Sunday morning mooching

It's a sleepy Sunday morning, and even the early-waking son obliged by sleeping in til 6:30 am. Ah, the sheer bliss! Mind you, I had initially been woken at 5:36 am by the rustling and shuffling of my beloved Birdman, as he gathered his equipment and dressed to go 'birding'. You know what they say - the early worm gets the bird. Or something like that.

So now the non-bird-obsessed members of the family remain at home, munching peanut butter toast, resisting the pleading looks from the beagle. I can't seem to relinquish my Thumper pyjamas in favour of daytime attire. Flannelette is just so darn comfortable (not awfully attractive, I grant you, but just sooooo cosy!)

I'm contemplating some housework, but contemplation is all I've managed so far.

Maybe after another piece of toast......

reclaiming girlhood (just for a few hours)

Picture this if you will - a big yellow room with two comfy couches, and lots of pillows. There is not a Lego brick in sight. "Bette Davis Eyes" is playing softly in the background. Someone with a bad sense of humour has put up posters of Wham and Kim Wilde. On the coffee table are two empty dessert bowls - remnants of ice cream cake still smeared around the edges. A platter of crackers, cheese, dips and fruit sits waiting to be devoured.

Two thirty-something mothers (with 4 kids between them) are lounging languidly on the couches, discussing topics ranging from travel to teething.They have watched a DVD of a recent 'chick flick'. When they can stop giggling about Fatty's latest birdwatching quote ("The channel-billed cuckoo is what I really want to see") and Ocker's desire for daily sex (ha-ha! double HA!), they will switch the TV on again to watch "Pretty in Pink". Or perhaps "Sixteen Candles". It doesn't really matter what it is, although having Molly Ringwald in the movie is guaranteed to make these mothers feel teenaged again. Grey hairs, wrinkles and all.

I've been looking forward to this night with Belly all week. The very thought of this evening has kept me smiling through tantrums, tears and ferocious messes. I've been unusually serene at work (even the lady who presented me with an 11-page handout listing her daily symptoms over a 4 week period did not disturb my equanimity). And providing our children's good health prevails, Belly and I will be there, on those couches, in less than 12 hours.

'Celebrate good times.....c'mon!'

the name game

I suppose many of you have pet names for lovers, spouses, friends, siblings? My friends and family do, too. I think Australians are particularly fond of nicknames and shortened monikers. Take my dearest friends - Belly, Chooky, KP, Tootie. Not a sensible name amongst them.

My father loved to call me anything but my Christian name. When I was small, he called me, depending on his mood, Chicken Pie, Toukie, Poobah (it's OK, I was a baby then so I didn't mind), and many other silly nicknames. If he called me my actual name, I knew things weren't looking good.

I hardly ever call my husband by his real name, either. I call him 'hon', 'lovie', 'darl' ..... and Fatty. Anyone who has read my blog a few times would have realised this: Fatty = Jelly's husband. I don't know why I began calling my beloved husband by this term of endearment. I suspect the word just popped out of my mouth. I could just as easily have called him Buckethead, or Tickle. But the other day, a blogger friend commented on the nickname. I realised I haven't made it clear that Fatty is not actually fat.

It's not that I worry you may all think I am married to a chubby man. Who cares what weight he is? However, I would hate you all to think that my husband struggles with his weight yet I choose to draw attention to it by calling him Fatty. The fact is, Fatty is not porky. Not even a little bit. He's pretty lean; always has been.

I remember going to a party, several years ago, where a drunken woman in a tie-dye dress plonked herself into Fatty's lap, and proceeded to berate me for daring to call him Fatty. She told me, with a serious face, that I was belittling Fatty, and sloshed her drink onto the grass as she gestured. I was astounded that she could take offence at a nickname that was so obviously NOT fitting. At the time, I was horrified at being so miscontrued. On reflection, I think the drunken hussy just wanted to get into Fatty's pants. And now I've completely lost track of what I wanted to say.

Oh, yes. That's right. I wanted to say this - Fatty is not fat. If he were, I would never call him Fatty. And one more thing - if you ever think of putting on a tie-dye dress, drinking way too much wine, and jumping onto Fatty's lap, well ..... just don't. Remiman and John Cowart - you've been warned.

So, wha'd I miss?

Has it been a week already? My life is spinning by crazily. I want to slow down, but then I also want to do all these things that I do.

Just to make life more tricky, we went camping this weekend. And as much as there was a fair bit of work involved, it was just brilliant! There are very few thoughts that thrill me as much as the idea that Fatty and I are building a strong family unit, and giving our children happy childhood memories. So whether it was Laura running half-exhilirated, half-terrified into the waves, or Ben (the city slicker) enthralled by the stars ("Look at all the lights in the sky!") - I found each moment golden.

I hope you've all had plenty of happy times over the past week... I'll be stopping by to hear your news very soon!

blogging blues

Lately, it seems there is never enough time. I feel like I rush from one place to another, and when I do have a spare moment, there are so many jobs I should be attending to. I feel that I'm letting some things slide that really should be done.

I love blogging, I really do, but sometimes, before I realise, I've been reading blogs for an hour. While that's OK now & then, I probably can't afford to do that every day. And the fact is - I often do.

I was really sad when I went to manababies site yesterday, and saw that she has shut down her blog. I will miss her sweetness and humour. Yet I could understand why, with her currently extra-busy life, the blogging had to go. As she said herself, 'it's time'.

I'm not planning to stop blogging altogether - I don't think I physically could! But I think I'll take a leaf out of John Cowart's book and take a short break. I think a week should do it.

I hope you all have a happy, healthy week. See you next Sunday :)

when three's company

I think blog world has gone to sleep. It seems everyone has closed their laptops and gone off to defrost their fridges, trim their nose hairs or do their tax. All vital tasks, of course, but still. I feel that I need to stir things up a bit.

I was over visiting John Cowart's blog, and read his excellent post about the bad choices made by supposedly smart people. It reminded me of a particular situation that I know to exist between three people in this very city. I know this because two of the people in this story were dear friends of my pal Chooky. I'm going to have to change names and occupations, but otherwise the story will be true to life. Here it is:

Sarah and Craig met at school. Their relationship began when Sarah was still half in love with another boy she'd been dating. Eventually Craig won her over, and in their early twenties, they married. They seemed very close and loving. They were affectionate together, they laughed and teased often, and whenever they were apart, they missed each other terribly. Sarah was clever, and completed her studies to become a social worker. Craig wasn't a natural at his studies, but did very well for himself, going into business.

A few years later, they had a gorgeous little boy. Sarah and Craig were doting parents, and continued to radiate happiness - they seemed a beautiful family.

There came a time when Sarah and Craig decided they both wanted to learn a sport - for fitness and for fun. They began having tennis lessons with Crystal - a stunning redhead in her early twenties (can you hear that alarm bell ringing?.... brrrrrring brrrrrring!). Crystal was a self-proclaimed lesbian, who was in a relationship with an older woman. Sarah and Crystal became friends as well as being instructor and student. Crystal confided in Sarah when her relationship fell apart, tearfully admitting she felt lost and hopeless. She had to leave her lover's house. Where, oh where would she stay? (brrrrring!)

Sarah and Craig offered Crystal the downstairs area in their house; told her she was welcome to stay as long as she liked. Things were looking rosy for Sarah and Craig - they could afford to be magnanimous. They had just found out they were going to have another baby.

After that, the details are hazy. Chooky was told by Sarah and Craig that they both admitted to each other one day that they each 'had feelings' for Crystal. Crystal apparently felt the same. So yee-haw! they became a threesome and have remained so for the past year. When their second son was born, they named him Crystal's surname.

My friend Chooky was shattered by all this, because she'd always thought that if anyone had a rock-solid relationship, it was Sarah and Craig. They'd always seen Chooky through any emotional crises with compassion and wise words. Chooky had always counted on Sarah's sensible and practical advice. And now, this 'golden couple' were no longer an exclusive pair, and all their marriage vows were broken. It was not the morality or sexual choices that Chooky struggled with (although she did find the whole situation quite confronting) - it was the shock of realising that you may never truly know a person - you may never really know what a person is capable of - even someone who is a close and treasured friend. That takes some getting over.

Chooky has tried to maintain a friendship, of sorts, with Sarah and Craig. She doesn't ask how things are going between the 'threesome', but Sarah often sounds exhausted by caring for the baby, and Craig seems to spend a great deal of time away from the house, letting the two woman do the child-rearing. It's a bizarre set-up. It's like something from a sordid midday soapie, only more sordid.

I have met Sarah and Craig on several occasions, and they seem perfectly friendly, intelligent and interesting people. I just don't know if they're ever going to manage to be happy again.... if they ever were.

geeky li'l ol' me

Have you ever found yourself feeling about 12 years old again, and just as awkward? Have you ever been in a social situation that should have been easy, and yet struggled to find your way? This happened to me last week, and it made me feel such a nong. To be more precise, the whole interaction made me feel faintly silly and staggeringly dull. How does this happen to an otherwise reasonably well-adjusted woman in her thirties? I thought I was past these kinds of feelings - where you doubt yourself socially, and wonder if anyone truly enjoys conversing with you (or is everyone secretly mouthing 'Help! She is SO boring!!' behind my back?!)

Weird. A few hours with someone who:
a) seemed to be in a ho-hum sort of mood
b) is naturally slightly reserved
c) yet is normally interesting to talk to and likeable, hence I actually care whether or not we get on together ....
.....a few hours of stilted conversation with this person, and I felt so small and pointless. And that is exactly how I felt a lot as a kid. At least, I felt like that whenever I had to interact with the 'cool' kids - you know, the ones who could talk to adults with ease, speak in public without blushing/shaking/stammering, the ones who seemed to brim with self-confidence. (Looking back, I realise a lot of their 'confidence' may have been an act, sheer bravado. But at least they had an act!)

I've been trying to shake off those old feelings of inadequacy ever since. Because although I was a self-conscious, uncertain child, I have grown into a woman who believes herself to be friendly, genuine, occasionally funny and no more boring than anyone else. Or perhaps I should clarify that most of the time, I believe this. Some days I just have to re-convince myself!

So, is it just me? Or is someone else prepared to admit to sometimes feeling nong-ish too?!

Fatty and Jelly twitter together

An honest-to-goodness conversation I had with my husband late last night:

Fatty: "I'm really excited about my Latham's Snipe." (he had gone out bird-watching earlier that day)

me: "Yeah?"

Fatty: "Yeah." (thoughtful pause) " I actually was hoping to see a Buff-Banded Rail, or even a Spotless Crake. But I ended up seeing the Latham's Snipe."

me: (unsure how to respond to this suddenly frighteningly nerdy man lying next to me) "Mmm. That's good, hon."

Silence. Fatty undoubtedly planning his next birding adventure in his head. I'm still in shock at the oddity of the conversation we just had. I wonder if Fatty might end up being a trainspotter one day. I kiss my funny husband goodnight, and lie on my back, soundlessly memorising the bird names Fatty just mentioned, so I can write about it the next day.

worst case scenario

At the dinner table tonight:

Benjamin - "Do you know what the worst thing in the world is?" (pauses briefly) " Being dead."

Laura - "No! Mummy said that sometimes people are really, really sad. That could be worser."


I guess that could well be 'worser'. Severe depression must feel like the deepest crevasse, the blackest night, the loneliest place on earth. How strange that my five-year-old daughter was able to remind me of that fact this evening. Children sometimes have the keenest sense of the truth.

Major depression affects approximately 6% of the Australian population. Too often it goes undiagnosed and untreated - especially when sufferers hide their distress, or complain more of the physical symptoms, such as fatigue, insomnia or problems with memory or concentration. I suppose we all need to be vigilant in watching our nearest and dearest for warning signs. And that includes ourselves.

Of course, for those transitory blues or momentary stress-outs, there's always chocolate. It has proven mood-elevating benefits (I'm sure I read that in the New England Journal of Medicine, or was it Who Weekly?). With the amount of Old Jamaican Rum dark chocolate I ate tonight, I should be cruising through the rest of the week, happy as a clam!

I'll let you know how it goes.

small humans go feral

Over the past 24 hours, my children have morphed into evil creatures. I want to make a list of their misdemeanours. One day when I am driving them crazy (dribbling, muttering spitefully about their spouses, getting lost in the grocery store), this list may soften their hearts towards me.

In the past day, my angels have:

1) foraged wildly in our store-room, tipping out the contents of several boxes of carefully-sorted old toys onto the floor

2) decided to refill the paint pots in the easel downstairs - in the process, spilling paint onto themselves, the floor, the couch (eeek, not the couch!), the hallway (from their feet, as they trotted down to the bathroom to get a cloth to 'clean up'), the bathroom sink, counter, floor, and the shower recess. I'm not sure WHY there was paint in the shower recess. It was one helluva mess.

3) brazenly ripped some plants out of the ground when we visited friends yesterday evening (causing me to have to send one child to the laundry and one to the spare room, where they sat, wailing mournfully, as if I was an unnaturally mean mother)

4) shoved the other, violently (Laura did this to Ben)

5) bitten, in retaliation (Ben did this to Laura)


There were other more minor incidents, (such as sneaking peanut butter from the jar with grubby fingers, when my back was turned), but the crimes I've listed were the major ones. I figure if I have to put up with another 365 days X 15 years of this, I'll be well within my rights to become a truly crotchety old lady. I'm going to start right now with the muttering.....

thinking, thinking

I've been quiet lately, I've realised. No post for almost a week. The fact is, I've been thinking (which could be a dangerous thing - but here I am, bravely thinking away regardless)

One of the medical magazines I read is running a writing competition. The prize is a trip away, a flashy dinner, a laptop computer, and being published (published in the magazine, that is). And seeing as I once got a poem published in the local Sunday newspaper when I was ten, I figure I'm ably equipped to win this competition. Easy as pie.

Actually, I'm interested in the laptop and the trip away, and I'd like to give the writing a go, but I'm extremely daunted by the idea of trying. The requisite is: 1000-3000 words, theme is 'Time'. What would I write about? Could I even write that many words? (without writing things over & over like, 'I must not pull grey hairs out with the tweezers'). Could I manage a work of fiction, or should I write something from real life? The task seems fraught with difficulty. I feel silly even discussing this, because I doubt I would be able to concoct any kind of competition entry. Even if I could, what would be the chances of winning an Australia-wide competition?! The whole idea is just ridiculous. And yet, maybe if I start to enter writing competitions now, I will start to write better prose. Then one day, when I'm as old as the hills, I might just win something. I could peer with rheumy eyes at my new laptop and smile a crooked smile at the achievement.

With that image in mind, I'm going to return to thinking. Time...... what could I write about on the topic of time? (reader input is beseechingly requested!)

conversation, child to great-grandfather

We went to a Chinese restaurant with my grandfather last night. Grandpa is 92, and though his eyes are watery and his back is hunched, his mind is sharp. He's a living wonder, and a truly good man.

As we ate, Ben decided to speak with his great-grandfather.

"Grandpa?"

Grandpa, being slightly hard of hearing, continued to munch his stir-fry vegetables and rice.

"GRANDPA!", Ben shouted.

Grandpa looked up, and turned his head slowly, to see who was bellowing his name.

"Yes, Ben?"

"I can't see your smile", Ben explained.

Grandpa looked puzzled, and turned to me. I reiterated what Ben had said, unsure if Grandpa had failed to hear Ben's comment, or if Grandpa had heard and was understandably perplexed.

"Can't see it for the rice, hey?" Grandpa grinned, as he chewed and chewed.

"It's because you're so old", Ben pronounced, and resumed his meal. I widened my eyes across the table at my half-brother, and we smirked, embarrassed. Grandpa either failed to hear the comment, or wisely chose to ignore it.

Grandpa and Ben sat chewing together. I pulled out a scrap of paper and wrote down their conversation, verbatim. It seemed important to remember.

morning march

I started today by going walking with my pal, Chooky. She is a bitingly-funny, clever and gorgeous woman, who is paradoxically prone to sadness and self-doubt. Whatever her mood, however we spend time together, I love to be with Chooky. We've known each other since we were twelve.

We walked in the chilly dawn, with a pale moon still hanging low in the sky, like a drunken dinner guest who had lingered too long. The sun was already rising, though it wasn't warming us up much! We strode along the streets at a cracking pace, dragging the beagle reluctantly behind us (What's wrong with you, oh my hurrisome owner? You don't want to sniff the gutters?! But there's a DEAD BIRD to snuffle!).

For awhile I felt slightly queasy. I think it may have been the mountainous terrain we were traversing (or at least the small hill we started our walk by climbing). Or maybe my body was in shock that I was denying it coffee. Whatever the cause, I soon felt good again, as Chooky and I walked and talked. We talked of friends, we talked about men and love, we spoke of children, we discussed body image. We listened to each other. We teased each other.

It was cold, it was ridiculously early, but it was a sparkling way to start the day..... just Chooky, the beagle and me.

"No one listens to me!"

......These are the words that I wailed, as I finally left my consulting room this evening. The receptionist laughed her throaty laugh, and didn't try to console me with platitudes. She knows I'm telling the truth... or at least a partial truth. The fact is, as much as you might think that patients come to see a doctor to get medical advice, this is often far from the reality. Why seek advice from Dr Jellyhead, when you can consult the latest issue of Woman's Day? Why ask my humble opinion about a symptom when you can google 'sore throat' and conclude that you have acute thyroiditis? Why bother to ask the GP what they think, when your neighbour can tell you across the fence that you definitely have what she had last week? (which needed that particular medication to clear it up). Just figure out your own diagnosis, then come to the GP to demand the appropriate tests/medication/referral to a specialist. (Am I sounding a little bit *TETCHY* here?!!!!)

Today, a young man of 16 came to see me with his mother. The boy, 'Nate', walked in with a slight limp, and his ankle was mildly swollen. He explained he'd played a game of football the previous day, and noticed his ankle to be sore as he came off the field. He couldn't recall noticing anything amiss before that moment. No pain, no' snaps' or 'cracks'. This morning he found the ankle was more sore, and had swelled up.

Now this boy's mother was a nurse, and as much as I have great respect for nurses in a medical sense, they are often terrible patients, and terrible patients' mothers (Heather, don't hate me for saying this! I'm not referring to you! And I'm sure doctors as patients must be the all-time worst!). Nurses have seen too many dodgy doctors, they have seen too many serious illnesses and complications. The nurse patients that drive me crazy have reached the stage of distrusting everything a doctor says, and fearing every illness or injury is their (or their child's) last. I understand this, but nevertheless it drives me nuts.

So I see Nate, and check him over thoroughly. His ankle is minimally swollen, not at all bruised, stable, and he was able to bear weight easily. It is not broken. I'll run up & down my street naked tomorrow if that ankle is broken. ANYWAY. I tell the mother why I think it is a sprain. I tell her that it would be extremely unlikely that someone could break their ankle and not notice it. I ask her to continue with the treatment she's given Nate so far. And, to appease her(because I know she's worried), I give her an X-ray form, to use if the ankle gets worse, or doesn't improve over a few days.

Sound like sensible advice? Well of course it was - I'm full of sensible advice. Ask me any question, I'll give you the sensibullest advice you could ever imagine. But did the bad bad Nate's mother take any notice of what I said? Nooooooooooooooo she did not. Later this afternoon, we got a from call from the local X-ray facility, asking a question about Nate's X-ray form. Nate and his mother were there, getting the X-ray already! HMMPH! Pah! Stomp! *Various other noises of the temper tantrum variety*

I'm nothing but a writer of slips, a paper pusher! I am a referral service!

Also, I'm a whiny baby. Whining in my blog, over and over...... nooooo-one listens to meee!!!!

truth is stranger than fiction

Yesterday morning, I went to my usual Friday morning gym class. I think I have mentioned before how I go to an energetic class involving boxing and running and a muscly instructor. Although, being married, I never notice the instructor's muscles. Much.

So yesterday I breezed into the gym, only to notice a distinct acrid smell in the air. There was a smoky scent, and another woman asked the instructor, "What is that awful smell?" It turns out there had been a fire the previous day. This fire started when some towels in the cupboard spontaneously combusted!

The towels had been used by the massage therapist who comes to the gym, and although they had been washed, apparently there was some residual oil in them. The towels had then been tumble dried, and stacked in the cupboard while still slightly warm. They began to smoulder. Smoke was eventually seen coming from the cupboard, and as soon as the doors were opened, the fire took hold in earnest. The owner, who was either incredibly foolish or incredibly brave (depending on how you look at it), picked up the stack of burning towels, which was not yet ablaze top and bottom, and ran outside. As he threw the towels onto the footpath, the extra oxygen to the now separated towels caused them to burn up in a WHOOSH of flames. It was a Towelling Inferno.

There's a lesson in this story somewhere...... maybe - if you see smoke coming from a cupboard, tell someone else, then leave the building quickly? No, that's not it. I'm not quite sure what it is, but someone's bound to know. John Cowart?

future women

My daughter went to a jazz ballet class today. She's never been before, but her friend goes to this class, and Laura wanted to try it out. I sat in the foyer, spying on these miniature dancers, as they hopped and stumbled and skipped around the room. It was amazing to see that these little girls are showing already who they will be when they grow up.

One little blond looked haughty and ambitious, at the tender age of 6 or 7. She held her chin in the air, she spoke only to one or two others, and she her face was china-doll beautiful. This girl is bound to be a school prefect, and she'll probably be the Queen Bee in the 'in' group of girls. Of course, I could just have a wildly overactive imagination.

One little girl was unlikely to be the Queen Bee at school. She clumped when the others tippy-toed. She landed with a thud when the others sprang lightly. Her timing was all wrong, and her movements were awkward. She yawned and looked over at me with huge, limpid brown eyes. This doe-eyed child had thicker limbs than all the other girls, and her body was stocky. She will probably never be skinny; she may never be graceful. Her eyes were arresting. I hope someone tells her she is lovely, often.

I remember being a little girl, and I don't think I have changed much since then, in essence. At the dance class, I would have been scared, without visibly quailing. I would have been frightened of any criticism from the teacher, trying my hardest to get the moves right. If another girl had been dismissive, or mean, I would have chewed my lip, hard, trying to quell the tears. In time, I would have started to chat, getting more & more animated if anyone responded. I would have been just like the little girl yesterday with a fraying ponytail of mousy-brown hair - not outstanding, and just a little more fearful than the rest.

Yesterday, watching my daughter, I was glad for her. Because, like I would have done, she was concentrating hard, focusing on the dance steps. But between dancing, she never so much as looked like chewing her lip. She smiled, she twirled, she giggled with some of the others. Her confidence was a joy to behold. As she stepped in time to the music, and flicked her little hips side-to-side like she'd been born to wiggle (1-2, 1-2-3!), I felt my heart grow huge with pride. What a wondrous creature my daughter is! She is like me in some ways, but in many ways she is un-like me. And I couldn't be happier to know this.

FIVE THINGS

Mama Bear tagged a few of us to do this meme. Now that I have written mine, I am concerned I may have ended up disclosing some slightly odd stuff. But at least I don't have model airplanes in my closet!

5 things in my freezer:

1) 2 blackened bananas (you know, for the banana cake I've been intending to make for, oh, 5 months or so)
2) a large chicken - dead, beheaded and de-feathered, of course. I looooove cooking roast chook!
3) Sara Lee rum 'n' raisin ice cream (there's gotta be ice cream!)
4) a golf-ball sized hailstone, stored assiduously by my children since the last hailstorm
5) leftovers in tupperware, for those nights when my frown is larger than my smile

5 things in my closet:

1) a short winter skirt that I once wore with tights and boots, but now could only wear with a very long skirt over top. It needs to go. I need to face reality.
2) a mouthguard, chest guard, shin guards and sparring gloves in a backpack (for karate)
3) my wedding top and skirt, hanging forlornly, wishing they would see the light of day again. Sorry guys.
4) bridesmaids dresses. Like the wedding outfit, they wait in vain.
5) handbags I have known and now know to be ugly.

5 things in my car:

1) crumbs
2) tissues
3) street directory
4) dinosaur mini-torch
5) 1-2 children, depending

5 things in my purse:

1) gum
2) baby wipes
3) ibuprofen
4) diary
5) roller mini-bottle of perfume my daughter gave me for Mother's Day. It is very floral, and very stinky. I pretend I love it.

5 things in my wallet:

1) photo of my hubby and kids,
2) photo of my brother and sister
3) stamps
4) ticket stub from the last movie I saw
5) old shopping list that reads:' floss, fly spray, salt, bread, beer, wine, crayons, paper, mags'. I don't know what occasion these items were for, but it sounds like it would have been fun. Except for the flossing, of course.

I'm done, all done. Who else feels like rifling through their belongings? Feel free to leave an abbreviated version of this meme in the comments section. I'd be interested in your freezers and closets, in particular!

tenuous connections

I used to visit her every day. She made me smile, giggle and laugh out loud. She had a knack with words that fascinated me. She was soft and sweet; she was sharp and sassy. And underneath her jokes and banter, there was always her raw and brutal grief, a grief that I wished with all my heart I could wipe away.

This woman was not an actual friend of mine. The 'visits' I speak of were visits to her blog. Yet I had read enough of her humour, and taken in enough of her pain, that I felt I was beginning to know her. Then, just over a month ago, she fell silent. Every day I check to see if she has written. Every day I see the same words, dated several weeks back.

Whenever she was going to be away, or knew she would be busy with her family, my fellow blogger would mention it in her posts in advance. She posted almost every day. Her last post was chatty, cheeky, light-hearted even. Now I wonder if she was actually fighting off a terrible despair, even as she typed those teasing words.

Where are you, my friend? Are you overwhelmed by your loss? Are you struggling with a new difficulty? I hope more than anything that you have someone to hold your hand and stroke your forehead. I worry that something awful may have happened to you, and I shake that thought away.

Wherever you are, please know that you are remembered, with compassion and fondness, with respect and admiration, and with a big smirk at the thought of all your cheesy puns. Please take care. You are one of a kind.

thinking back

Before we went to Canada, I wondered if perhaps we'd bitten off more than we could chew (so to speak). I know that these days, hip and happening parents go trekking in the Himalayas with their 3 week old babies, but I have never been hip and happening. I thought Fatty and I were adventurous whenever we ventured out of the house with our first child. I thought we were extremely bold when we took our infant son and two-year-old daughter on a domestic flight to visit their grandparents. So to take a trip overseas - let's just say it was a big step for Fatty and me.

It's been a real confidence boost to see that, with some careful planning, and a lot of plain good luck, too - we managed it. We managed it, and we really enjoyed it (So there is life after children!).

One of the best things about the holiday, for me, was working together with Fatty. We are very different sorts of people, who often go about things in quite different ways, yet we worked in parallel to make the holiday run smoothly. Sometimes, tangled up in the details of day-to-day living, I fret over our disparities. I forget that we're a good team. We complement each other - yin and yang.

It was good to spend time with our kids, too. They were amazingly tolerant of all the tedious things about travel, and they were full of joy and vigour when it came to sightseeing. We talked, and walked, we ate and laughed. We had running jokes that continued the entire trip. We were just a regular, happy family on holidays, but I felt like the queen of the world. I woke up smiling every day.

Now life has returned to its usual pattern, but I am renewed. It's been brilliant to travel in Canada. Best of all, I did it with my sweeties.

back in the saddle again

As I dressed for work yesterday, I gave myself a little pep talk:

"Come on, it'll be good to see everyone there."

"I'm sure your brain hasn't really atrophied during your four weeks off work."

"It'll probably be an easy morning; stop getting your knickers in a knot!"

Armed with a suitably perky smile, I strode into work, greeting various other staff members, and replying that yes indeedy, my holiday HAD been good. Very good. Too good!

The morning was running pretty well, and I was beginning to relax, when I called in 'Jenny'. She looked uncomfortable yet sheepish at the same time, as she explained she'd had this chest and left shoulder pain since yesterday afternoon. "I'm sure it's just a pulled muscle, but, you know, dad was only 62 when he died of a heart attack".

Right. "Let's just go get you on some oxygen," I suggest firmly, leading her to a treatment room. In many ways, a patient having angina or a heart attack is a straightforward scenario to manage (unless they go into an life-threatening arrhythmia or actually arrest in the surgery- which luckily is not too often). You have a certain formula to follow - check this, give that. Of course, as a suburban GP, there is one vital action to be taken - something a good doctor learns early, something that requires great wisdom and intellect. Want to know this most important step? Oh, alright, I'll share the secret. In an emergency, the most crucial job is .... asking the receptionist to call an ambulance. Pronto!

The ambulance arrived, with two burly paramedics. I had been about to insert an IV, but seeing as the paramedics can do IV's standing on their heads, and considering I only insert an IV about once a year (if that), I let them take over. Unfortunately, Jenny had tiny veins, and when one of the ambulancemen tried to put in a drip in Jenny's hand, it went right through the vein.

Now usually I am not especially confident as a doctor, and I would never put myself forward to take over a situation. But it just happens that the one procedural skill I have always been good at is inserting IVs. Even as an intern, I would be called to do the difficult drips. Once, a third-year resident saw me passing near the emergency department, and despite that fact I was on a day off, and was wearing a checked flannel shirt, called me to try to insert a drip in the arm of a large Fijian lady who'd already been 'stabbed' by various doctors half a dozen times (I don't know what the poor lady thought of the lady lumberjack who was poking her with a needle, but I got the drip in!) So it was very unlike me, but when the paramedic started talking about trying another vein in a position where the drip will often block up or fall out, I tentatively approached. "What about this vein here? I could have a try, if you like", I offered. "Sure doc", one of the ambulancemen replied. Now I really felt under pressure. Trying to get a wide needle into a small vein - was I going to stuff this up, and feel like a real goose?

No! I didn't stuff it up! Hooray and hallelujah!

It's amazing what a buzz I got from such a simple task. I can't explain why I should feel so pleased about such a silly thing. I suppose when skills don't get used, you wonder if you still have the skills at all. But it's OK. I can still whack an IV in.

And all of you who have nodded off can now wake up. This post is over!