By Lucy

Less than a month ’til I go back to Canada, 2 weeks until I leave the estate for presumably the last time (It’s hard to say, it is possible Simo might not have sold the place before I get back).

When I woke up Wednesday morning, I had been sent the revised schedule for the mill shutdowns. To my bleary eyes it looked like it had been put back 3 weeks, and I started to celebrate.

Alas, it was incorrect. They’ve increased the scope of the shut down so it’s actually starting a week earlier! Of course, there’s nothing I can do to get back to Thunder Bay faster. The real concern is getting myself sorted with essentials and unwind myself from being jet-lagged before heading back to work.

We had another ex-chicken. I wonder what they die of. Heart attack?

Simo got word that someone was thinking of coming to look at the house on the weekend, so she had a meltdown. Whatever the original plan was for Wednesday was thrown out the window as I was sent to clean the windows, sweep the deck, dust and generally tidy. Which seemed silly, because surely all those things would need to be done again the morning of, no?

David showed up to mow the yard and he’s much better at it than Gary. Simo left to go grab some petrol for him to weed-whack while he worked on something else in the garage.

The fact that I know about his prison time and he doesn’t know that I know weighs on me. I felt like he had a right to know that it was something I was privy to, so I went up to him.

“I… uh… I know about your prison time.” I said, trying to adopt a neutral but confident tone.

“Oh, yeah?” He said, stopping what he was working on. He laughed, slightly incredulously. “How’d you find that out?”

“Someone mentioned you were in prison…” I trailed off. I didn’t want to mention who, and they hadn’t told me many details anyway. “The article is the first thing that comes up when you Google your name.” That’s the important bit, anyway.

“Ah. Yeah, I’m not in a hurry to go back.” He says. I feel like no one really wants to go back to prison, but he does say it with the haunted tone of someone who had some sense knocked into them.

“Seems like you got out real early.” I ask casually.

He bends over and pulls up the hem of his pants to display an electronic tracking anklet. “Not quite out yet, you see.”

I froze and didn’t know what to do with my face. I knew he’d had to have one of those, and I’d had a list of things in my head about people who have been recently released from prison. But I’d never actually spoken to one, so far as I know. It was a cold splash of reality; he’d really seen and done those things.

I also wasn’t sure what to do with the conversation. I figured asking about the crime or his time was just satisfying my own morbid curiosity, and he was probably tired of people asking him about it. So I just awkwardly ended the conversation and went back to my work.

For lunch Simo made us sausage rolls. Me and David have an easy repartee and I half-expected her to be concerned that I was bonding with the criminal, but she didn’t comment on it. I complained about weeding the path literally every day and David offered to bring the weed sprayer back so we could spray the path. I agreed readily; I’d be going over my 5 hours for the day, but it would be so worth it down the road!

At 2 he came back with the sprayer. As we waited by the side-by-side while he filled it up, he asked, “So, what did you think of the article?” He was clearly hanging on to my answer, wondering what his crime looked like to whatever mental image he has of me.

Hmm…

“It seemed kind of silly, the way you reacted. But I also know… what it’s like to be in the middle of that kind of mess. What it does to your head. How it is hard to see what you should do. I get it.” I said after a moment.

He nodded.

“And it must suck to just be out of prison. You can’t talk to your old friends, you can’t drink, anybody googles your name and the past comes up…”

“Yup.”

He said more but repeating what he said would require explaining why he was in jail, which I’m not going to do. We had a somewhat serious conversation about prison and parole. He seemed like he was relieved to be getting some of it off his chest, which I am glad for, cuz I didn’t want to be tormenting him by reminding him of it. Once I’d said my bit to let him know what I knew, that was where I was willing to leave it.

We sprayed the driveway, me driving the side by side and him operating the weed killer sprayer, cracking jokes the whole time. I realized that with the timeline of Simo and Gary getting together, David had missed most of this. He hadn’t seen this or that get built. He hadn’t met Earl before. I’d spent more time here than he had.

I tried to avoid commenting on anything I knew was recent. He was quite keen to hear my stories about scaffolding, so I rattled a bunch of those off; something neutral, unconnected to his missing past.

Gary was home for dinner, for whatever reason. Simo made nachos, which her and Gary ate with a fork and knife somehow, some way, and I just shoveled them in my mouth with my bare hands and felt like an animal.

On Thursday we had a unique event, or at least one I’d never experienced. There was a bus coming for a tour and morning tea. I got up earlier and fed the chickens early before changing into my nice clothes and heading in to the house.

There were some chocolate allergies in the group, so Simo made banana muffins the night before. We set the table buffet-style; tea on one side, coffee on the other, milk and sugar cubes, a tray of 15 mugs (for 13 guests plus 2 staff) and 15 plates. Simo made some sausage rolls while I was set to work buttering the muffins; peeling off the paper, cutting a slot in the top and putting some butter in them, and then giving them a dusting of icing sugar. She had 2 big pots on the stove to make the coffee and tea in large quantities and keep it hot before being ladled into the silver tea pots.

Then the guests arrived and it was go time. The mad rush was at the beginning. Everyone had questions about everything; how old is the building, is the furniture original or not (not), who’s in the paintings. I laughed at this, because I suspected and later confirmed that the majority of the oil paintings are of Simo’s ancestors. Given the age of them and the fact Lombardy was part of Napoleonic France, they don’t look very Italian, which is just as well.

After about half an hour we corralled them into the sitting room for a lecture on the history. Some of it was old news to me and some of it was novel; like, apparently Wilfred’s son had been living in the house, taking care of him when he died in 1943. Then, for some strange reason, the property was inherited by Wilfred’s daughter, and the son was sent to live in the property behind this one, currently owned by the grandson of the son. Apparently they are still bitter about being kicked out! Also the grounds are home to one of the furthest south Kauri (Kauri usually being limited to the north island).

About 2/3’s of the way through her speech, Simo was caught off guard as the guests started to ask questions about herself. I do think it’s funny that she says she isn’t very interesting, when by her own admission she is highly unusual. Also, she filled the house with her own furniture and paintings and stories. Of course people will be curious how that came to be!

They were packed back into the bus and on their way before noon. Then it was time to pack everything up again; tidy up the mugs, plates and spoon, vacuum the crumbs off the floor and wipe up spilled tea. Me and Simo picked at the leftover sausage rolls and muffins for lunch.

Simo wanted me to rake up the cut grass on the croquet lawn. Why? Cuz it “doesn’t look good”. I said I’d take care of it in the afternoon and went back to my cabin for a bit.

At 4 I went out to help David with a couple of things and started working on the lawn. I used the leaf blower to gather the grass into big piles to be raked into the wheelbarrow, but it was a lot of trips back and forth across the yard to dump the grass in the hot sun.

At 5 Simo gave me something to make for dinner cuz she was going out to meet with the real estate agents. She gave me a half cup of rice, some chicken in some sauce, 3 ‘butter beans’, and a medium sized zucchini. I grabbed a pack of ramen to beef it up cuz it looked a little lean for a dinner, after a long day on my feet.

Another load of firewood was dropped off, stretching across the path to the dog kennel now. Luigi, watching the food in my hands and not where he was going, tripped over it! I saw it coming a mile away and I wish I’d had my phone with me to capture it!

I am slowly starting to get some restful sleep. My resting heart rate is slowly tracking down. It doesn’t help that I ran out of Metamucil and creatine; my order got sent to Kelly’s place by mistake, and she is carless still, but this is only temporary.

Friday was a lot.

I was on my feet for 6 hours, raking up grass. It was the number 1 task she wanted done. She didn’t get home ’til after 10PM the night before, but she didn’t want to talk about it, so it wasn’t good news.

At noon I asked for a ride to town to grab my money from the shop. She grumbled a bit but gave me a ride around 2PM.

The bike shop owner handed me an envelope. On it was scrawled; half now, half on Wednesday because payday.

“That’s not what we agreed to.” I said.

The guy put his hands up, “Hey, I don’t know what’s going on between you two. I’m just the messenger. But he is trustworthy, I know him well.”

Well, as it currently stands the bike is still in my name, so if he stiffs me I could just keep this money and sell the bike again, hah. Still, it means I have to find another way to get there on Wednesday.

We went back to the house and I finished working on the yard, but what I really needed was to go to Darfield. The money was no use to me in cash; I needed it in the bank. After work, I was so hot and tired I flopped on the bed before I could contemplate another draining walk out to the road on my burning legs. Around 3:30 I walked out to the main road and stuck my thumb out.

I waited less than ten minutes when a young man stopped. The floor of his SUV was covered with empty energy drink cans and the inside of the car smelled like a candy store as a result. He apologized for the mess, but beggars can’t be choosers. At least it smelled pleasant.

He’s just moved here from the west coast and was living on Washpen Lane, funnily enough, although he is one of those guys who drives from work to the store and home again without diversion.

I had him drop me off at the store and ran over to the ATM. Then I noticed –

It only does withdrawals.

What the crap is that? The only ATM in a 100 kilometer radius won’t let you deposit money? Crap crap crap.

There was a Kiwibank next door… closed now. Rats.

I went into the grocery store. There was no blue cheese for sale here, so far as I could tell. I got myself some yogurt, some Barker’s syrup, some more Tylenol, and a bottle of wine.

I went back out to the road and stuck my thumb out again, but it seems most people weren’t going the way I was going. I started walking towards the turn-off for Hororata, when a silver SUV pulled over in front of me. The guy who had driven me in happened to drive by on his way back to his place! I needed something good to happen, finally.

Money I can’t use, excellent. I wonder if I should have negotiated with the buyer to transfer me the money instead. Well, I didn’t know I couldn’t deposit it!

I moved some money around so all my bills were covered… just. Like, my credit card will have 20 cents left on it. But it’s fine. My income tax will come in and I’ll be fine.

I drank the whole bottle of wine that night. I didn’t intend to. I’m not even sure if I have done that before. But my thoughts kept running on that hamster wheel and I just wanted them to stop.

I felt kind of silly the next day. Richard was supposed to be picking me up on his motorcycle and I was so sick and dizzy with a hangover. I also felt better, though. Emotionally purged. Like when you have a stomach bug and you throw up and feel better (no I did not throw up).

Saturday morning, my drug shipment! I switched back to powdered creatine, I find it works better than the capsules. This brand is my favourite, although unfortunately this jug didn’t come with a scoop!

I did the chickens and made myself a packed lunch and got ready in motorcycle clothes, and then he showed up in a gold-coloured station wagon. He’d decided it was too windy for a bike ride, lame.

We were going out to Mt Sunday, which was one of those Lord of the Rings locations I had given up on visiting. It’s just a rock in a field, although I supposed the same could be said of most of them. Nestled in the usual brown Otago scrub grass.

Richard is from around here; as we drove, he pointed out plots of land his family used to own, and there’s a sign in the shantytown near Lake Clearwater dedicated to his family name. His brother still farms over the hill from there.

The drive up to Mt Sunday is a gravel road, although at this point it is nice and hard packed from all the tourists and I would have had no trouble navigating it with my bike.

There is this wow moment, if you religiously watched the movies or just have a good memory, when you come over the top of a crest and the plain is laid out before you, framed on all side by the Alps – because we were well embedded in the foothills – with the Main Divide snow-capped on the far side. And in the middle, little Mount Sunday. It’s only like a 100 meter elevation gain, just a blip on the map, but it would be a good real-life location for Edoras. You could see enemies coming for miles. I wonder if the rock was deposited there by the glaciers or if it was carved out of softer rock by the same.

Richard explained that around the corner of Mt Sandy is also where Helm’s Deep was filmed, although it was mostly CGI.

You know, I’ve actually been slightly regretting choosing to stay at the estate instead of moving on. I hate the fleas biting me every night. The smell of the chickens is getting on my nerves more than it used to. It would be nice to relax a bit more… cook for myself… be able to walk around town. I almost – almost – asked Richard if he could just take me back to Christchurch with him, but I didn’t.

We drove back to Lake Clearwater and had lunch sitting by the water. He brought some “filled rolls” AKA sandwiches from a bakery, and also some handpies. The handpies were delicious; flaky pastry, thick meaty filling and a nice topping of some choice aged cheddar. The rolls were pretty good too, freshly baked. On the way back to the estate, we stopped at Mt Somers’ village and got ice cream, so I could finally try the legendary Kiwi Hokey Pokey ice cream, which is really just pralines and cream with a different name.

As we were driving back, we noticed a huge plume of smoke drifting in from Lake Heron. It almost completely obscured the road, although once we were thru it it was clear again. It seemed like a controlled burn, cuz I kept checking the fire reports and there wasn’t any for the area. Later on in the day the smoke drifted towards the estate to the point that I couldn’t see Mt Hutt, but still nothing.

I asked him if he wanted a tour of the estate when we got back, but he just wanted to head out cuz he still had to pack for his trip.

I went inside and had a nap.

I’ve noticed a few articles out lately that show, now that we’re a few generations deep into the internet, that screen use is actually changing our bodies. Using noise cancelling headphones chronically can cause audiological disorientation, when you have trouble telling where sounds are coming from, although if you ‘detox’ from the headphones your ability should return to normal. Same from screens; too much screen use causes your eyeballs to become myopic, but going outside and looking at a bunch of things far away will return it to normal.

Most people don’t know this, but I actually have reading glasses. I don’t need them, in the sense that I’m not myopic. I am slightly far-sighted, like most humans used to be. The eye doctor calls them “anti-fatigue” glasses; a slight near-sighted prescription and a blue light filter, to stop me from developing eye strain and headaches from being on a screen all the time. I recommend them if you don’t have glasses and your work benefits covers them. I mean, you can buy 20 dollar reading glasses at the store, but these will be tailored to you, and it’s not like you get that money paid out from your benefits anyway.

The real change is in children. Kids are increasingly becoming permanently myopic. It seems that if we can temper the use below the the threshold for permanent change until they hit 18 and their eyes are set, they’ll be fine.

Of course, I don’t care for all this “won’t somebody think of the children” stuff. Sure, screen use in changing us, the way evolution has always adapted us to our environment. Screen use is the way of the future and the sooner we adapt to that, the better, really and truly, cuz the only real fix to that is to go full Luddite and start trying to dismantle the internet. Unlike, say, the omnipresence of diabetes and obesity, I don’t think myopia is that bad. The noise cancelling headphone thing is less clearcut… I will say I have noticed that in myself, which is why I prefer to listen to my music through speakers if I can.

Sunday I had planned to pack. Time to put all my motorcycle gear in a box, along with everything else I don’t want to have to haul around with me on the bus and the plane.

Alex and his wife have moved into the hut, which entailed moving around some furniture as they stored things on the property. As Alex screamed in frustration and kicked a piece of furniture out of the garage, I rolled my eyes. He’s a scaffolder, alright.

“Why are we doing this again?” I asked Simo as we watched through the kitchen window. “Can’t he just get a storage locker?”

“They’re like 50 dollars a week! This is what you do for your kids.” She said, frustrated and running her hands through her hair.

Really? Would you like to call my parents and enlighten them?

50 NZD a week is about what I am paying for my storage locker. Plus, he’s not paying you rent, and both him and Sam have jobs. He could be a little considerate.

Someone was supposed to be coming by to purchase the furniture. However, Alex left it all in a crumpled heap in the middle of the driveway, and as it had been in a garage for the better part of a decade, it was covered in bird shit, mouse shit, and dead spiders. When the guy showed up with a truck and a trailer, he literally did a loop of the driveway and left without stopping.

“Well, that’s rude!” Kelly exclaimed.

“I mean, it’s covered in bird shit and Alex left it all in a heap!”

“He’s only paying 300 dollars for it!”

I suppose. And it does include a working oven. But cleanliness means something. I think about 75% of people would refuse to take this stuff even if it was free, just because they wouldn’t want to put in the elbow grease to clean it.

That ended up being my downfall, cuz I guess Kelly relayed it to Simo and Simo knocked on my door. “Would you mind cleaning the furniture so we can put them back in the garage again? Trade you today for Monday.”

Me and my big mouth. Still, it was necessary. It’s supposed to rain cats and dogs all week, so it had to be done today.

Alright, time to fill up a bucket with soapy water and grab a handful of rags.

As I wiped bird shit off the white vinyl, it occurred to me that I should probably be using bleach, rubber gloves and a face shield. Oh, who cares. In less than a month I’ll be back at the mill, breathing in quicklime and asbestos.

The heat was almost unbearable, especially as the sun came around and chased away the shade of the tree. Simo and Kelly came out to help, but around 3 we had to call it; Simo was pretty pink in the face from heat stroke and we probably weren’t far behind.

We had a whole crowd for dinner, now Alex and Sam have technically moved in. They opted to make burgers as a sign of gratitude. Apparently Kiwi’s put pickled beets on their burgers.

Gary came in, “I hear you’re a pension chaser!” He said to me with a giant grin on his face.

“You what now?” I rolled my eyes. I assume Simo mentioned the fact that Richard is definitely not my age, although I’m pretty sure he’s not as old as Pete and he is definitely not romantically interested in me, or vice versa. Is that really that interesting?

Hey, maybe I should be a black widow. There’s a career goal.

When I went to put the chickens away, there was a possum watching me, even though the sun was still above the horizon. They’ve been coming out pretty early lately, and they have no fear of me. They just watch me walking around.

I watched a series called Apple Cider Vinegar. In broad strokes, it’s a biopic about an Australian woman named Belle Gibson (who really exists) who set up a successful con claiming she had terminal brain cancer but had beat it through “clean eating”. I do think saying it was a con is giving her too much credit, though. She basically just told people she had “brain cancer” and no one really pushed beyond that. By all accounts her recipes, book and app were good, insomuch as they were gluten-free, vegan recipes she had cribbed from elsewhere.

She’s a love-to-hate, swinging constantly from one cheap lie to another, using and dropping people like nothing, although I do appreciate the series makes an attempt to humanize her without making her overly sympathetic. It’s too easy to make someone like that a caricature.

The B-story is what grabbed me. They use different names, but they were obviously crafting Milla’s story from Jess Ainscough and Gerson therapy.

Finding out about Gerson therapy was how I saw the light.

I’ve said before my mother is anti-vax, but she didn’t start that way… few do. My mother was right about some things when I was a kid. She called PFAS before they were acknowledged to be dangerous. She’s been on climate change since the get-go. So when stuff like “vaccines cause autism” started popping up, she thought she was just ahead of the curve again.

As dad got sicker and the specter of it started hanging over me, I think the guilt started really eating at my mother. She started pushing more and more into the snake oil, and I didn’t mind it at first. A turmeric pill a day, what’s the harm? But then it got worse and worse. I lost my patience with it when she told me the only reason I’d have to have my colon removed is because I didn’t listen to her about the woo. Because I wasn’t a “True Believer”.

I still believed a bit, though.

I’ve noticed people writing about the series saying the doctors seem oddly cold and callous for oncologists, but that was entirely reflective of my experiences. There may be a bit of false positives in my story, however. By the time I took over my own care, the doctors knew I knew my stuff, so there was no need to sugar coat it or break it to me gently. And I’m stubborn; I’d rather pretend it doesn’t bother me and go home and cry alone. The outlier was the sarcoma doctor in Toronto; once she’d gotten everything she needed out of me to write her paper, she wouldn’t see me anymore and just fobbed me off on the resident, which I thought was rude.

In any case, it’s intoxicating; hope. When I got diagnosed with the desmoid, I did go on the internet to try and find something, anything. Any supplement or herbal remedy that could mitigate my symptoms, manage my condition, because for about 6 months after I got that diagnosis I really thought I was dead. I thought I wasn’t going to see 25. I was terrified.

Somehow I ended up on the Gerson therapy website.

I didn’t believe it for a minute. The claims of ‘only they can cure cancer’, in defiance of any actual science or logic. I guess the grand conspiracy claims draw some people in, but they pushed me away. All of medical science is wrong? All hundreds of thousands of doctor globally? No one is that special, sweetheart.

But I was baffled. I googled around more, curious how they were so bold to make these claims, and I came across Orac’s blog. The post he’d written about Jess Ainscough’s death. She died on February 26th, 2015, 10 years ago and 29 years old (what an odd coincidence).

I kept going through the website, page after page after page. Turmeric, garlic, all of it, wrong. There was no science there. My mother was wrong.

My despair flipped inside out at that point. How dare they? How dare they peddle fake cures and fake studies and tell me I didn’t need to be maimed if I just did their stupid juice cleanses? I don’t want their fake hope, fueled by greed. I screamed. I threw out the teas and the pills that I now knew didn’t work. And I felt terribly embarrassed for all the time I had wasted believing in it.

I’m beyond skeptical now. I hate all of it. I hate it when doctors tell me “just take an iron supplement”. Which ones aren’t doctored? Which ones are real? Why can’t there be some supplements behind the counter that I can trust?

I still drink my teas. Maybe my chamomile tea isn’t actually doing anything, but it is a nice evening ritual and I like the flavour.

I think the series gives Jess more credit than I would have. Unlike Belle, who was entirely faking, Jess really had cancer and it eventually killed her. But I think the way she started walking back her claim of “beating” cancer, and the way her website was scrubbed the day after she died, implies that at some point she knew Gerson hadn’t worked and the cancer was killing her. She also appears to have gone back to conventional therapy at some point, although I’m curious if she was too far gone to be salvaged, or if she chose to let it kill her.

I hate her too. The way she throws petulant fits about “not letting the doctors tell her what to do”. It’s not the doctors, it’s science. You might as well rage at the clouds for dictating your weather, or the Earth for continuing to spin.

I can’t say I wouldn’t have the same opinion as her, but not the same reaction or rationale. I probably would have chosen to die rather than let them cut off my arm, same as I’ve chosen to die rather than undergo the Whipple. But that’s a different understanding. I understand that the cutting is necessary for life and chose something else, not just pompously declaring that I reject reality.

And the third story, a young woman named Lucy suffering from metastatic breast cancer.

Her story was hard to watch, mostly because I am intensely jealous of the faithfulness of her partner. When she wants to walk away from chemo and try Gerson because she believes in Jess, her partner exclaims “I want you to keep going to chemo because I want you to live!”

Why? I was musing a while ago, what I want in a partner, and the thought crossed my mind… I just want someone to hold my hand while I die. Maybe it’s because I’m so forthright about my options and opinions, or that I wear my pain like armor, but no one’s ever said that to me. Even when I was hospitalized and throwing up blood, no one ever said they were worried about me and they wanted me to be ok.

I probably wouldn’t have wanted to hear it anyway.

Maybe I’m starting to.