The great circumnavigation of the boob

It's certainly not what I was expecting, but when I went to the Cardio Lab to get fitted for a heart monitor today, I was asked by the efficient young male... er, what would they call him? Doctor? No. Student? Shit, I hope not. Cardio Boy? It's the best I can come up with, although probably quite derogatory... to strip off my top half entirely to the waist. And put on the gown with the ties to the front.

I had that momentary flash of alarm grip me, thinking quickly, "What?! Why? That means he's going to see every single solitary stretch mark left by that LGBB and the saggy..... AAAAAEEERGHHHH!! Abort mission, abort mission." But thankfully in the next moment, I gathered my senses - for how else did I think he was going to attach the electronic nodes to my skin to measure my heart activity? - stood upright and got to the task of stripping off. Rather uncomfortably, I must say, as you do when you're taking your clothes off in front of a boy called Chris who you met only 8 seconds before you walked in to an office that is clearly not even his.

Next thing I know, I'm lying on the bed, ties to the front, being instructed to keep my arms at my sides while Cardio Boy sticks the ECG things all over my chest. Circumnavigation of the boob (and a little beyond), if you will. Not exactly your most natural pozzy.

Now, I'll admit here that I'm not the most ideal patient. I tend to make stupid jokes when I'm a tad nervous or feel vulnerable in a medical setting. Particularly when (and did I mention yet?) the ties are at the front. Or when they're even at the back, for that matter, which is where most of the openings of any hospital gownage have been in my vast experience of hospital interiors. And theirs of mine. Oh dear.

I didn't break the ice much when I asked if he even worked here, pointing to the name on the desk that wasn't his. Then I made my dork status worse, I think, when I casually mused that if I were 26 and not 36, I reckon I might be much more affronted by his request that I disrobe completely on top - while he was still in the room, just shuffling papers beside me.... >Awkwarrrd<..... - and I also didn't win him over when I kept getting my arms in the way once he had begun the test and he had to keep instructing me, robot-fashion and very efficiently - because they kept going up into that sort of half-bent Defend The Girls position, rather like a man does across his frontal region when he's playing wicket keeper during backyard cricket and an overly zealous toddler is not in complete control of the bat and swinging to hit the ball(s).

So Cardio Boy is attaching these things and doing a baseline something-or-other. And then he's attaching wires and the whole process begins to feel long enough that I wonder, as I stare hard at the ceiling, whether he's trying to work out why my nipple is under my armpit (hey.... breastfeeding, it's a miracle but it sure leaves things more in a state of whimper than baZOING-a... for me, anyway). To break my unease, I quip, "I s'pose if you ever tire of this, you could always be useful to the bomb squad."

It may have been that he was deep in concentration, it may have been that he is too young to have seen the countless references to the nail-biting action scene where the hero is agonising over the red-wire, blue-wire scenario to save the day.

But all I got was a titter.



I should say before I go that, yes, I've got myself a bit of a heart issewe. Something I've noticed for a couple of years now but growing noticeably more persistent lately. Nothing much else to report because I don't want to list symptoms here and do all that. If there's anything I need to let you know, you'll know when I know. And thank you to those of you following along who have been so caring about it, it means a great deal to me :)

The score is 14-10 and I've gone mad

This post comes to you from a slightly more than usual deranged mind. In the past 24 hours, I have managed to get myself so many mozzie bites that I have now taken leave of my senses with the itchiness and am likely to be seen by this evening running down the street screaming incoherent profanities at Banshee pitch.

Ten bites occupy the space between the lower calf/shin to ankle on my left leg. Fourteen dominate my right leg in the same tiny area.

I have taken to rubbing with the flats of my hands. Anything, ANYTHING. Even my old trick - the mild Chinese burn (am I allowed to call them that anymore??) - doesn't work because of the location.

I've always been tasty to mosquitos and things that like to dine on human flesh and blood. Mmmmm, yummo. But these are particularly raging. And now, with all my rubbing ankles together in my sleep and scraping off the top layer of skin with my nails and the palm smoothing, I have angered the bites. They're glowering back at me, their centres a strange glowing golden colour with a halo of deep pink that bleeds out onto my skin.

And if one more person suggests Sting-Goes or Itch-Aid or No-More-Scratch-Til-It-Bleeds, I will gouge their eyes out. Whadda they think?? That I haven't tried these? Of course I have. None of them have worked for me yet. We're talking..... raaaaaaaaging itch. I'd like to go so far as to say I'm allergic to mosquitos.

There are a few natural remedies I haven't tried yet, though. When I was a little kid, I remember my grandparents rubbing a slice of potato on my foot..... I don't recall that it worked, although I think I did say it did because of their hopeful faces (like the grandma giving Adam Sandler the meatballs and watching him taste it in The Wedding Singer). But if I believe what I read online, I'm going to smell tasty enough to roast by this evening after I rub on a clove of garlic, then dab on some lemon or lime juice, vinegar, salt, horseradish and honey. I think I'll go with this recipe first:

Finely grate a potato, add some raw onion and vinegar and mix to a fine paste. Apply.

Sounds intriguing. But I'm desperate. I'm breathless with concentrating on not itching these ITCHY BEYOND ALL MTHRFKNG GET-OUT asshole mozzie bites!!!!  Why don't they go pick on someone their... own.... size?

So, come on. I know you want to. Hit me with your best sure-fire itch reliever. The winner receives a reprieve from getting their eyes gouged out.


Edited:  And while we're at it, any tips on prevention?? We've had a great reminder already in the comments to up the Vit B's (I have heard before that it's a sure-fire sign of B-deficiency if you are devoured by thirsty mozzies, but do you think I remember to take anything? Will be speaking to my naturopath for sure!).


So far, some GREAT itch relief suggestions, all, keep them coming! I know different bodies respond differently to remedies, so hopefully this might help others who happen across this post in the "whenever" too. 

OK, don't bust your boiler, Toots

We went for a big 4.5km walk earlier today. A round trip past Lolly's new 4 year-old kinder to see how long it would take me to walk it. The answer is: about 25 minutes and 2km's. Oh, the hills. How they are a-killin' my glutes right about now (the sweet, sweet burn, ahhhhh). I was already kind of puffed and feeling really out of shape by the time we were over half way there, but I knew the last part would be the hardest, having driven it and doing this one particular long hill in second gear in the car.

We made it to the foot of the hill. Steve took Jazz and started virtually skipping up the steep path. And that's when Lolly started with the questions, expecting me to answer. I couldn't even manage a sound. What a disgracefully unfit performance!

I would like to formally apologise now for any residents who may be reading this and were alarmed by the wheezing sound as I chugged up that hill (and the next one.... and the next) pushing 30-something kilo's of offspring, stroller and supplies in front of me. And while I'm at it, I'd better also apologise for my child who, at every peak and downhill run, put her arms out Leonardo-on-the-Titanic fashion and yelled, "WINNER, WINNER, CHICKEN DINNER! WOOOOO-HOO!" as if she was riding a rollercoaster.  Come on, kid. It wasn't that fast a ride down compared to going up. Or was it?

Anyway, then the LGBB started doing that thing I always warn her against:  grabbing and pulling at random vegetation that's hanging over fences and bordering the footpaths. 

Well. Today, what I had warned her about finally happened. She got that grass-cut. Ooooooooh *wince* I have done that so many times in my misspent youth, probably in spite of my mother's warnings. And so we had Lolly going into shuddering convulsions and hyperventilating overkill about the slicing of her pinky. "THERE'S BLOOOOOD!" came the shrieks, in that hysterical tone that you're sure is going to bring people out of their homes, dialling Emergency-000 as they come to save the little girl from the beastly parents. That was a fun walk home.

Then we had the trilogy of knocks. You know, when your kid bumps an elbow then miscalculates clearance under a metal rod and whacks themselves in the head and then manages to collect a foot with a coffee table leg that has always been there in that position of the room (let alone hasn't moved in the last 2 minutes of play)? Yeah. That all happened. In the space of less than half an hour. Dutiful rocking-hugs on the couch ensued after each incident.

To top it off, as if I wasn't already tipped off about a certain little somebody who may or may not have arisen from the wrong side of the bed this morning, I got challenged angrily just before by the LGBB after I moved around some dollhouse furniture. In my remodelling, I suggested, "The toilet might be a bit more useful off the front lawn", to which the snappy retort was, "We don't have toilets in bathrooms in this world".

Ok, Miss Four. Don't explode your noggin. I'm going to make a cup of tea.

She's onto the lot of you

This poor poorly poppet of ours, she is still working the lurgy through. I have been up since 5am listening to her cough to the point of the awful noise that heralds the necessity of a bucket beside the bed, just in case whatever you hear coming up actually... well, comes out. Poor darlin.

While I was lying next to her in an attempt to settle her so she wasn't alarmed by all the kerfuffle from her lungs, she asked me, still in a haze of delirium (for I don't think she was fully awake), "How will I know whose boots are mine?"

"What's that, sweetpea?"

"If someone else has the same boots as me with the flowers all on them.... how do we know which ones are my ones?"

Don't ask me how, but she knows you're all asking about the boots. She's onto the lot of you. But it's okay, we've got it all worked out. We're going to check the size. Because it's hardly likely that if anyone else has her boots, they're going to also have the same size. Sorted.

I wish she would get better, this is the extended cough that just won't simmer down. We're meant to be going to a 5th birthday party this afternoon. There is no WAY I am subjecting her friend, The Birthday Girl, or anyone else to this. So the news broke earlier. Party plan-dashing was declared at 6:16am EST. There was a moment of silence and we bowed our heads over the body. And then the LGBB's face crumpled as what she just heard actually registered in her brain. There would be no fairy dress-ups for her today, no cake, no present for The Birthday Girl.

But perhaps the hardest part of the "punishment" to swallow - ewwwww - is the fact that she caught this cold off another child who should have stayed home. It starts young. How many workplaces have you been in where people come in sick and don't go home and you spend the rest of your day avoiding them and then, when you start to feel that rasp in the back of your throat and your breath feels suddenly hotter in your mouth and then congestion begins, you curse them, don't you?
(Mind you, I think I've encountered more people who stay home at the slightest sniffle when they're hardly ill at all...)

I certainly feel UTTERLY wretched for doing this to my LGBB! It's the first party she's had to miss due to illness. But I'm certain The Birthday Girl's mother, plus the other party goers' parents, will thank me. Even if my child doesn't. 

It's the dog who won't die

What the vet found? You may well ask....  She found:

The contents of half a 12kg bag of Pedigree dry dog food.

That's right. Yes. I shall put you out of your misery/suspense right now, unlike what has just happened to me over the past two hours of sheer agony as I waited on news.

When we arrived, they took one look at her and soberly led me to a tiny waiting room for one. The kind of waiting room that has a one-way arrow on it. Down the back. Closest to the .... well, I don't even want to imagine. And I cried. I cried and cried, as silently as I could. Then the vet came. Explained to me that they needed to listen to her heart. Each possibility was worse than the last - cancerous tumours, or heart failure, or .. oh I can't remember, something or other else. I began to accept that Pep had lived to see her last weekend. I told the vet, "Well, whatever it is, I have to take her home. I just cannot do that to my four year-old, she needs to say goodbye tomorrow." The vet gave no such reassurance that she would let me keep her to that promise. After a good 10 minutes or so, waiting on my own, the vet came back and said that there was so much body cavity noise (and breathing, oh the noisy breathing! as I type this, it is drowning out the tv) and that they needed to take an xray.

So I waited. I waited a whole hour and nobody even came to give me an update. It was good in a way. It gave me time to properly, honestly let her go. I told her that on Monday - I looked her square in the eyes and told her, through my tears, that she really could go if this was it. But I discovered tonight, waiting, that a small piece of me had been lying. So I sat there and contemplated Pepper's life and time with us. With me. All those days at home together. In the sun, at the beach, on my bed (ho, yes, the night before my wedding and I was nervous and couldn't sleep, it was Pep who consoled me as I tried to go to sleep on my own for the first time in years).

And then, out came the vet. "Her lungs are remarkably fine. Her heart, from what we can see and hear, is okay, although she is under enormous pressure right now..... She has an awful lot of food in there, what has she eaten???"

"Nothing!" I replied, shocked. I had been sitting there getting worried that my poor old girl would be getting starving by now, well after her pensioner tea-time and having had no meal for the day... But then, "Wait a minute.... I found a broken bag of dog food outside this morning...."

Turns out, my 17 year old, can't-walk-for-falling-over dog had worked on the plastic outer bag of the new dog food I bought them and apparently used it as A CHAFF BAG all night last night. Hence, she looked like Violet Beauregarde.

To say I am immensely embarrassed about racing in here in a flat panic a couple of hours ago is an understatement. And I couldn't let the night pass with any more of you incredibly kind folk out there worrying about us, or reading the previous entry and becoming sad.

She is incredibly old. She has acute deterioration going on. But she is not uncomfortable... well, save for this self-mutilating act of gluttony. She is mighty uncomfortable right about now, but that will pass. Literally. Hopefully. I mean, how can you not have some issues if you have gone from 18kg to 25.5kg in a day?  I wince at the thought. And she has to have a blood test ASAP so we can clear her for starting on medication to help with her incontinence.

My Finding Pepper In Her Forever Slumber Under The Lemon Tree hope is still alive! Thank you for your care and kindness, I really truly needed it and knew you were with me as I sat there, blubbering at the vets. I'm so emotionally drained right now.

Pepper lives to wheeze - and fart like a beauty - another day. And all I can say is, I'm glad I'm not sharing a tent with her tonight. Phewwww-eee.

But seriously.... CAN YOU BELIEVE IT WAS THAT??!! Food. Shaking my head. Laughing. Crying. Going insane.

Cruisin' for a bruisin' and other mundane stuff

1. The bruise is looking better, day 4. No really. It is! I'm not compressing it anymore, the swelling's gone down heaps. Still getting weird stabbing pains and changed nerve sensations (feels like someone tickling me with a piece of string) all down my leg, particularly in the ankle and backside of my knee.

2. Nobody told me that once they learn how to swing, a young independent child is not going to swing out there on their own. They're going to screech for you every 30 seconds to "watch me!", "watch how high I'm going!", "look at my skirt flying!", "I'm holding onnnn!"  Dear lord, have mercy. Please. It's almost 6 o'clock. Twelve hours IS my limit, we've discussed this.

3. Just when I was standing peeling macadamia choc chip cookies off the cookie sheet, thinking about those mothers of more than one child who would no doubt look at me and secretly want to stab me for being such a wet blanket on matters of "I can't DOOOO THISSSS anymore today", I heard Lolly singing heartily....

Mama Mia
Have a go again
My, my
I don't want a sister

Oh, yeah? Well, story of my life. We did have a go again (albeit by big scary accident) and look what happened. Again. Soooo... Sing your story walking, baby. Sing it walking. Or swinging. Whatever. Just get outside and give Mummy some space (and here take a handful of biscuits with you so I don't eat them all because I love you, my sweetest most preciousest angel-features babydoll sweetheart).


Annnnnnnd.....

out.

New posts

I have had a very intriguing and enlightened 48 hours. I am needing a lot of time and space to properly write about it, but I certainly will. Hold me to it. (No, seriously... this time, I promise I will...) This is a biggy, though, I'm talking the discovery of the need to heal and pardon past family patterns (so far, I have been presented with the connections to look at the past three generations prior to mine - and when I say "given", I mean, they've bloody well shown up and indicated exactly what I need to do! I even got smacked in the back of the head yesterday).

SO. As I said. Big, enlightening stuff. If you count being clocked over the noggin "enlightening", that is.

In the meantime, there are new posts at both my other blogs. For those interested, we are currently under the influence of ROSE energy. The information about this is on the Earth Healing blog.

I also burst a vein (am assuming it's a small, trivial thing...) last night and had to keep it iced and compressed for several hours. I think I did well to only have it swell as big/small as it did and this morning it looks like a casual minor bruise. Last night, the swelling was over an area the size of my hand and it hurt to blazers. I would like to credit not only my very limited first aid skills, but also the homoeopathic remedy I took (it was a shaky start, largely due to my fluctuating emotions I see clearly now - a wondrous thing, that hindsight - but God, how I very much humbly appreciate my homoeopath being on call, even at 8pm on a Friday night).

It actually looks quite pissy in this photo. Oh, look, and there's Bloody Cat! Right there. All the time. Just try getting a snap without her smooching like a slippery eel between my legs. After all, my legs are now her legs.

Apparently.

It was supposed to be a routine Pap Smear

I put it off for over two years. Well, no, more accurately I forgot and a third year slipped past and I was almost too nervous to make an appointment.

But I went. And soon enough, I found myself in that undignified frogs-legs pozzy on the doctor's bed.

She was a new doctor. New to me. Not new to the profession. And I was grilled - as always - about my reproductive history, given we were looking at *that area*

So then, she's shifting the speculum around and making disgruntled noises, which I thought for sure should have been my domain, given she was poking around somewhere rather delicate, and then she said, "Hmmmmmm....... that shouldn't be there. Did you know you had a growth on your cervix?"

Whoops. Yes. In fact, I did. I was supposed to get that seen to surgically about 3-4 years ago. Ummmm.

You would think that a thumb-sized polyp up one's nether region would be felt. Now that I thought about it, it had been. I had been (ignorantly) ignoring it and willing it to go away.

To tell the honest truth, I have had that much "intervention" in that area of my body that I think I just shut up shop. One of my personal trainers once told me she had never met anyone more in tune with their body than me. This was at the height of my baby-trying, baby-making, baby-dying years. No flipping wonder I had a sixth sense so well honed in that area that I could have cut laser-dyes out of metal with it.

Now, I have to go face the music. Muzak. Whatever. Next Thursday, I will be in the frog-legged pose with my obstetrician - always a pleasure, seeing him *turn to the left and cough... no, wait.... that's not right* - and I'll be attempting to bargain my way out of surgery. I do NOT want another general anaesthetic if I can help it. I have already seen my Homoeopath and we have begun a protocol that hopefully will see the polyp/offending barnacle shrivel up and disintegrate. I need six months to be sure, apparently. Already, I have had pains and smarts and similar such things in my nether region - as the remedies prescribed by the Homoeopath go to work.

In saying that, I don't like my chances (my Ob told me 3 years ago not to let it go too long) but I will be giving it my utmost to avoid the meeting with the needle, gown and green cap. And Dr R knows better than to humour me. So .... we'll see.

Upshot for the Tabster

It's a good old-fashioned UTI. I'm no stranger to urinary tract infections myself. I feel sorry for her!

But with an anti-inflammatory, a shot of antibiotics (really just a precaution, the vet said, as there was no evidence of infection) and more of an idea where I should be heading with her dietary requirements, we're back home and "only" $145 lighter. Steve's old boy, Rusty, used to cost us more than that on a regular basis.....

Thanks to you kindly kitty-cat folk who replied, I was most concerned about her overnight and glad I could get an appointment so quickly today. God, I love our vets here up the street!

Bit too grown up for my liking

The other day, I hurt myself climbing down from a chair I had just used to hang decorations for Steve's little kids' birthday party. These chairs have a deceptive wooden curved backrest and I misjudged where it was, corking my butt on it stepping back down to the floor. The result has been a big, elongated bruise at the point where my leg attaches to my derriere and it is quite vicious in its colour.

Yesterday, while we were getting breakfast, I showed Steve, for it is in a spot that I cannot quite see, and his alarmed face caused me to seek out a mirror. Don't ask me why I showed him casually over breakfast - don't worry, we were home, we weren't out at a café - and, moreso, there's no point asking me why I backed myself up like a truck to the mirrors in the kitchen to check the bruise out for myself. I just wanted to check it out for myself, I guess, and beyond that I don't know the reason why.

Nothing wrong with this, per se, save for the fact that the LGBB was sitting comfortably on the couch already, breakfast bowl in hand, enjoying her meal. It's a weekend 'treat' for her, we let her eat on the couch and she thinks she is Lady Muck for two days because of it.

Well. 'Lady' watched me coming towards her, as I was finding the mirror to look into, and I guess she thought I was presenting my bottom for her perusal. I don't think I will ever, ever forget (or stop laughing whenever I think about) the tremendously displeased half-snarl on her face, mid-chew, as she said to me, one hand up in the Stop gesture and shaking her head, "I don't need to see that."

I don't need to see that. Granted, what else are you going to say when you see your mum's bum coming towards your face (and isn't that a stand-out question that will bear some explanation if it ends up by itself as a preview of this post/blog in Google)? But does such a mature phrase, delivered so.... teenagerishly..... have to come out of my small child? So soon? Why can't she just remain a Fimbles-loving, Grandpa In My Pocket, Dirt Girl [and isn't THAT just about the freakiest show you've ever seen??] fan forever?

It's not what she said so much as her gesture and tone and 'tude as she said it. Almost as if I could really imagine what she'll be like as a mature lady of the world. Age 8.

It's happening before my very eyes. The aging of our smart-talkin' baby.

The definition of love and other things

On Monday, it was Steve's birthday.

Last night, we had a host of regulars drop around for a really great, short, treat-filled party. Steve wanted balloons and cake, mostly for the kids. So he says, anyway.

In the afternoon, the LGBB and I set up, making a "Welcome to your birthday party, Daddy" poster (which she held up at the window for a good fifteen minutes before he fiiiinally drove up the street, awwww) and watching me blow up balloons.

Now, this is a treat for anyone who wants to see sheer agony on a balloon-o-phobe's face. For that is what I am. Yes, hi, I am Kirrily and I have a not-so-mild case of globophobia.

So I braved the balloon, thought, "I can do this, I'm always scared of them popping when someone's blowing them up but I've never actually seen one pop in the process of being blown up unless the blower has blown the thing up to a ridiculously huge size." I have faced my fears in the past years and actually blown them up, but you'll always tell which ones are mine. They have about three puffs of air in them and that's it, which looks kind of pissy in amongst all the other ones blown up by everyone else. So usually, I don't bother helping and I clear right out of the room.

You know what happened, don't you? The fecking thing EXPLODED IN MY FACE, mid-third puff. Stung me like someone had taken a switch to my lips. Not so good for the phobia.

But I have to ask you, is that the definition of true love? To not only go ahead and put aside your own fears for the sake of another, but do it after your fear is realised? Or is it simply stupidity? Or martyrdom, even? For you see, just before blowing up that balloon, I had just tied off and given to the LGBB a lovely purple one. She was so excited! I was so excited! I'd blown up the damn thing! And there was already the first one I'd blown up, floating around on the floor. Ok, so it was only the size of a rockmelon, but hey-hey! It was up and tied and floating and not popping.

Yee-haw, I could do this. I looked at the pack of 100 and had thought, I'll stop at 20. That should be enough.

No. No, as it turns out, one is enough. Because that one burst while Lolly was just holding it - the poor darl, she's not fantastic with loud noises and so the bang left us both a bit frazzled and giggling in that insane kind of "I'm going to pretend like it didn't bother me so the other person doesn't catch on", which was kind of funny, I had to admit. But after that next one blew up in my face, her fake giggles turned to real tears. And I just pushed aside the other 97 in the pack and said, "Daddy is going to do those ones."

Seriously, I am uneasy in a room with even one balloon in it, let alone several. However, I have discovered over the years that the fear is in direct proportion to the dimensions of the room and the number of balloons - for instance, if it were a grand ballroom and there were balloons on the ceiling, no problem. If it is an outdoor function, pah - almost not worth mentioning. It's the confined room space scenario, particularly if the room is fairly quiet, that gets me on edge. Add to that a few scurrying children and some toddlers who can barely walk, falling all over their balloons and biting them and...... shudder. My nightmare.

So. What about you? Do you, or anyone you know, have any uncommon fears or phobias? Are they debilitating for you? Have they lessenned in intensity or have you designed any work-arounds? Do tell.

The Mother gene

What is it with your ill child that makes you completely wake up and be at full, willing attention at 3am?

I was hot anyway. And awake. So why not put my insomnia to good use and go tend to a poorly little poppet who seems to have caught a vomiting bug overnight. She's asleep now. I'm not. And you know what, I don't care in the slightest!

If the LGBB was arking up, playing the fool, acting silly or (my pet peeve) whinging over something or other, I would have far less patience for being up and 'on' at this time of the morning.

But there's something about that call out, Nightingale style (sans the oil lamp and groovy nurse's kit-out), that really calls me to service. I feel so incredibly useful. Mind you, I'd prefer not to be beckoned in this way too often. But there is something very gratifying for me, nurturing perhaps a part of myself, in knowing I am offering my ill or frightened child some comfort, enough to allow her to fall back to sleep. I know what to do for her. Get a bucket, a little scented antiseptic in the water at the bottom, a cold flannel, tissues, spare night gowns and Homoeopathic remedy (for puking - oh totally, yeah, there's one for that!) on hand, along with rhythmic soft strokes of her forehead, and I am well equipped to give her all I know how.

I feel far more put to good use in this manner, compared to those days and nights spent alongside my other gorgeous girl. In the NICU, there is no way to really comfort like this. So new to it all, anyway, and in an alien environment, none of which is familiar to your sense of instinctive mothering, there is little that can be done. And even less which is allowed, depending on the hospital and the 'trends' of the day. During our stint with Ellanor, in January/February 2004, there was a distinct change in instruction for us: it went from quite blasé, even encouraging, views on parental-infant touch to something far less friendly. The day I was told by a Registrar that my touching my own baby was harming her progress was the day something broke inside me just a little bit more. We fought and won that battle, adamant that there couldn't possibly be so much harm done in cooing gently through a tiny plastic porthole to our dear one while we gingerly held a pinky finger so she could curl her fist around it, that it demanded a finite rule.

Don't get me wrong, I know I'm not "making up" for lost nurturing with Ella. My girls are completely different and, therefore, so too is my relationship with both of them. I would never ever dishonour Lolly's place in the world and in my life, our family, by overlaying my nurture or mothering of her with anything that I felt I missed out on with her big sister.

I do often wonder what the nights would be like if I had two wee sickies to dart between. Or if they tag teamed and got ill on alternating nights to stagger the overnight loss of sleep for me. Would I be nearly as tolerant of all this if I hadn't already lost Ella (and so many other bubbas who never made it)? I'll never know.

It remains yet one more extremely handy gift she has left me.

Those were the days, my friends

Searching for an old recipe tonight, I found this call-out I made to my dearest BFF's via a desperate email on 25th July, 2006. Lolly was five days old.

"Where is the manual?

She's screaming anytime she's awake and we've already worked out the poor darling is as windy as Oklahoma City, but how do you assist a girl to fart? ITS TRAGIC"

That's all I wrote. I'm surprised I even managed to hit 'Send'. Ahhh, memories.

Well...

It's out. Root 'n all. And the crack in that tooth was incredible!

Lucky there was a crack, though, hey? Too late if the dentist had been wrong, otherwise - yes, it did cross my mind.

All I can say is... NO FECKING WONDER there was a bit o' pain in the old face/mouth area.

Hmmmmmmmmm anaesthetic is so soothing, isn't it?

Signed,
Trippy La-La of Palazzo del Forte la Panadeine

The Trying Day

Today marks the end of an era for me. The era that was No Teeth Work.

I've been told by dentists that my teeth are in great nick, always have. But when I went to the dentist about two months ago, I had prepared myself. Even told Steve, "He's going to tell me I have to have this tooth out and I'm ready for it. I know it's gotta go."

I went, he saw, he xrayed. And I was sent home with a *shrug* "Your teeth look fine, they're very healthy, in fact."
"What, you're not even recommending a tooth clean?"
"Nope, they're great."

No. Noooo! That's not what I wanted to hear! (Uh, not that I wanted to necessarily hear it had to be taken out either) At the time, the tooth - a molar on the bottom jaw - was so doggone sensitive that I was nursing it every time I sipped a drink, brushed my teeth, heck even when I breathed in through my mouth. I couldn't agree with him that there was "nothing wrong" with it. He had suggested that the pressure I was putting my teeth under (by way of clenching my jaw, grinding my teeth at night, presumably) was the culprit and had momentarily jarred the nerve. He sent me away with a promise to keep my eye on it and consider a night splint made to measure to protect my prized pegs.

I went home. I went home and doubted my intuition all over again.

Then, a few days later, all hell broke loose and my face felt like it was being ripped off my skull. I kept thinking in the back of my mind that neuralgia and tooth were linked. But investigation at the hospital (of my teeth) while I was in there turned up shrug-worthy too.

So, since then I have not been able to use that side of my mouth. It's become rather turturous (relatively speaking only, of course) not to chew using any of the teeth on the right side. Then things began to shift. About two weeks ago, the tooth became loose. It raised in the gum and I began getting ear aches and sharp nerve pain through my face again.

Oh no, I know this, I was thinking. I kept it at bay with my current regime of acupuncture and homoeopathics.

But nothing short of taking the tooth out, as it turns out, was going to fix things. To my surprise, I was surprised and .... not so surprised ... today when the dentist advised me that sometime in these past couple of months, my tooth has split right through the middle. There is no saving it. It's shot to buggery and my face has now swollen out like I have a golf ball under my skin. I can feel the heat of this raging infection (yes, Mum, I'm on antibiotics) and really actually am looking forward to the end that's now in sight.

It's been months that I've been going around with this issue. And it's one that can't be moved away from, because it's constantly there. I've exhausted my supply of Panadeine Forte now, having needed it in the worst of the recent episode last week - it made for some trippy middle of the night "downloads" of entire chapters of the book that I received from somewhere/someone Upstairs and which I have now gotten down on virtual paper. They fit well. They tie in with what is happening for me now: which is, moving forward, out with the old ways, in with the new - my task, if I choose to accept it, is to remind myself once again to see the joy in things and the beauty in All things.

Something I'd forgotten I'd remembered to do, after we lost Ella. See? I can always make it about her. The most significant teacher of my life? You betcha.

Uh, waitress, that's not the garnish I expected...

Skin. I peeled ... my skin. With a vegetable peeler, of course. How else would one do it??

Note to self: If I must park my brain whilst handling sharp (new) kitchen utensils, then I should at least put them down when attempting to cut corners and unwrap the cucumber. No hastening of the process can be made if I have to down tools (and cucumber waiting to be peeled) so that I can squeeze shut the wound on my finger - after first (you'll love this bit) unwedging the peeler's blade from its lodgement at the quick of my nail - and doing the wincy-ouchy-"fakari-rug-that-hurt" dance.

Especially not good if you need two bandaids and bleed out of them in less time than it takes to make your sandwich.

D'oh.

Stand back! A whopping, big twenty...

Litres, that is. Twenty litres of petrol. For 30 bucks.

I winced last night, Internet, as I decided to half fill my 40L tank at 165c p/litre (it's a fancy-pants prissy car that hazz to run on premium, if you don't mind). There is NO way I'm giving The Man any more if he's going to charge me that much. Mind you, I may just be screwed if it turns out prices stay that high for longer than it takes me to go through that half tank.

Thanking the heavens once again for our wise decision to move homes when we did and because of its good locatoin, now don't necessarily need my car - certainly not every day, anyway.

But still...

Yee-ouch.

He's through

Dad is out the other side of his op. You can't keep a chipper English chap down.

I phoned this morning to ask after him and they bloody put me through! I kinda hate when nurses do that.... sorry, nurses reading! I didn't want to disturb him, as my father is very much a person who is go-go-go and seems constantly switched to "On". Hmmmmmmmmm.... wonder where I get it from!?!?!

So there he was, doped up to his eyeballs on morphine and attempting the crossword. Gotta love 'im. He sounded slurry but still very intelligible. He prattled on as if he hadn't just gone through major surgery (they had to cut longer than they'd expected, due to scarring from a childhood appendix rupture... yeeeowch). I wanted to cut it short and didn't want him to recount details he's likely to have to repeat several times over to each new visitor as the days wear on. So I asked him if the hospital "looked nice." What a drip.

I'm so very relieved it's passed. I was climbing the walls last night and wringing my hands and didn't realise it until the call came through from my step mother. After that, I was able to settle down.

Upshot is, it is believed they've "got it all". The tumour was "small, about the size of an egg" (to which I say 'Holy shit, that doesn't sound small, but ooookay!'). The official prognosis comes through on Thursday but we are expecting the news to be good.

A trooper, is my Farver. And thank you, for keeping him/us in your thoughts. Your messages and emails have been so, so gratefully received.

That just proves it

I must eat far more than I need to. Not junk, just more.

I've lost 3kg since Saturday. I can only sip gently on Miso soup, other thin soups and sometimes I brave it and manage to slip a teaspoon in my mouth and have a tub of pureé fruit. I get Steve to make me banana smoothies, to keep up my potassium, because I can't hold the barmix - the vibration sets off an excursion to Excrutiation Village that I'd rather avoid. That's what I'm living on. The soup, fruit and smoothies, I mean. Not the pain excursions (although... they are a regular part of my day, I get dozens of these onsets and just freeze my body through them to avoid setting off stronger waves).

Everything else I can think of involves chewing.

Any suggestions? Temperature of food is also a byotch with this thing.

I sneezed this morning. It just about sent me out of my mind. I couldn't even cry about it. Not worth the ensuing pain to cry and feel sorry for myself.

Tonight, I'm going for acupuncture and to start taking a couple of strong herbal tonics. One of them, Magnol1 it's called, is for "vital exhaustion". Heh. I think I have vital exhaustion, fer sher! If you have a look at the symptoms, including patterns of pain in fibromyalgia, "Ultimate burnout / Vital Exhaustion (VE)" comprises of:

• Feelings of excessive fatigue
• Lack of energy
• Increasing irritability
• Feelings of demoralization

Well. I hadn't noticed that last one. But shee whizz, the others have been prevalent for so long I thought it was just me.

Isn't it just so alarming sometimes to turn around and realise what you've been living with and coping with for so long that it's become "you"? When it's not really you at all?

And I wonder, what have others possibly got going on, as a pattern of pain or fatigue or depression or otherwise, that they have incorporated into their being because "it's just been there for so long it must surely just be me"?

More later.