Wednesday, 30 November 2011

MEMORIES OF YOU...


Two years have rolled by so quickly, and there is not a day that I don’t think about you.

I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve day ‘Nev would have loved that…’

When Charlie’s been doing some work on the farm, whether it’s building garden beds for me, or renovating the cattle yards, or fixing the water pump, or doing some fencing… whatever.  I know Nev would have been right in there with it, if he was well enough to do so.

The only time I’ve ever seen my husband lose his composure, was at Nev’s funeral.  He actually cried.  My knight in shining armour, there to protect me through everything; was human after all.  And it took Nev’s passing to show me.

I think at that point, I realised just how much Charlie loved my father.

However, in saying that; everyone loved Nev.

He was a simple bloke that wanted for nothing.  He had everything he needed.  He had a loving wife and a feral child (me) that he had seen grow into what I would like to think; a decent human being.  He saw her marry and start a life of her own with a good man, which made him happy.

He loved his son-in-law.  He loved spending time with him and just doing boy stuff together, like building my bbq, burning tree stumps and reeds on the farm, hanging out at Bunning’s and just doing boy stuff in general.

When he became sick, that’s the thing he said he would miss the most.  He was angry that he was being robbed of time with Charlie, and wished he had spent more with him.

He was thankful for everything he had, and never complained about what he didn’t have.  Sure, he wasn’t a millionaire; he was just an ordinary, middle class bloke.  He wanted for nothing though.   He wasn’t a materialistic person; that stuff didn’t interest him.  No; he was more into quality time with his family and friends.

When Mum decided to sell Stone Manor, the biggest obstacle we faced was Dad’s garage.  His ‘man cave’.  What are we going to do with all of this stuff?

Nev had said to Charlie ‘this stuff will all be yours one day, son’, which Charlie struggled with for a long time.  He felt guilty taking it anything, until Iris pointed out that it was what Nev wanted.

So Charlie took some things, and we asked Mark (Dad’s unofficial son) to come and help himself as well.  Mark’s love for Nev was evident when he took it upon himself to sort out the garage and clean it out for Mum.  He took heaps and heaps of stuff away himself, which I know Nev would have loved.

He would have loved to see his stuff go to people that would use and appreciate it as much as he did.

Charlie makes me laugh.  As I walk into our shed at home, I see that it’s nearly set up the same as Nev’s was.  This is pure coincidence, but I smile as I see some familiar things.  Charlie fusses over these items like they’re precious treasures.  Socket sets (apparently, you can never have too many), drawer sets for screws and nails, a lathe, and various other tools that I don’t know the name of, let along what they’re used for.  He has really made an effort to look after these things, because he appreciates where they’ve come from.

He always saying ‘this is Nev’s’ when he uses something, like Dad’s car jack (which he used to fix the tyre on the buggy).   He says it proudly, really, like he wants us to know that he’s using Nev’s stuff and appreciates it.  Bless.

Dad would be happy.

I think those are the things that I miss the most.  The little, constant reminders of him.   You find your thoughts drifting away, and thinking ‘Dad would have loved this…  Dad would have been so proud…’

He was terribly proud of Charlie.  Would bring his friends up here to the farm, drag them all over it to show them all the things Charlie had done.  Hello!  You have a daughter too, you know!!  *laughs *

The last time Dad came here, was two months before he passed.  Possibly the last time he was ‘well’, if that makes sense. 

He became ill not long after we finished the renovations, and he hadn’t seen them.  I kept asking him to come up for a drive and have a look at it, because I seriously thought he would pass before he got to see it.

The day he came up, Charlie walked with Dad, guiding his walking frame around the house paddock to show him all of the gardens and things he’d done and built since his last visit.  He drove him around the property to show him other things, including the cattle yards.  I showed him around the house and he couldn’t believe all of the changes.   Of course that was nothing compared to spending time with Charlie.

He loved Charlie.

It was a great day, and a day I will never forget.

Now, as I sit on the verandah at night enjoying a nicely chilled bevvie, I look over at the garden we have built for Nev.  I look at the two towers Charlie built in the middle, that have roses climbing and spilling out of them, looking spectacular.  The rest of the large garden has some forty-five roses in it, and they’re all in bloom.  There is a bench seat that Charlie built sitting next to it, so we can spend time down there, enjoying the fragrance and the memories. 

In the middle, is a plaque that simply shares that Nev is finally sleeping peacefully, for that’s where we scattered his ashes. 

Underneath the plaque, is a box filled with letters, photos, rocky road, freddo frogs and memories.  All from his family and friends.  A time capsule of memories that will never be opened.  They’re for him to enjoy.

It's funny how time moves on.  It stops for no man, as they say.  When you lose someone precious, you do feel as if part of your world has ended, but somehow, that world pulls you back, and you move on.  

And it's true; time does dull the pain.  In ever goes away though, and the sadness is always there.  However, you try to replace it with fond memories of happier times.  Celebrate the joy of life, and not the sadness of loss.

There is a story that tells of people experiencing three deaths.  The first death, is when your body fails, and your life ends.  The second death, is when people stop visiting your resting place.  And the third death, is when people stop saying your name.

We will never stop saying your name, Nev, because we could never forget someone as wonderful as you. 

Rest in peace, my friend.

You are sorely missed, and truly loved.

Tuesday, 29 November 2011

TAKE ME AWAY...


For me, there is nothing quite as wonderful as being wheeled into surgery, completely naked save for a flimsy bit of cotton they call a ‘gown’. 

Now, my idea of a ‘gown’, involves layers and layers of beautiful, shimmering fabric that stylishly highlight your bodice, whilst flowing freely and elegantly to the floor.  THAT, my friends, is a gown.  A pair of co-ordinating shoes, a nice up-do and some bling to complete the ensemble would be appreciated.

Not this oversized handkerchief that I was desperately clinging to in a vain attempt at preserving my dignity.  I wasn’t even allowed to wear a pair of those horrendous, disposable knickers.

Sure, when I’m under anaesthetic, the surgical team go to places that my husband doesn’t even go.  I understand that.  However, at least I won’t remember it, and can still look the surgeon and the nurses in the eye afterward.

So, they comically ask me to slide from my bed across to the operating table, which is about as wide as one of my butt cheeks, and is as cold as a fridge.  Great.  So, I slide across with as much elegance as I can muster, whilst clinging to the handkerchief and the narrow table, and collapse onto it from the enormous effort that rescuing my dignity requires.

I look around the large room, and there are about 10 people in there.  Seriously, how many people need to look at my clacka?  Particularly when the majority of them are men?

The nurse starts wiring me into the ECG.  Good to know I’ve got a heart and it’s still working.  They confirm my name and date of birth, and what I’m in here for.  Thank God they haven’t given me any pethidine, otherwise I would tell them just about anything, and would come out with an amputated limb or something…

As the majority of them quietly go about their business, I see the surgeon organising his instruments.  He introduces himself to a nurse, and they start chatting about the equipment, and his procedures.  Great; they’ve never worked together before.  That can’t be good…

On the other side of the room, there are two orderlies chatting about what they’re having for lunch.  You’re kidding me, right?  I haven’t eaten for nearly 18 hours, and you’re talking about lunch?

Then I notice one of them is wearing white gum boots.  Gum boots?  ‘Why are you wearing gum boots?’ I ask, and just about everyone in the room snaps around to look at me.

‘Um… I come in and clean up after surgery, and because I use chemicals, I have to wear the boots…’ he answers quietly…

‘Good, because for a second, I thought you needed them to wade through the sea of blood that will be flowing out of here…’

They all found that amusing. 

I was serious.

Then the anaesthetist calmly pats me on the shoulder.  ‘Everything will be okay’, he says with a kind smile.  The nurse shoved an oxygen mask on my face and asks me to take some big, deep breaths.  I happily oblige, and feel my body dutifully relaxing, whilst wondering if gumboot boy would have a nice lunch…

‘Okay Lee… you’re going to have a little sleep now, and we’ll see you again shortly…’ the nurse says reassuringly…

I see the anaesthetist inject something into my drip, and I wait. 

Wait to be taken away... 

You can feel it rolling over you… your body relaxing and getting heavy… you fight to keep your eyes open – Lord knows why – but it’s a battle you quickly lose… then lights out. 

Gone.

Only to wake up - what seems like - an instant later to the face of friendly nurse saying your name and telling you that you’re in John Fawkner Private Hospital and surgery went well. 

Great, let me go back to sleep now…

Apparently, the massive boulder in my urinary tract was successfully lazered (‘lazered’ makes me thing of Dr Evil from the Austin Powers movies), and a stent was placed in there to hold the tract open whilst it healed.  Awesome.  I love the idea of a foreign body in my body.

Not.

And I was to find out later that my body wasn’t happy about it either….

Monday, 28 November 2011

I'M BACK, BABY!!!


I’m back, baby!!

Did you miss me?

It’s been one hell of a month, let me tell you, and not a particularly pleasant one, either.

It all started on the 28th of October.   I went to my beloved doctors in Seymour for some antibiotics, as the chill I caught at the Def Leppard concert went straight to my chest, and I was barking like fido the dog.

The next day, I picked up my medication from the pharmacy in Heathcote, and toodled off to Bendigo to do some shopping.

By the time I got home some three-four hours later, this pain had developed in my front, left abdomen area.  As the evening progressed, it slowly got worse and worse, until I reached a point where I realised that something was seriously wrong.

Much to Charlie’s pleasure, I dragged him out of bed to drive me to the Bendigo hospital.

Looking back, I think that was my first mistake.  The last couple of times I’ve ended up at Benders hospital, the waiting time has been absolutely ridiculous.  So, after an hours drive there (in horrendous pain because of bumpy roads and Charlie driving like it’s stolen) and a three and a half hour wait, during which time I was constantly throwing up and dehydrating, which is NOT good for a diabetic, I was finally admitted to emergency.

So after the nurse and doctor spend ½ an hour trying to find a usable vein in my right arm (can’t use my left, because I had a sentinel node biopsy – lymph nosed removed – back in 2004 when I had cancer.  So any application of pressure, like a tourniquet or blood pressure band could set off lymphedema), which resulted in several bruises, they finally pumped me full of morphine and maxillon. 

So Doogie Houser MD has a look at me and decides that I’ve got diverticulitis, which is an infection in these little sacs that have formed around my colon, for some reason. 

‘Do you want to do a CT scan or ultrasound or something to make sure?’ I asked, because I wasn’t 100% confident with his diagnosis.  This was my second mistake.  I should have insisted on a scan.

‘Nope.  We’re pretty confident.  Here’s a truck load of antibiotics to take home.  Rest up and you’ll be right.  Do a follow up with your GP in a week.’

Great.

So, we head home, and over the course of the next week, I fail to improve.  Sure, the pain in my side wasn’t present; that’s possibly because I was on so many friggin pain killers, but I was seriously not well.

So Thursday the 3rd of November rolls around, and I leave work early, because I simply cannot handle it any more.  The following day, I find myself sitting in my GP’s office asking why the fuck I’m not improving.

My GP, who is about the only medical person I do trust, as I’ve known her for many years now, explained that she received the report from Bendigo Hospital, and doesn’t believe their diagnosis was correct.  She said that she gave me a script for antibiotics on the Friday, and the next day I’m in hospital?  She explained that 99% of people can take the medication she gave me, but I’m clearly in the 1% that cannot.  ‘It will upset your stomach and cause severe pain in your abdomen.  That’s what I believe has happened to you.’

I explained that I had taken my meds with me to the hospital (several visits to the hospital in the past has taught me that), but they weren’t concerned about it.  She just rolled her eyes, told me to stop taking everything except my diabetic meds, and we’ll see how I feel over the next few days.  She said that if I don’t improve, I’ll have to have some scans and tests done.

Fine by me.

Sunday the 6th of November rolls around, and about 7pm at night, the pain returns with avengeance.  This time though, it’s in my back as well.  Hello kidneys…

So, by midnight, I’ve had enough.  The pain is not easing, and I’m beside myself.  Time to make a decision. 

I leave Charlie in bed, as in six hours’ time, he has to go to Daylesford to pick up a bull (would you believe), and I thank God for Iris, because she drove me down to John Fawkner Private in Coburg.  Sure, it’s further and cost me $250 for admission to emergency, but I wasn’t risking Bendigo Hospital any more.

On the way down to Coburg, Mum’s hooning along, and takes the Hume Highway on ramp at Wallan, and some bastard has left an empty suitcase in the middle of the road.  Mum slams into it at 100kmph.

So here we are, at 1am on Monday morning, stopped in the middle of the on ramp, in the cold and fog, me in my pyjamas, on my hands and knees, trying to pull a mangled suitcase out from underneath Mum’s new car.

A side note: yes, there was a bit of damage to the front of her car, but it was still drivable.  Later that week, a tow truck came from Heathcote and took it to the panel beaters, where it lived for the next week.  *sigh*

So, despite the numerous cars that were out and about at that hour of the morning, no fucker stopped to assist us, and we eventually got this fucken nightmare out from the car, and set off again.  If I wasn’t well before, I was half dead after all of that exertion.  Great.

2am, and we land on John Fawkner’s door step.  If anyone has ever been there before, they will know that parking at that place is non-existent.  Not at 2am though.

We rocked in and I was the only person in emergency.  The only one.  Within two hours, I’d been pee tested, blood tested and CT scanned, and had the doctor (who was a little closer to my age – which comforted me no end) standing at the foot of my bed telling me that I had a kidney stone in my urinary track.

‘You said you had a high threshold of pain, and I thought you were being blasé.’ She said.  ‘I apologise for that, because the stone is 10mm x 4mm, and would be complete agony.  We’ll pump you with some more morphine, and the surgeon will be along to see you soon.’

Surgeon?  WTF?

So Mum toodles off home, and I drift off into a morphine induced sleep until a lovely man comes along and tells me that he’s going to stick something up my urinary track and blast this stone, as it could take months to pass it, if I can, and it will be about at agonising as childbirth.

I explain to him that I’ve never had the honour of giving birth, so I have nothing to compare it to.  I will have to trust him on that, because I’m tipping he’s never experienced childbirth either. 

However, in saying that, I won’t feel a thing, because I’ll be right here at John Fawkner, smashed out on morphine until it passes.

He just smiled.  ‘I’ll see you in surgery around lunchtime.’

‘It’s a date.’

Tuesday, 1 November 2011

MASTER BRATS


So, the Herald Sun not so long ago reported that the producers behind the Masterchef juggernaught had not been 100% honest with us in the presentation of their new ‘baby’; Junior Masterchef.

I’m shocked and stunned.

Not.

A ‘whistle blowing’ parent has claimed that the contestants are given the recipes to study and work on beforehand, and that they children are given professional cooking and acting lessons.  One father claims to have given their child private lessons from a chef, three days a week, in the lead up to the competition.  His child is apparently in the Top 50.

Are we at all surprised?  I’m not.  This show has a massive sign flashing over it saying ‘stage parenting! Stage parenting!’ and anyone that cannot see it, or doesn’t think that it would actually happen, is living in one of the carefully structured Junior Masterchef wonderland sets.  Possibly the chocolate one… that was the most fantastical…

Since reading this article in the Herald Sun (Aleks Devic, 19.10.11), I have watched this show through very different eyes.

It was bad enough being subjected to the ridiculous product placement and spoilers of the third Masterchef series (as well as Dani), but this is all together different.

A group of spoilt brats that I do believe can actually cook to a degree, are just turning it up for their 15 minutes of fame.  Or should I say the 15 minutes of fame that their parents want for them?  Mmm…

So what if the kids have the recipes weeks beforehand to practice with?  When it comes to the crunch, they still have to produce the goods under pressure.  Have a look at the elimination challenge the other night: Matt Moran’s Mango Cheesecake.

Out of the six kids that created the dish, two completely fucked it up and it didn’t even set!  Sure, the ‘motherly’ Anna Gare praised their efforts and told them how fantastic their dishes were, but at the end of the day, even with all the assistance in the world (both pre-competition and during it), they still didn’t cut it.  FAIL.  Goodbye competition; hello insignificance.

So, all the professional coaching and training won’t rescue them when it comes to elimination time, which is what matters I think.  They need to be able to hold it together and produce a winner under pressure.

Just like the grown ups.

However, what I find quite unnerving is the mature, cool attitude of some of these kids.  One in particular; I think his name is Chandler.  Man, he is a cool customer.

When the producers spew out the contestant commentary that litters the show, this kid gives me the chills.  Dead serious.  Dead focused.  He’s there to win.  At all costs. 

Just try to tell me that’s not stage parenting.  It’s too…. Fake? No, that’s not the right word.  It’s too… predictable?  Rehearsed? Senior Mastercheffy? Catering to the audience? Lame? 

Mmm… you pick.

So, not only do I not enjoy the fact that there are children out there a quarter of my age that know what fucken tapioca is, and how to cook it, but that they are on prime time television screaming, crying and high-fiving their way through this blundering competition. 

All because they want to ‘live their dream’.  I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: ask yourself who you’re really doing this for kiddies, and go back to your play stations.  Better yet, go back to your ipads, because there are recipe apps that you can download…

So, it’s no surprise that the ratings for this show have plummeted as well.  Opened to a big bang, but it’s nothing but a whimper now.  Another TV show that Channel 10 will have to drag through to the end, when the viewer will possibly not even notice that it’s gone.

If I can deal with my obvious failings in the kitchen myself, I will possibly find the courage to watching this pre-packaged tripe again myself. 

Possibly whilst I’m enjoyed re-heated left-overs. 

Fitting.

Peace out.