WHAT SHOULD HAVE BEEN A RED FLAG TO MY MOTHER.

Nearly 42 years to the day ago, I returned to school for second semester and one of my teachers greeted a few of us with, “Hello, all you happy people.” I was happy. By morning tea, my friend noticed that I seemed quiet, and I was trying to mask the fact that I didn’t feel well.

That night, as mum was running a bath for me, she noticed a red blister with a pink halo on my arm, and as I was supposed to go to Cubs that night, she was concerned. I asked her if I would still be going and she replied, “If it’s an allergy, you can,” and within minutes, she told me to get dressed again and we were going to the doctor. The doctor told her that I had not an allergy but the chickenpox. The doctor said that in about two weeks, my brother would also have them. By rights, it’s a pity that my brother didn’t get them first as that would have meant that I could miss the day that was sensory hell for me at school, sports day. What should have been a red flag to my mother, once the doctor told her, was that my first thought was, “I can watch A Country Practice tonight.” (My father told my brother and I to go to bed at 7:30 even though we hadn’t misbehaved the night before, even though my bedtime had been moved to 8:30, so I missed it). There was not a single bit of disappointment that I would miss Cubs that night and the following Monday, and I secretly wished that I could miss a third Monday as they had adopted a policy that if you did not attend a meeting for three consecutive nights you were crossed off the roll.

One night, they invited fathers to come along as we were making billy carts, and it took him to convince my mother that scouts were not right for me.