House wife’s curse and hand shoes

My fingers smell of rubber from the gloves I wore yesterday to clean out the toilets and three bathrooms in this house. There’s no one else to clean for me in this time of Covid and so I find myself reverting to earlier days when I took solace from dragging out the disinfectant and bleach, then soaping up the walls of the bath and shower recess to make them shine.

I took the greatest pleasure in stabbing at the black smear of mold that formed in the corners of every shower recess, ignored over time, and I scraped away till it too skipped off in sooty particles. 

Too many years of half-hearted cleaning by someone else means I can never get the bathroom back to its original newness but I can at least create an aura of cleanliness that pleases me in this time of the virus when people are still fearful, though less so in Australia when our daily infection tally is modest compared to elsewhere.

I wear the same rubber gloves when I complete a poo collection around the back garden picking up after the dogs have left their daily offerings. I do this every few days and fill a small bag with shit, a thing that once would have set my stomach roiling but now bothers me very little. 

The rubber gloves of my mind have created a type of immunity to the things that would have upset me in my youth.

I learned it from my mother. A type of stoicism, the sense that it has to be done, so do it. No point in being squeamish. 

When the skin specialist burns off a small spot on my leg that if left unattended could spread into something more sinister, I will watch the procedure. I will fix my eyes on his gloved hands and watch as he takes hold of the blue gun that reminds me of the machine my daughter uses when she blazes a caramelised coating on her crème caramel.

The skin specialist promises it will sting. The sting of the liquid nitrogen on bare skin. A pin prick of pain that lasts as long as he holds the zapper to my leg and then it’s over. 

I watch to harden myself against the pain. I watch to get a sense of what it’s like to watch a person inflict something harsh on another person. All for the greater good.

It would be different if I were in some sado-masochistic dance with a man who drew sexual pleasure out of inflicting pain on me. And I doubt I could do such a thing to myself.

The nurse manager who rang with the results of my biopsy, told me there are three possibilities in treating this Basel Cell carcinoma.

We can cut it out, the most invasive. We can burn it off or we can use an ointment another skin specialist introduced me to several years ago when I had a crazy case of irritation on my lip. A type of chemotherapy that I must apply myself.

I cannot do such a thing, no matter how stout of heart. 

The first dermatologist diagnosed sun damage that could become cancerous. The second, the dermatologist I now attend, described it as a case of both eczema and a fungus dancing around together on my lip and neither was responding to either treatment typically used.

I needed to combine treatments in titrated doses to get the thing clear. It worked, so he’s my dermatologist of choice even during this time of Covid. 

I dislike ringing his rooms though. These days, the message on his answer machine takes a good three minutes to listen through.

The usual drill: ‘If you have a fever, sore throat or any other such symptom cancel your appointment with the dermatologist and seek help from your GP. Do not come here.’

No one wants you if there’s a risk you have the virus. But if you’re virus free you’re welcome.

This accursed virus.

A friend wondered recently how much rubber we will add to landfill with all these gloves rotting in the ground, no longer simply the terrain of skin doctors and surgeons, of hairdressers and beauty therapists or people who need to protect themselves and others from whatever else might attach to their hands.

In German, the word for gloves translates into hand shoes. I enjoy the play on words. The play on ideas. The need to keep flexible at this time of inflexibility whereby every person fears every other stranger and even those we know well we must keep at arm’s length.

We can touch only through rubber gloves and even then, we must not breathe in our shared air for fear of contamination.

I watch movies from years gone by and have this urge to admonish the characters on the screen for standing too close together as if those days then are these days now.

I’ve taken to wearing gloves in winter as I grow older and feel the cold more. When the part of skin visible, the hands and face must be covered for protection from cold, let alone from viruses. At least the wool and leather gloves I wear do not leave a stink on my fingers that hangs around for hours. 

Another dermatologist I saw years ago when I was pregnant with my third child and developed a case of eczema on my hands – ‘housewife’s curse’ he called it – advised me to soak my hands daily for ten minutes in Pinetarsol. The medical smell of pine forests, alcohol and something aromatic stays with me in the same nauseous way as I felt in the early days of that pregnancy.

He also advised me to wear white cotton gloves underneath the rubber gloves for wet jobs and cotton gloves alone for when I swept floors and dusted. 

How many men get housewife’s curse from too much housework? Not many I imagine though my male hairdresser gets eczema from all the chemicals he handles. 

My poor beloved hands. Hands that have seen many surfaces, touched many textures, rough, silky, cold, or hot, burns and scalds and cuts, a life time’s collection all rolled into one set of hands with their time lines etched on the palms for any clairvoyant to read one day and catch me out for all the times I failed to wear proper gloves. 

On confession, impure thoughts and the priests

Over the past two weeks I watched the documentary, Revelations. A three-part series only two of which are available to watch on ABC iView.

The third was taken down after the verdict came in on George Pell and he was set free.

We can only wonder why. 

The documentary essentially deals with the stories of several paedophile priests, two of whom are showcased to demonstrate the degree to which the Catholic hierarchy as a whole was complicit in perpetuating their crimes by keeping them secret.

Tears welled behind my eyes the whole time I watched, and a familiar feeling slid through my veins. A feeling I have written about before. The confusion people have, priests and laity, about the nature of the priesthood. 

Priests were holy men chosen by God to represent him and the Pope. The Pope at the top, infallible. Their teachings were sacrosanct and what they said and did inviolable.

So, we worshipped them or avoided them in equal quantities. At least I did. 

My mother most of all loved her priests. She talked about what lonely lives they led every night alone in their presbyteries with only a housekeeper to cook and clean, but no other companionship. 

No wonder some turned to drink, she said, as if their loneliness became an excuse. But she preferred her priests unmarried. If they married then they might be tempted to tell their wives about the activities of the parish, they might even reveal secrets from confession. 

How could she ever trust her priest in the confessional, if at night he should go home to his wife full of the day’s sins and not want to offload some of the burdens on her? 

My mother preferred her priests chaste. And the nuns she knew had also taken vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. Chastity was an admirable quality, one we were taught from the onset even before we knew what it meant.

When I was seven and first entered the holy sacrament of confession, I sat in Our Lady of Good Counsel church in Deepdene underneath the row of stations of the cross. The images that tell the story from the rosary of the sorrowful mysteries. 

I could rattle off these words by heart, as we sang them out loud in unison during religion.

The agony in the garden, the crowning with thorns, the scourging at the pillar, the carrying of the cross and the crucifixion. 

Pure poetry. I knew it as well as I knew Wordsworth’s poetry, in those days when I rote-learned everything in order to get by. It did not matter that I did not understand. It only mattered that I could repeat the words to the satisfaction of the nun in charge. 

Question: Why do we call that day good on which Jesus Christ died? 

Answer: We call that day good on which Jesus Christ died because his death has given us so many blessings and showed us how much he loved us.

A strange love. To suffer and then die. 

The message was clear. Suffering was good. Suffering was holy. Suffering was a useful element in your life. While pleasure, especially pleasure associated with impure thoughts was not. 

Impure thoughts. I did not know what they meant, only that they snuck in unbidden and had something to do with bodily sensations that were also forbidden. 

They could sneak into your mind while you were watching the television and saw a man take a woman into his arms and the two kissed. 

They could sneak into your mind when you went into the toilet and took off your underpants to take a pee. 

They could sneak into your mind when you opened the pages of your father’s art book and saw there the naked bodies of people, mainly women with breasts, white and bulbous, hanging out of their gowns or hidden under veils. 

They snuck into your mind when you saw statues of naked men in the museum, a fig leaf strategically placed between their legs, along with a bunch of grapes or some other hint at things unmentionable. 

They snuck into your mind when your mother told you to wear a t-shirt and not run around on hot days like your brothers because you were a girl, even though your body looked then exactly like your brothers’ bodies. At least on top. 

Still, the time would come when unmentionable things might happen to your body and impure thoughts were part of it. 

I never understood the impure thoughts. I only knew they slipped into my mind, and that it was my moral duty to report them to the priest in confession for fear of eternal damnation.

A mortal sin sent you to hell, as against a venial one which might land you in purgatory where you at least had a chance of moving back to heaven after you’d done your penance. 

Everything geared towards penance, sin and reparation. Doing the deed in secret but not letting anyone know, even maybe including yourself, but when awareness slipped into your consciousness and guilt took over, then you needed to visit the priest and tell him about it such that he could forgive you your sins and you went away lighter. 

These were the feelings I saw in these priests, only their sins were of a magnitude higher than mine. Mine only involved my own body, not that of others, not until I was older, did I sin with others apart from my explorations with my sister, but we were more or less the same age. Though I sometimes felt I led her astray as the older one. 

The paedophile priests on the other hand were confused about their own seniority. They lacked any sense of being the adults in charge when it came to the sexual abuse of children. They might as well have been children themselves, only they were not. 

They were grown men and the things they did to the children in their care, the grooming, the raping, the masturbation left those children confused and distressed, many to the point of suicide and if not suicide then drug addition or alcohol abuse or abuse of others, anything to rid themselves of the unspeakable pain, the not knowing what they did wrong to make this happen, while in the meantime, the priest and the holy men of the church went about their business in their gold vestments to say Mass and lead the congregation in prayer.

All this was revealed in the documentary but nothing can let us see the full impact of such atrocities unless we enter more fully into the minds of those small children whose minds were taken from them.