Today is exactly one week after Valentine’s Day. I meant to write about it, and about love in general, but I have been quite busy over the past week. I wasn't the recipient of any Valentines this year, and I don't think I've actually received a Valentine for nearly 20 years.
The last time I remember receiving anything was when my boyfriend at the time took me to a café in North Adelaide, and we sat at a table out the front. He gave me a gold necklace with a green stone, which at the time I thought was lovely. We hadn't been in a relationship for that long, and everything was exciting—we were young, and we were all over each other. An older couple came up to our table and told us they had been watching us from inside the café and that we reminded them of themselves when they were young.
I look back on that Valentine’s Day, and I genuinely feel sick thinking about being with that particular man, who cheated on me so many times over two years and was also just using me to get to my parents. It's the type of thing where you need to apologise to yourself for letting someone touch you when it didn't come from love.
Anyway, every Valentine’s Day, I give my mother and Rebecca a Valentine. I used to give my dad and Nanny a Valentine as well. It's hard to believe that it was a year ago I sent Dad a big bunch of roses and a balloon to his nursing home from his secret admirer. It was also a year ago that I delivered Nanny's soft toy and roses to her.
Before Dad got dementia, I think he felt sorry for me on Valentine’s Day, and I remember on one occasion when I was living with Mum and Dad, he came downstairs to my room and told me someone had left something at the door for me. He then handed me a plastic bag with a picture frame in it and a box of chocolates. It also had a Valentine’s Day card in it that hadn't been written on. That was typical of my dad—he wouldn't wrap presents or really write in cards unless my mother directed it. But you couldn't wipe the smile off my face on that particular day.
This year, I sent Mum and Rebecca the same small floral arrangement. It was three roses in a little vase that had this black mesh-type decoration over it. Below, you can see the roses from Tynte Flowers that I sent Mum.
I celebrate the brother-sister type relationships I enjoy with Hussein, Andrew, Maiki, and Peter, my new friend in Cambodia—none of whom are interested in me romantically. And they are enough for me. It's also not like I long for someone either; it's just not an option for me.
I don't think about it logistically—it's just that lately, I've been having involuntary thoughts and dreams, which I feel may intensify in the coming years, depending on how long perimenopause and then menopause itself take. But I have a strong will and will be able to combat any unwanted desires.
But if you asked me what I would want from a man, I would want a partner who would take me to the Sanctuary of Our Lady of Lourdes in France. If you don't know it, it's a major Catholic pilgrimage site, known for its connection to Marian apparitions and reported miraculous healings.
The healing reputation of Lourdes is closely tied to its miraculous spring water, which is believed by many to have divine healing properties. This belief originates from the visions of Saint Bernadette Soubirous in 1858, when she claimed that the Virgin Mary instructed her to dig in the ground, revealing a hidden spring.
Apparently, 71 miracles at Lourdes have been confirmed by the Catholic Church, but there have also been over 7,500 unexplained healings. It's all to do with the water, and I want to bathe in it.
I have a significant flaw, which is also a chronic ailment, and even though I'm not Catholic, I believe there is something about this site that has healing properties. I know 71 confirmed miracles doesn't sound like a lot, but that is 71 people who had to go through the bureaucracy of the Catholic Church and prove that their healing was a miracle.
I've seen a documentary on that process, and it takes years—involving doctors, appointments, and endless evaluations. I don’t know why it would be important to someone to have their miracle proven. It sounds like it would cost a lot of money, time, and involve a whole lot of red tape.
I look at the 7,500+ unexplained healings, and I think that paints a more realistic picture.
So, in my dreams, if I met a nice Catholic man who genuinely didn't care about my flaw and ailment, and he took me to Lourdes, and I was healed, I wouldn't tell a soul. No one would be able to tell the difference, because not much happens with my ailment but I would know, and I would be the happiest person in the world if the Virgin Mary could heal me.
It's not about having a man pay for me to travel to France and seek miracles. If I were looking for someone to fund my travel, there are plenty of other places I’d rather go. It’s also not about whether someone believes in miracles or not.
It’s about someone saying to me, "I recognise how important it is for you to try and cure your ailment, and I’m going to make that happen." It’s about someone being open enough to say, "I don’t know if miracles are real, but I am open to the possibility."
Whenever I think about the Virgin Mary, I want to know more of her story. I also wonder—did she stay a virgin forever?
Speaking of the Catholic Church, Pope Francis was hospitalised on Valentine’s Day due to complications from bronchitis, which progressed to bilateral pneumonia.
The other night, Mum and I were watching the news when the ticker at the bottom of the screen reported that the Vatican had described Pope Francis’s condition as a "complex clinical situation." They also mentioned that his condition involved a polymicrobial infection, which sounded serious.
When I saw this, I jumped up. It was such a coincidence because we had just finished watching the movie Conclave, and I thought to myself, "He's going to die, and there will actually be one."
I don’t like Pope Francis, but I wasn’t excited about the idea of him dying. To be honest, this was one of those moments where I wished I had some money, so I could fly to the Vatican and be in the crowd—watching in anticipation as the smoke rose from the chimney. Black smoke would mean no pope had been chosen, while white smoke would signal the election of a new one.
I would love to witness that in person. I don’t know why—I’m not Catholic, but I do believe in the story of Jesus, and I have my own thoughts about who he was. I also have my own opinions about Saint Peter, the apostle who, according to tradition, guards the gates of heaven. I wonder whether he would welcome Pope Francis and tell him he did a great job, or whether he’d be angry at his attitude towards victims of sexual abuse within the Church. I expect it would be the former.
It seems, however, that I put Pope Francis in his grave too soon. He is improving and is now in good spirits.
Thinking about it now, I don’t think I’ll go when the time comes. I can’t afford it, and, honestly, I think it would just make me angry. Besides, Australia doesn’t have representation at the Vatican as far as having a cardinal voting in the next conclave, so I can't sit around and speculate who he would vote for.
