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I wrote this letter yesterday to my high school English teacher whom I've kept in touch with. I thought I'd share it.

I’m writing this letter while sitting on the cold, drizzly train station at Windsor. Today I am central-coast-bound, to stay with my cousin Lala and her boyfriend Cal; they bought a place of their own in July this year so this is my first official visit. I’m really looking forward to a week of DVDs and going to the beach after what has been a very long and difficult month. But before I talk about the last month, I’ll tell you what I’ve been up to this year. It’s been a long and eventful year—I’ve certainly changed a lot and come a long way since last December.

The first monumental event of 2006 was my ‘coming out’, although I hate that term passionately. I had been struggling with coming to terms with my sexuality since high school but it wasn’t until late 2005 that acceptance finally replaced fear and confusion. In mid-January I told my best friend Liz. “I know” she said. Lala swears black and blue that she had no idea—and I believe her—but then she has known me for my whole life so perhaps her perception is a little more blinkered than that of Liz and Cal, who have known me for a much shorter period. I haven’t come out to my parents, sister or the family-at-large. It’s more for a fear of their reactions than from not wanting to do it; I just want to get it over with.

This year I started my first year of tertiary study—kinda—at UNSW. With my UAI around the 70 mark and all the time between high school and now, I am hardly the ideal uni candidate—on paper at least. I know I am a good student, it’s just a matter of proving myself with necessary documentation and all that kind of thing. So with this in mind I looked at various alternative entry pathways. The one that suited me best was a course called the ‘University Preparation Program’ at UNSW. It’s a one-year course that has two subjects and gives you a certificate (of sorts) to use as evidence of study so that you can enter university as a mature age student. The first semester’s class was a compulsory unit called ‘University Orientation and Study Skills’ which encompassed essay skills, study skills, academic language, that kind of thing. My final mark was 85 and I learnt a lot of new skills and expanded my writing and researching skills. The second semester was an elective subject drawn from the uni’s general education program. I chose one called ‘Opiate of the People: The Church in Western Society 1500-2000’. It was a fascinating, if at times irritating, course. My final mark on that was 83.

Throughout the year I would stay with my grandfather (Pop) in Croydon. My aunt and uncle live there also, my aunt caring for Pop as he was a little ‘rickety’ at 92 but still with as much fire and ‘joire de vivre’ as ever he had. Growing up I always felt more of a connection to my mother’s side of the gamily with its European ancestry and strong traditions, and—I’m a little ashamed to say—tended to neglect Dad’s side with its Australian banality. I loved my Pop always but felt less connection with him than with Mum’s family. As I have grown and matured this year the facade has began to crack a little where Mum’s family is concerned. What I mean is I am beginning to see dysfunction—I can’t think of another word to describe it—in the family. Increasingly I feel like the black sheep: a gay, disabled, left-leaning black sheep. This year, as the ‘connection’ has wanned on one side, it has grown on the other. Spending time with Pop the last year has brought us both much closer. I spent a week with him in July when my aunt and uncle went away on holidays. His body was weak but he loved to laugh and constantly picked on me for my caffeine addiction. He asked about my course each week, about my travels and goings on; we had a great time catching up one night a week over tea and bikkies.

In November, the week after my course ended, he was admitted to hospital with abdominal pain. Blood tests were done but not much light was shed on the situation beyond picking up a low iron count. He developed pneumonia at some point; I’m not sure whether it was in the hospital or before. He was discharged after a week however he returned some days later for more tests. As one thing was treated, another popped up—he was dehydrated so a saline drip was administered; the drip filled his lungs with fluid, a symptom of congestive heart failure; the drip was removed and he again became dehydrated. It was a vicious circle.

The hospital ward left a lot to be desired. I visited him every second day or so, in the evenings after Dad got home from work. He was pale and slow by the end of November, but his smile remained constant. Dad visited him on the 2nd of December and as he was leaving he said “Tomorrow will be a better day Dad, I love you.”—“Yes it will.” Pop replied. He died the next morning, amid the smell of shit and the sound of loud-mouthed nurses whom I hated. It was such an unjust ending for such a brilliant man.

The funeral was simple yet dignified. We did it all ourselves; there was no minister of religion present, as per Pop’s wishes. I think this made it much more personal. Sister spoke about the kind of man and father he was; I spoke about my memories of our time together in the past year; and my cousin, Pop’s eldest grandson (at 48!), spoke of his memories and his character. I barely got through my piece; I don’t know how Sister and my cousin did it! Lala stood behind me, rubbing my back as I spoke through my sobs (although I have no recollection of that). But it was something I had to do—a kind of closure I guess.

So now, I make plans for the next year. I have applied to do a Bachelor of Arts program, part-time to begin with. I’d like to concentrate on English, literature, linguistics and language so as to become a language teacher. I’d like to do either English literacy, ESL or Spanish (of which I am probably 75% fluent). I’d prefer to work with primary-school aged children or adults but I’m open to whatever comes my way.

Needless to say the last month of stressing, worrying and visiting the hospital every week has made a dent in my health, which wasn’t great to begin with. Throughout the year I coped with one day of study per week with only one major relapse in September. I have, however, been walking with a walking stick since November 2005. My legs had become increasingly weak and painful before I made the difficult decision to use the stick—despite looking debonair on occasion it is, on the whole, a pain in the arse. It allows me to walk a little easier, providing support for my legs and knees, which in turn lessens the pain and weakness. Lala, ever my protector, chastises any gawkers (sometimes to my embarrassment but generally it’s greatly appreciated). The pain has steadily gotten worse as the year wore on, so the doctor has started me on an anti-convulsant drug which actually blocks the pain signals in the brain. We are still ironing out the dosage—I still experience pain but it is considerably less intense than before I started the drug. I still have to be careful about monitoring my energy levels and activities but, on the whole, I feel my symptoms have shifted from the fatigue (read: exhaustion) that I experienced in high school to pain in my legs, arms, back and head pain. I’m confident that this new drug will work once we find the correct dosage.

So, that was 2006. As I said, it was a long and difficult year, yet oddly liberating. It was strangely cathartic too. This week, after the funeral, life feels surreal. I miss my Pop. It’s an odd feeling—I saw him two days before he died, talking and animated, and now he’s suddenly disappeared. My logical side understands the mechanics of life and death but my emotional side can’t understand why he’s just gone. It’ll just take some time.

I wish you and your family a very merry Christmas time; enjoy your holidays! I hope to hear from you soon.

Best wishes, Daniel