Honest Articulation.

A collection of truthful essays by strong, articulate, modern people.

[honestarticulation]

So, I could probably get breast cancer.

It’s an odd feeling to know that you might get cancer. I’ve known about it, and believed it, for as long as I can remember.

My Mum’s Mum died of Breast Cancer.

My Dad’s Mum died of Breast Cancer.

And six years ago, my Mum got diagnosed with Breast Cancer.

And so there it was… The moment she had wondered if it would ever arrive, and always hoped it wouldn’t. She’d been finding lumps in her breasts since she was 30, and 24 years later, one of them finally metastasised into ‘the big C’. My Mum’s story is a happy one. The happiest Cancer story that I’ve ever heard. She had a double mastectomy and they got it all. IT ALL. No follow up treatment required. No hormone therapy. No radiotherapy. No chemotherapy. She lost her breasts, and gained ’her girls’ (the prostheses that would now reside in her mastechtomy bra), and in the process, showed the most inner strength, courage and focus of anyone I’ve seen.  

At the end of it all, she began the process of genetic testing. I went with her as her daughter and as her friend. We spoke to the genetic counsellor and detailed our family history, painstakingly outlining the age and cause of death of those gone before us. How sad…. We were remembering our ancestors not for their delicious chicken casserole, or the way their eyes crinkled when they smiled, rather the clinical and sterile way they left the world, and saddest of all, the young ages they left us. Blood tests ensured and weeks passed. Was it just a freak of nature that Breast Cancer took her Mum, my Grandma, in her early 50’s or was the writing on the wall from the time she was born? Was it in her genes?

It turns out it was in my Grandmother’s genes. And in my Mum’s too. She tested positive to BCRA2; the lesser of the two BCRA genetic mutation evils, but an evil all the same. It not only increased her risk of breast cancer, but ovarian cancer too.  And with that, her ovaries were also gone. Another simple and straightforward decision; seemingly easier than picking a paint colour for the walls.

And so then it leaves me. The next and only female in the following generation. I have a 50:50 chance of having received the gene mutation from my Mum. 50%! I see that as a pretty good chance of not having it. Having thought all my life that my fate was sealed in breast cancer, it turns out I have a 50% chance of not contracting the thing I’ve for so long been convinced I’ll get.

I’ll find out too. One day. When I’ve finished having kids and no longer need my breasts to feed my offspring… And then I’ll know, once and for all, if my fate is sealed just like my Mum’s. Or if I can go back and start a clean slate, and live like the rest of you. One day soon….

[honestarticulation]

More than just a banana cake.

For as long as I can remember, my Dad has reminisced about his Mum's, my Nanna's, banana cake. In his mind, it is the best banana cake in the whole world. No other banana cake has ever come close to being as good as the one his Mum made. My Nanna passed away 22 years ago and since then, on many occasions, Mum has tried to replicate this cake for Dad, and (apparently) never quite succeeded.

It was his 60th Birthday earlier this year and he requested a banana cake for the party. As I knew no store-bought or ordered cake would ever come close to meeting his expectations, I volunteered to make it for him. With a new baby in the house, and no previous experience in baking large birthday cakes, this was going to be quite a task, but a challenge I was happy to take on none the less.

I picked Dad’s brains for the secrets to success. Just what did Nanna do that made this cake so wonderful? He told me a couple of Nanna’s tips which weren’t written in the recipe, and swore me to secrecy to never tell Mum, or anyone else for that matter. Of course, it’s widely known that the success of any banana cake is in the bananas;  the black-er the better. I wasn't about to make a cake for 70 people without a test run, so I would make a practice cake, for him to taste, and give me the necessary feedback needed for the big birthday bake.

After studying Nanna's recipe closely, slowly interpreting her cursive scrawl, converting the measurements from pounds and ounces back to the metric scale, I gathered all of the ingredients together. It was time for the bananas. My 2kg of bananas just weren’t ripe enough. Green bananas were just not going to cut it. It seemed that the banana gods were looking down on me that day because on our local ‘Buy Swap and Sell’ Facebook group, up popped someone giving away overripe bananas. Fate has a funny way of intervening, as I’d never before seen bananas on this site, and never since then either. I drove all over the western suburbs of Melbourne swapping my ripe bananas for over-ripe ones with strangers. After the baby was tucked safely in bed, I sifted, and measured, and mixed, and baked that practice cake in anticipation of his visit.

When he and Mum arrived, we made cups of tea and sat down for the tasting. I cut him a slice and he took a bite. And then, an enormous smile appeared on his face and he shed a tear. "That's it!" he said. It was perfect. In that moment, in that one bite of banana cake, he was taken back to a time long before I was even a glimmer in his eye, and his Mum was alive and cooking cake for him.

I learned many life lessons that day. Of course, firstly my ‘Nigella’ moment was better than I ever could’ve imagined. I learned about the power of food. Sort of like how they speak of it on Masterchef (don’t judge). Food can be powerful; filled with emotion and heart. I learned that family is absolutely the most important thing in the world and that going out of your way to do something to make someone else happy is always worth it. And it’’s the little things in life, the times and moments that money cannot buy, that will bring us the most joy.

One thing is for certain, after seeing how happy my Dad was after eating that cake, eating it will forever bring me the sweetest, most joyful, memories too.

[honestarticulation]

The honesty policy.

If Lena Dunham can write in a book about being raped or “treated inappropriately” by a teacher, why can we not read such things online? I think I used to. You know, read honest accounts of heartache without a sponsored post caveat at the bottom. Or scroll through my Facebook feed and see real headlines, not the newsy click-baiting I see today. The blogs that I held close to my heart slowly evolve into the type of trashy, mainstream media sites that I specifically chose to avoid. (Yeh, that’s right. You know the ones I’m talking about).

And so it came to me. A lightbulb moment as such. In bed, just after the lights were turned off. At that point, I didn’t have the motivation to get up and write it down but it thankfully came back as I showered the next morning (why do I do all my best thinking in the shower?). If I want to read lovely stories, about real life, real challenges, real happiness; why wouldn’t anyone else?

It is with great pride, I introduce to you - honest articulation. A curated bunch of stories without the semi-gloss of a woman’s weekly gossip magazine.  To celebrate and inspire; to support and encourage. To laugh and maybe sometimes, to even cry. Real life is real, and here, that’s just fine.