Jingle Balls

'Tis the season.

It's Christmas time, which for me means a cross-country trip to see family and friends. There are usually parts of the journey that I enjoy more than others, but it's generally a rewarding experience I look forward to with few reservations.

That time away as a whole, however, has been more nerve-wracking the last few times around. There are some obvious reasons: the usual friction that comes with being in close proximity with people who know you better than most, the decline in my father's condition, the expectation and imminent disappointment of exchanging gifts on the day.

The main reason my wife and I have approached family holidays with caution in recent history has to do with two decorations that have changed their function. I'm talking, of course, about my nuts.

Before this week, I'm assuming my testicles and their product worked fine but I never had the will to find out. Carly and I made a decision, ten years ago now, to be a childless couple. I've only just now taken the action to make that decision unambiguously effective.

I got a vasectomy.

The grand bargain
What do my nuts have to do with the Christmas holidays you ask? Not much, if not for the fact that for as long as my beautiful nieces and nephew have been in existence, we've been pushed to have kids of our own.

"You'd make such a great dad!"

As more and more of my siblings' progeny came into being, I heard that prediction with an increasing amount of urgency. Never mind the fact that it's something that for ten years now I haven't wanted.

What do I want then? I'm not sure still, but I know a child or children isn't on my wish list. I want success in my career. I want to play videogames. I want to listen to my records. I want to enjoy the company of my friends and family. I want to learn more about the world and my place in it. I don't want to worry about the place of any children I could have potentially spawned.

That may sound cynical. To coin a term, it could even sound like paternal nihilism. I can only assure you that's not my intent. It's just that I love my life with [Borat voice] my wife. I don't see space for anyone else. Pets sure, but not another human being. For me, one of the key predictors of being a good parent is wanting to have kids in the first place.

"You'll think differently once you have your own kids."

That's not a bet I'd like to place. The fate of, at the very least, three people would be at risk. I'm not here to play god. I just want to live my life.

It's also inarguable that the bet would have more of an impact on Carly than it could possibly have on me. Leaving aside that, as a couple, we've decided to be childless, pregnancy and childbirth asks very little of the man. Moreover, contraception for the last fourteen years has asked very little of me, whilst putting a pharmaceutical figure four on the health and well-being of my partner. The contraceptive pill is a modern miracle, but it can fuck with multiple aspects of your physical and mental health. It's a burden I would prefer Carly not have to carry by herself. I'll pay the rent for the next few years.

"You owe [insert party here]"

It flaws me to have heard this sentiment expressed in a multitude of ways by so many different people. I mean I understand that my mother wants more grandchildren. I know that at least one of my brothers wants to share in the experience of parenthood with me. I'm not sure that my long dead ancestors thought about their gamer failson owing a life debt to their empire of dirt and bone, but this was offered as a reason to take stock of my decision at work the other day. These feelings and desires, sometimes noble and always coherent, are expressed in some truly upsetting ways.

I will support my family. When illness and circumstance threatens to break us, I'll be there. Apart from that, I don't owe anyone anything. I'm not having a kid so we can cosplay as a dynasty. That's not fair on anyone.

"Who'll take care of you when you get old?"

The premise of this is a real Hail Mary: that having children in some way guarantees you'll be shielded from the trials of old age. If my hypothetical progeny were to make it to adulthood, who's to say that they'd want to take care of Carly and I? With the increasing levels of wealth inequality, would they even have the resources to look after us and themselves? There's a whole heap of variables here that aren't necessarily going to work out in our favour.

That hypothetical scenario has no consideration for the agency of our children. To do so messes with the math. It's also pretty fucking selfish to have kids solely for the purpose of getting me into a home when my brain and/or body fails me.

Dinner for two
Now that I've gotten down from my soapbox, let's talk about the process.

Arranging a vasectomy has been shockingly convenient, with no institutional guilt trips waiting for Carly and I at any point. When I spoke with the doctor on the day, he almost seemed bored when I talked about our story, and our decade-old decision to pull the trigger when we hit thirty-five.

This was really nice and arguably essential after a late attempt at intervention from family. It's not that I couldn't go through with it if those obstacles eventuated, there just may have been tears if there were.

Despite my doctor's promises, there were times when it hurt. The pulling and pushing of precious parts were not hidden entirely behind local anaesthetic, but it was far from unbearable. After five minutes, it was all done. A modest mess of betadine (or similar-presenting fluid) was all I could see apart from the dressing of the wound.

One day on, there's some dull aching and the occasional sharp pain if I move too suddenly, but it's not too bad. I haven't even needed the ice pack yet, and I'll be ready to go back to the office on Monday.

Last Christmas, I gave you my nards
To tie this all up (hue hue), it's almost time for the Christmas trip. It's time to follow-up on that shouting match I had with my brother, and assert that this is what I want. What I've wanted for so long now. It's also time to hopefully mend some fences. Now that it's done, maybe my family can move on?

Who knows: maybe it won't come up. I can only hope.

At the end of the day, this was always about Carly and I and what we want for our life together. I would also like to acknowledge that there are some family and friends (particularly, my in-laws) who've been very supportive of our decision, and what that has involved.

This is what dying looks like

Dying looks like the erosion of a man-made beach.
Its contours form and reform in alarming ways.
Dying looks like an unsurprising surprise.
Each time the decay will have progressed, but its extent is unpredictable.
Dying looks like sleep.
The relaxation you should've afforded yourself for all those years.
Dying looks like struggle.
Your vascular, sinewy remains refuse to let your head hit the pillow.
Dying looks like you've lost control.
I wipe the drool from your lips when you eat, drink, sleep, walk, breathe.
Dying looks like panic.
I mean you no harm, I promise.
Dying looks like rebirth.
We don't know each other anymore. 

My timing may be a little off, but I'm pretty sure my dad is fourteen years into Parkinson's Disease. His diagnosis has become all the more complicated with the onset of Lewy body dementia which, for all intents and purposes, leads to the same outcomes as regular, old, life-ending dementia.

His situation is grim.

The irony is that, according to several medical professionals at least, Dad's biggest problem wasn't Parkinson's: it was depression. Depression brought on by Parkinson's interfering with what he enjoyed the most, and what was critical to his identity and sense of self worth. I'm talking about his ability to build and fix, which ultimately led to him providing for his family.

Put simply, in the beginning, dad's condition required medicine. Taking that medicine made him feel unwell and impacted on his ability to participate in his entirely-manual vocation. He abstained from taking the medicine which meant less nausea, but also increased the severity of his shaking. The shaking impacted on the quality of his work. Dad was embarrassed by producing low quality work. He couldn't do his job, and wouldn't take his medicine, meaning that he felt like a failure and his condition went untreated. The timing and severity of each of these inputs and outcomes is uncertain for me, but this was the foundation of woe. 

The decline in his condition warranted access to more-credentialed professionals. Their advice varied in terms of quality.

We had an arrogant innovator who had made a substantial contribution to the field, but was careless in terms of their advice in terms of supporting dad's care. One particularly negligent suggestion was responsible for the most significant incident we've endured in terms of both the degradation of dad's condition, and as a family caring for a loved one with Parkinson's Disease.

We had a softly-spoken, though wise operator who helped me make sense of the initial plateaus and the first big dips. At first, we were dismissive of his advice because he used words like "normal" and "baseline". When your dad starts seeing vampires among the branches of the Jacaranda tree at night, it's hard to reconcile that with the word "normal". When he ties down a bedside table with underpants, it's hard to recognise that as an acceptable "baseline". He responded to this, and changed his tact over time. I am genuinely thankful for his advice.

Complicating this was our family GP, who wanted to honour our dad's declining sense of agency. Their advice and inputs were, however, at odds with the reality of dad's decaying grip on reality, as well as the health and safety of various people tasked with aiding in his care. 

Throughout this entire ordeal, the roles of individual family members have changed too. Our attitudes and actions have been shaped by time and experience. If I could have my time again, I would absolutely be forcing us all out the door to speak to support groups. I would have continuously followed up on whether or not dad was taking his medication. I would have lobbied vigorously for compassionate public policy with regards to welfare and social services. If I had my time again, most critically, I would tell my mother that she is not alone. I would tell her that I love her and I'm proud of her. I would tell her that everyday.

Applying for support for your loved ones is overly burdensome and rife with cruelty. The policy, processes, systems and people driving this don't seem to be linked in a meaningful way. They require the meaningless confirmation and reconfirmation of self evident details, usually for arms of the same government department. The offices of Centrelink are a void where empathy and common decency go to die.

This may sound unrelated, but dying looks like waiting rooms, appointments, and a litany of forms.

Dying looks like your dad crying because he doesn't know why we've been waiting on the same green chairs for an hour waiting for the next available administrator.
Dying looks like tours of nursing homes that look slightly more cheery than the hospital ward where dad is currently staying.
Dying looks like your dad attacking you with anything he can get his hands on because, not only can he not recognise you anymore, he's also terrified that you're conspiring to have him killed.
Dying looks like thirty-two dollars per day in parking.
Dying looks like doctors pulling fifteen hour shifts just so they can see you and every other person who's in the process of dying right now.
Dying looks like burnt, over-priced coffee.
Dying looks like fish and chips sitting under the warmer in the hospital refectory for four hours.
Dying looks like a divorce so you can afford residential care for your husband.
Dying looks like the ward psychologist regretting their own advice.