I had never come across a faulty machine during any of my trips to hospital previously but it was Sunday night and I was tired and I was still second guessing myself for being there at all.

The nurse excused herself AGAIN (“what the fuck is she doing? Is she new? I don’t want to be here all night!”) and returns about 8 seconds later with a doctor in tow.

“FINALLY… some proper medical attention!” my mind roars as my face feigns holy mother patience.

The doctor is calm and gentle and speaking to me like I’m a mental patient which at the time just seemed like a very reassuring bedside manner.

“Hi” he says smiling kindly.

“Stefan has quite high blood pressure and we just want to check some things out” he says gently.

“Oh, I see” I say, though I don’t see at all. What does he mean ‘high blood pressure’? Can kids get high blood pressure? And so what if they do? He’s probably just a bit anxious about being in hospital. Don’t talk to me about high blood pressure, tell me what’s wrong with his head!

And then the world kind of tipped a bit as I notice, during my reverie, that the nurse is frantically writing down all of Stefan’s details [blood pressure levels etc] which in itself is not unusual. Nurses in emergency departments are always recording their patient’s details and statistics aren’t they? The correct answer is ‘yes’ but it was WHERE she was writing them down that caused a momentary lapse of reason in my heart.

She was writing his obs, in pen, ON THE BEDSHEET of the bed just by his feet.

What the fuck is going on here??

Meanwhile, the doctor is still calmly speaking to us all like Stefan has a runny nose and simply needs a box of tissues.

“Are they ready for us next door?” he gently asks the nurse writing on the bed.

“Yep, they’re waiting”

And just like that, they’re wheeling Stefan’s bed out of paediatric emergency and straight into an area called ‘RESUSC’ [that’s short for resuscitation people!] where two nurses and 750 monitors are waiting, expectantly for our arrival.

Shit. Just. Got. Real.

“Hello Mum” one of the nurses says kindly as they both buzz around the bed placing sticky pads all over Stefan’s, suddenly, tiny frame “What’s your name?”

It feels surreal for me to answer all the questions as I watch every move they make and follow their lead on tone and behaviour. My Stefan is the kind of kid that was born incredibly tuned in to the universe. Some would call him an ‘old soul’ and others may even tag him as a young ‘empath’. I’m not sure what to call him but he has always shown an innate accuracy when it has come to reading the mood of a person – and sometimes even an animal! I knew that he was looking to me for reassurance and guidance on how he should be responding to this very unusual and intense medical attention. So I did what any good mother would do and flat out lied to his face.

“This is totally normal hon. Every kid with a bad headache ends up in here. You’re FINE.”

But he wasn’t fine. He was very, very far from fine. The doctor explained that a boy of his age, health and size should have a blood pressure reading of about 95-100 over 60-70. Stefan’s current BP was 230/150.

He was going to explode.

“We’ve been liaising with the renal consultant on call and have organised a bed in the Paediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) at Women’s and Children’s” the Calmest Doctor On Earth explained to me.

“Renal?? He’s got a HEADACHE and HIGH BLOOD PRESSURE. There’s nothing wrong with his kidneys! Why are you liaising with a renal specialist? And why have you organised a bed at WCH? If I wanted to go there I would’ve taken him there. I like this hospital.”

Don’t ask me why I was digging my heels in on that. I’m a bit closed minded on some things. I brought him to the hospital he was born in. I like it. I know it. Now they want me to go a hospital that I don’t know or like. But I have no choice. It is the only hospital that has a PICU. And it’s where the paediatric renal unit is situated. Why renal? Because, I have since learned, that any time a child has high blood pressure or hypertension then it is AUTOMATICALLY an indication of kidney issues.

“FINE. I’ll take him there then.”

“Ummmm…. YOU can’t take him anywhere. We’ve organised the MedStar team to collect him. He needs a doctor to travel with him.”

And at 3am that is exactly what happened. A team arrived with transportable monitors and wires and flanked my little boy’s stretcher as they wheeled him into the icy night and through the back doors of the waiting ambulance. The roads were quiet at that time on Monday morning and we had a doctor on-board so thankfully, this wasn't an emergency requiring the sirens. There was no room for me in the back so I rode up front with the very reassuring driver and heard, for the sixth time (at least) that night, just how important it was that I acted on my instinct to take Stefan into hospital.

“So if there were no other symptoms, what WAS it that made you decide to bring him in?” was the question I was asked repeatedly throughout our time in hospital. My answer has always been the same. It was quite simply a feeling that something wasn’t right. Something wasn’t normal. It wasn’t one thing but a combination of things that led to a deep uneasiness within me. And even though I second guessed myself the entire way in to hospital, I still kept going because I would rather be turned away for being over-vigilant than hate myself for all eternity for not listening to my gut.

I will forever be grateful to the very first nurse that met with us who caught the symptom immediately. Not satisfied with what she was seeing, she triple checked herself before referring it further. The whole process took less than half an hour from when she first said hello to being ushered through to RESUC. She didn’t falter, she didn’t panic and she didn’t cut corners. That’s what you want on your medical frontline.

From that very moment I have not been able to fault the medical care my son was given. In the three days that we were residents of PICU we came across an insane number of doctors, nurses and specialists. Stefan was seen and ultimately cleared by a cardiologist, ophthalmologist and endocrinologist all under the management of an entire nephrology team. He had a new nurse every shift who monitored him around the clock and their ‘handovers’ were conducted with the efficiency and detail you would expect for someone requiring intensive care. I know because I stood at the nurse’s station and listened to the reports and observations for every single handover.

Nothing was left to chance. As he adjusted to the frightening amount of daily medication required to suppress his screaming hypertension, he had a CT scan, a nuclear scan and an MRI. His blood pressure was monitored by a line that was inserted directly into his artery and connected to monitors which were checked every hour on the hour. They took urine samples, blood samples and saliva samples. They monitored his oxygen levels, his fluid intake, his heart rate and his neurological responses.

As uncomfortable as it was sitting (literally!) at the bedside of my son for days on end, there was nowhere else I would rather have been. I knew that we were in the best place for the safety of my son and the confidence that I had in the care he was receiving was everything that I could have hoped for.

So… WHAT was the problem?

Well, as it turns out, we have discovered that Stefan has one kidney smaller than the other (likely born that way) and therefore not operating at its full capacity. After a week on the ward, he was discharged as a renal outpatient and now lives a ‘normal’ life thanks to taking three separate medications morning and night to manage his high blood pressure. We visit the renal unit in hospital regularly where they keep an eye on any changes and readjust medications accordingly. The prognosis is that he will require medication indefinitely, however we have already reduced it several times as he levels out and I have faith that we will continue in this direction until he is on an absolute minimum.

Which all translates to him being just fine. But from big dramas, life lessons grow! And I’ve got a few pearlers, just for you.

First up is an obvious one. TRUST. YOUR. INSTINCT. Listen to your gut. When nothing makes sense, act. Do not wait. Do not fear over reacting. The message I got loud and clear from every single medical person I have come across since that night, is that my action saved my son’s life. A life that I had NO IDEA was in jeopardy.

The second one is also reasonably typical. SEIZE THE DAY. Spending days and nights in hospital with nothing but your suddenly sick child, the clock and heart monitors to look at is particularly sobering. There were a lot of thoughts that began with “IF we get out of here…” which thankfully progressed to “WHEN we get out of here…” and ended with all different versions of “I’m going to take the family on holiday/spend more time/be more present/work less/be more patient/eat better/be more active…” You get the drift. Since everything has settled down, I have indeed done a lot of those things and we’re all feeling better for it. But I know I shouldn’t have to wait for tragedy to nearly strike before I’m reminded of all those things.

The last one is a lesson taught to me by my 9 year old son. SURRENDER. It would be no surprise to any of you that a child has a very different perspective to danger than a grown up does. During those days in hospital we were learning new things about his condition hourly. When I heard new, scary things my mind went to some very dark places and my knee-jerk response was to take over. I needed to SAVE my child. I needed to PROTECT him. I needed to FIX him. But whilst Stefan was taking cues from me, I was also taking them from him. When he learnt new, scary things – he was calm. He didn’t go anywhere dark. He listened, understood, processed and laid himself bare. The lesson I learnt from him is that there is a peace in surrendering to vulnerability. His innocence and his faith in those that knew more than him kept him calm [which incidentally is very important when you have high blood pressure!] and they kept him positive. He went through some really confronting and terrifying things but he didn’t second guess them and he didn’t overthink them. It was truly an education in attitude and self-preservation which I am grateful to him for.

And hopefully, this is the last time I’ll ever have to learn those lessons.

15 things I have learned in 15 years of marriage

Fifteen years ago this month, I got married.

He wasn’t my first love and he wasn’t the first man I ever fantasised about marrying. Because I’m the girl that fantasised about being a Mrs Somebody ever since I knew that was a thing. And I still have random pages, from decades ago, of doodles with Tania ‘surname’ signed in curly, girly writing with the ‘I’s dotted with love hearts.

But as it turned out, and luckily for me, he was the only man who ever actually asked ME to marry to him. And, obviously, I accepted. And we lived happily ever after.

Except not really.

Because over fifteen years ‘happy’ comes in waves and marriage looks a lot less like a fairytale romance and a lot more like real life and real life looks a lot like hard work.

But then nothing good comes easy… or for free.

I was raised by a single mum so I had no real life experience in marriage. The closest married role models I had were my grandparents, the one uncle that stayed married and my friend’s parents… and not all of their unions were what you would call ‘wedded bliss’.

So I’m sure you’ll understand that my pre-married life was not awash with any useful advice. Other than to find a ‘good man’ and marry him. Of course, a ‘good man’ is hard to define and so for years I didn’t understand that I had, in fact, found one. Years and years.

My husband is a good man. He’s a good husband and he’s a great father. He is more than I could have ever hoped for in a life partner and our marriage, surprisingly, is one of the good ones. 

But everything I know about marriage, I learnt on the job… and the hard way.

1. Wedded Bliss is not real

Even on the actual wedding night, we were too tired to bliss out and our definition of bliss changes as we grow. Sometimes it looks like time all by yourself because you feel so secure in your relationship. Other times it looks like a Sunday afternoon laying by the pool together while the boys jump in repeatedly trying to one-up each other. During ratings season it looks like sitting on the couch together drinking wine and watching zombie heads explode or gratuitous scenes of sex and violence in Westeros.

2. Growing old together is a blessing

I watch my husband’s health like a hawk. I need him around and healthy for at least another decade. Parenting is a tough gig and though I’m confident that I could, I have no interest or desire to do it on my own. I’m also too lazy to have to find another man. All that having to look your best and shaving is just so exhausting.

3. Passion is neither everything nor everlasting.

4. Your marriage must have room for your friends.

Always. There has to be another port in the storm for each of you. Someone who knows you, loves you and understands what’s important – but doesn’t want to root you.

5. You can go to bed angry

And still be ok the next morning. Sometimes all you both actually needed was some sleep. Being tired makes everything a million times worse and sometimes grown-ups are just like toddlers and really just need a nap. Adulting is so tiring!

6. A man is not an island

Unless they are an orphan or a migrant or in the witness protection program. But in my case, my man came with a family. Which is good for babysitting but not so good when shit goes down. Especially if it goes down in both extended families at the same time. That's when having a wine business comes in handy. Faaaaaark.

7. You can’t ever change your partner but you can teach them

All it takes are three words 1. Actions 2. Consequences 3. Consistency. Remember, grown-ups can be just like toddlers!

8. Play to each other’s strengths – not their weaknesses

9. Learn the art of compromise

This one was a tough one for me but it became much easier once I jumped in the deep end of compromise and became a mum. Now I’m compromising all over the place. Bastards. What about me?

10. Use Portfolios

Share the load without resentment.

In our house we have what look like figurative portfolios which makes our expectations of each other very clear.

Me – school, clothes, inside, social, shopping, cooking

Him – kids sport, cars, outside, bills, rubbish, maintenance

Shared – parenting

Outsourced – nowhere near enough…

11. Two toilets

The key to a happy marriage is not having to book in toilet time. Especially when your partner takes so fucking looooooong.

12. Don’t sweat the small stuff… most of the time

So he never puts the shopping away. Or makes the bed. He also never mistreats me. Or gives me reason to feel unloved. The small things he doesn't do will never outweigh the enormous things he doesn't do.

13. Babies will not fix a marriage in trouble

But they can make you love your partner more. So much more.

14. Familiarity does not always breed contempt

Listen up. This is a big one. I am a different woman today than I was fifteen years ago. My priorities are totally different. As are my opinions, intolerances, acceptances and boobs. Growing alongside someone in a safe and secure environment helps all the good emotions develop and as you grow, so does your love. It may look different - 'cause it's all wrapped up in someone else's 'stuff' - but that's the magic of togetherness. My love for him has changed. It's deepened and grown and the more familiar he is to me, the more I love him. 

15. We're all in the same boat

It may look like your friends are doing the whole 'life' thing better than you are. Maybe they are but they're probably not. Everyone has their challenges and every relationship has their ups. And downs. Some stuff I know we don't do anywhere near as well as our friends do. Some stuff I know we do far better. Sometimes I feel like we're happier than anyone we know and sometimes I feel like everyone else is living a fairytale and we're in a nightmare. 

That's the thing about these long-term relationships. You get to experience ALL the emotions in them. Love, jealousy, boredom, temptation, commitment, fear, grief, joy, exhaustion, elation, confusion and adoration. 

And my most favourite - gratefulness. 

Dear Mother of All Boys

Dear Mother of All Boys,

I see you there, with your tired eyes and heart bursting with love. You are a mix of exhaustion and gratitude and pride. Just like all other mothers but something about having all boys, sets you apart. Just a bit. There’s something about only having sons that changes the mother experience. I know this because many of my friends are mothers of all boys. I know this especially, because so am I.

It’s not something that is easy to put a finger on but there is certainly something special about having a family full of sons. From what I can tell, the dynamic is different than in the families of only daughters or those with both sons and daughters. And the perspective definitely is. Years of managing testosterone will do that a woman.

People will say ridiculous things to you. “I don’t know how you cope! Boys are so… boisterous/loud/energetic/difficult. You’ve got your hands full! You need a daughter” They will dress it up as if they are sharing knowledge, but they don’t know anything because those people are almost definitely not mothers of all boys.

If they were they would understand having all sons does not mean that the family is incomplete without a daughter.

They would understand that yes, the days are loud in a house of all boys. The volume level can reach insane, shut-the-fuck-up heights from playing and cheering to all-out arguing but that only makes the quiet time so much more precious.

They would understand that the very same boys that try to actually physically destroy each other for such heinous acts as touching each other’s stuff, changing the tv channel in the middle of a show or teasing each other for missing a goal will also spend hours side by side watching a movie or playing PS4. Often in the same day.

There are a lot of balls in your life when you’re a mother of all boys. There are quite literally balls everywhere. In our household we have basketballs, footballs, soccer balls, tennis balls, bouncing balls, cricket balls, petanque balls, billiard balls, ping pong balls, marbles, ball-bearings and testes. Yes, I mention testes because in our house one can not mention ‘balls’ without a snigger, smirk or all out guffaw from the boys. Balls=testicles. All day. Every day.

The washing line is full of jocks and socks and there are grass stains on all the pants knees. We go through fifteen litres of milk a week and a box of band-aids every month. Grazes, cuts, burns, splinters and blisters all feature heavily around these parts. And just for the record… boys do cry. Big rolling tears, often mixed with sweat that drop onto mum’s shirt as she holds her crying son to her bosom. “Oh my God! Mum said ‘bosom’! Bahahahaha… that is SO wrong Mum.” Boobs=hilarious. All day. Every day.

Farts are extremely popular. Smelling them, doing them, pretending you didn’t do them and making fake fart noises using ANYTHING are also hilarious. Interestingly, flushing the toilet is not popular at all. Probably because most of the wee doesn’t make it into the actual bowl anyway. There is piss on the floor. Constantly.

Mothers of sons and daughters will look upon you with a mix of pity and admiration as they can only imagine that your job must be twice or thrice as hard as hers is in your family of boys because her boy is possibly the troublesome one in her household. But for many reasons boys with only brothers seem to level each other out rather than egg each other on. Except for when they are actually egging each other on… that shit happens constantly and it NEVER ends well.

The competition is relentless in a family of all boys. There has to be a ‘first’ for everything. First to the car, in the shower, to leave the table, ready for school, in the pool, to the end of the street, to finish a game. And when they’re not competing they’re daring each other to jump, to taste or to climb. Often these dares or competitions end in a fight or tears or both but then it’s forgotten. Boys don’t hold grudges… for long.

There are no real mood-swings. Yet. There are only two moods. On and off. And despite what many may think about boys communicating, there’s A LOT of chatter. Sometimes too much… just like in other families.

My boys are messy and smelly even though I’ve taught them to put their stuff away and they shower every day. They have massive feet and sinewy legs and I can see their ribcage even though they eat constantly. They seem to be endlessly moving but when they stop I can still see the babies they were. They can’t help but gravitate to either one of their parents when we sit on the couch at night together and they are most comfortable resting their head on our shoulder or wrapping their long, skinny legs around ours. Boys may be boisterous but they’re affectionate too and there’s nothing sweeter than seeing a boy that isn’t afraid to cuddle their mum and dad especially after a tough a game of contact sport.

Having all boys seems to reduce the risk of subconsciously stereotyping. There are no gender specific behaviours in our household because there is only one gender [Mum doesn’t count. She is genderless. She is just MUM] So the boys cook and clean and pick flowers and go clothes shopping and listen to music and dance. There is no ‘daddy’s little girl’ or ‘princess’ or ‘mummy’s boy’ or ‘little man of the house’. There are just sons and brothers.

And there’s something about watching brothers together that warms my heart. Of course I know plenty of sisters who are close with their brother [I’m one of them!] but maybe it’s because I feel so strongly about MY brother that I’m so happy that both my sons have a brother too.

Dear Mother of All Boys, I want you to know that I LOVE my all-boy family. They teach me so many things all the time and I’m positive that being immersed in a world of testosterone and male energy has made me a better woman. It’s tiring and exhausting and there’s piss all over the bathroom floor but it’s also complete and chockablock full of gorgeous boyish love.

Plus, I save a fortune on hand-me-downs.

A Few Good Men - The Other Fathers

I grew up without a dad. Most of you already know that. I have written about it many times. Sometimes just a memory. Sometimes a letter. And sometimes just a mention here or there.

It wasn’t always easy but it wasn’t catastrophic either. Of course, my Mum had a lot to do with that. She was our Mum and our Dad and she did an incredible job. In many ways I believe I have grown to be the woman I am BECAUSE of my absent father. But that’s a whole other blog post!

So today, on the figurative eve of Fathers Day in Australia I am writing about the ‘other’ fathers in my life. The men that taught me all the good things that I needed to learn about all those dad-things. My experience has taught me that fathers come in many forms and wherever I can I like to acknowledge and celebrate that.

Uncle Arthur

The most constant male role model in my young life was my Mum’s younger brother Arthur. I’ve written about him before here but what I want to say about Uncle Arthur is this. He was only ever in my life as an Uncle and only part-time, as Uncles tend to be. My Opa [his father] died when I was very young and my other Uncle, Marcel, lived away so Uncle Arthur became the ‘man’ of the family by default. He would never have admitted it. That was just the way he was. But he did all the ‘man’ stuff required for the family. He moved the furniture and serviced the cars and fixed the houses. He was gruff and scary when he was grumpy. You did not fuck with my Uncle Arthur. But he was a strong and caring man who taught me many things, without even trying, about what life could throw at you and how best to dodge the shit. 

He was also pretty cool. One night, driving down Marion Rd in his Buick [he had THE COOLEST cars] a carload of hoons excitable young men pulled up next to us at the lights. I was in the front passenger seat and they started revving the engine of their souped up piece of shit car and yelling out lurid comments compliments at us. Uncle Arthur smiled at them and turned to me and said ‘You ready?’ ‘Yep’ I answered wide-eyed and unsure of what I needed to be ready for. And then the lights turned green and it was on like Donkey Kong. Those poor bastards blokes didn’t know what hit ‘em. It was exhilarating. He was shifting gears like a racing car driver and had his signature look of determination on his face. I was so excited that I was squealing and giggling and being totally not cool. At all. And then he slowed down and laughed and his dimples seemed deeper than ever. Like a little boy. As a girl I never understood the treasure that moment was. But as a woman, when I remember that time, I see how it impacted me. It has stayed with me for thirty years so far. He showed strength and fun and vulnerability and an unwillingness to back down that I’m sure made a mark on me. 

He has his own kids and grandkids who have missed him every day since he died eight years ago.  I know they will feel his absence this Fathers Day, as I do too, but they are so fortunate to have had that man as their father for the years that they did.

My Step-Dad Sal

Mum started dating Sal when I was a teenager. Before Tinder and RSVP.COM you had to meet people in person. Often by chance. I remember the day she came home and told me that she had ‘seen’ this man who worked a couple of boutiques down from her. “He’s GORGEOUS!” she gushed and I rolled my eyes. I was a teenager – that was the standard response to anything my Mum said. So their relationship began like a fairtytale. Really. They courted and went on dates and there was this new man in our life who had never been married or had his own children. But nothing phased him. He stepped into our ready-made family with a willing and generous heart. The relationships between my brother and I and Sal developed naturally and organically and as a result he has become the most present male in my life. He rode in the car with me and walked me down the aisle at my wedding. And then he handed me over [with enthusiasm and relief probably] to my husband. He only just managed to get through his speech as father of the bride because he cried like a baby. Really.

When something is absent from your life for such a long time, it’s often hard to recognise that you ever really needed it… or missed it. I managed to build quite a thick skin when it came to yearning for any kind of paternal support or contribution to my life. I just figured I was surviving without it, so couldn’t really need it. The simple logic of youth. But having such an engaged step-father softened me. He taught me the virtues of good, reliable men and he restored my faith in their existence. After years of going without, I finally had someone else to lean on. And his shoulders were so broad that he could take everything I threw at him without buckling. I can’t tell you what that does to a young woman’s self-esteem, because I don’t really know. What I do know is that I’m confident my opinions of men in general changed, for the better, because of my relationship with Sal.

My sons are his grandchildren as if bound by blood. He was at the hospital while my first son was being born and then in the birthing suite with my mum when he was less than an hour old. My boys call him Nonno and even though they know he isn’t my ‘real’ dad, to them there is no ‘realer’ grandfather. So they are second generation Australian with a French, Dutch-Indonesian, Ukrainian heritage and an Italian grandfather. #mongrels.

When I was growing up, we celebrated my Mum on Fathers Day. It just seemed appropriate. But then she got married to my replacement Dad and it’s always been Sal’s day ever since.

My father-in-law John [JP]

I miss JP. His death five years ago has left one of the biggest holes in my life. I hit it off with JP from the moment I met him. Truth. When Mark brought me home to meet his parents for Christmas dinner, JP poured me a vodka shot and we immediately fell into a rhythm with each other that stayed with us until, literally, the day he died. Even on his actual deathbed when he was beyond words and I gently cooled him with a damp cloth during his last hours, I felt our connection. And I had already begun missing and mourning him.

It’s hard to explain exactly what it was about him that I resonated with so much. By all accounts he was a kind man who worked hard and liked a joke or three, but it wasn’t that. I met him the year he retired so he was very present and perhaps that helped lubricate our relationship. He was always just around. Helping Mark out around the house, fixing and renovating and gardening. He helped set up the liquor store and then when we sold that he helped out in the warehouse – packing up orders ready for freighting. He knew all our staff by name and they all loved him.

Mark spoke to him nearly every day and that really made an impression on me. They touched base on everything. Family issues and developments. Church politics. International politics. What Mark was ‘wasting’ his money on that week. What Mark was ‘neglecting’ that week. If he ever called and I answered the phone, he was happy and willing to talk to me before and sometimes in lieu of Mark. He’d also happily tell me what I was ‘wasting’ money on or ‘neglecting’… as if I was one of his own. In fact, I always felt like one of his own.

When our first son Nathan was born – he was nameless for nearly a week. Somehow in the preceding 9 months of hell pregnancy Mark and I hadn’t agreed on a name yet so we were scrambling in the days before we left hospital to come up with something. We consulted with both sets of grandparents. ROOKIE MISTAKE. Do not EVER consult with grandparents about the name of your child. JP called me morning and night in hospital after scouring borrowed baby name books and the internet [he was VERY tech savvy] with ridiculous helpful suggestions of popular traditional Ukrainian names. He was so earnest and committed and I treasure those moments we shared. He made me laugh and then he laughed with me because he never took anything personally and was never scared of rejection. It made him very easy to be with. He put himself out there with us as a family all the time and made himself available to us as often as he could.

When I brought Nathan home it was JP who would drop around during the day and bring me food. Usually some soup he had made or his famous Bolognese sauce. He would invite himself over and rug the baby up and sit him outside in a rocker and talk to him as he tended to the garden. “Why don’t you go and relax?” he would tell me “Nathan is fine with me.”

He would make me cups of tea and stand in the doorway with his back to me chatting as I breastfed. He adored his grandsons and couldn’t get enough of them. He took them for walks and fed them some of their first solids and held them until they fell asleep. He played with them and talked to them and showed them everything he could. And I believe he nurtured Mark’s role as a father by pure example.

When he was very sick and going through treatment he moved in to our home with my mother-in-law and I was honoured to wait on him for those weeks. Every day I made him breakfast, morning tea, lunch, afternoon tea, dinner and supper. I have always shown love by cooking for and feeding people and I showered him with as much love as I could. It was heartbreaking watching him die but the impact he made on my heart is significant and I will always be grateful for it.

So this Fathers Day I do have a lot to miss but so much to celebrate and I give thanks to the other fathers in my life.