Happy birthday to a lesbian feminist with working-class ideals
The idea of turning 94 is so ludicrous I push the thought away. I’ve never thought much about age anyway. I expected to die when I was 42 because my mother did and most of my female ancestors died around 50, except for one. Puti Mary. She lived till she was 73 which was a real achievement for a Māori woman in the 1930s. My southern Pākehā family, one of whom signed the Women’s Suffrage Petition, were not quite so long lived but all of them whether Māori or Pākehā were hard workers so I inherited that trait from both sides.
I am lucky. I still have a good brain so I can still work. Physically not so bad but subject to pain that, in spite of lots of tests, has not been identified except to say that it's not cancer. I’ve had cancer three times so it was a natural assumption for me to make. The doctors say they won’t do an exploratory op because of my age so I rely on pain relief which doesn’t take it away, just eases it slightly.
I buy frozen main meals which are great and I still cook some as well. I just have to be careful with knives and remember to turn the stove off as well as the plug on the wall.
The worst and most grievous thing is I am losing my sight and for someone who has been reading since she was four this is a huge grief. Yes I know I can get audio books and I’ve joined up with the audio books at the library but I have not listened to one yet. I know I will have to and eventually I will.
These physical disabilities are to be expected and there will come a time (soon) when I will accept them. I’m learning how little effort is made in the wider community to help people with poor sight. I am still expected to fill in forms even though they can see the white stick. So I have to ask for help which irritates me profoundly. However, I’m a realist. I’ll have a moan and then I’ll cope.
Someone rang me last year and asked if I ever thought about my funeral. I said no because, apart from discussing with my oldest son what I would like to happen, I don’t think about it. At my request my coffin has been made by my middle son and the guy who supervised the job added striped handles. This heterosexual man smiled when I thanked him. "Thought you might like it," he said, in an offhand tone. He keeps it safe under a billiard table where it waits until its needed.
For my birthday today I'm being taken out to lunch by an ex-neighbour and still friend, along with another old friend. Then on the weekend there’s lunch in Wellington with whānau. I write these words down but it still seems like I’m talking about someone else.
Years ago I wrote a poem I called "Tiger Country" and I’m including it here because it works.
You plunge off the cliff into Tiger Country
sleek and smiling tigers play hide and seek
slope around abandoned chairs, sad tables
silk cushions call encouragement from the sofa
an old painting turns its face to the wall.
Tigers lurk in old cards, beneath yours forever
snooze under Christmas lights that never worked
lope ahead to a destination only they know
signposts are suspect; there is no tunnel, no light
nobody pins a tail on these tigers.
Some nights after the sun has flamed
and seabirds search the pastures of the sea
tigers come out and lean gentle over your chair –
wrap you in a striped shawl of sturdy warmth
fold their paws and purr soft in the silent room
This is the danger time. Stand up. Walk slow.
Their eyes are on the game and you’re it.
Blood Matters by Renée (The Cuba Press, $40) has been longlisted for the 2023 Ngaio Marsh Award for best crime novel, and is available in bookstores nationwide.
