Busy times in Rusty Town.

Well it's been a busy few weeks here at Château Rusty.   I've had a birthday, shopped till I dropped, a new haircut, danced the light fantastic, and started back at out-patient physio.  The old brain has been a bit overwhelmed, as has my body, hence the lack of posting.  Hibernation has been order of the day.

I did manage to pump out one post over at Studio 30 Plus where I was honoured to be a featured blogger.  I'm sure I have done my mamma proud by using the words "sucked donkey balls" repeatedly in a post.  I can see her sending copies to all her friends at the gardening club.

The lovely Phoebe aka Lady Melbourne has put up her post about our shopping day for the competition I won.  I will have to say it was one of the best days I've had, and both Phoebe and Jo, my stylist, were truly lovely.  I went in as a shopping tragic and left holding firmly onto my newly rediscovered mojo.  A huge thanks goes out to my gorgeous friend Kerri who came along for the ride and pushed me around in a wheelchair at the Westfield Shopping Centre for 3 hrs.   And Mr Grumpy, who took the day off work to drive me around town.  I will post about the day and pop up a few extra photos in a little while.

Well it's time for me to head back to the cave for some further hibernation.

Cheers
Michelle :)

The Ministry of Silly Walks

Walking shouldn't be hard, should it?  If my eldest could walk at 9mths, surely I should be able to walk with ease at 37.  Mind you, I am walking like he was at 9mths.  Furniture and wall walking my way through the world.  It's a good look.  What is cute and gives rises to "oohs" and "ahhs" and "who's a clever boy" at 9mths, is not met with the same enthusiasm by the general public at age 37.  Instead I am the recipient of 'those' looks.  And little whispered comments, which seem to include the word 'drunk' quite frequently.  If only, judgmental old biddies.  If only.

These past few weeks I have been walking like a drunken sailor, minus the barrel of rum in my belly.  I have found that my gait is getting wider, what in the old work days I would have thought of as a classic alcoholic ataxia.  Only I have had hardly enough alcohol to pickle an olive, let alone my cerebellum.  My muscles have been uncooperative little buggers, and my weakness increasing.  They simply feel 'wrong' when I walk. 

Can't wait to give Uberneuro that descriptor when I see him in June.  A patient's inability to explain their symptoms was always a frustration for both parties, back in my work days.  I would hand them a sheet of descriptors to pick from when they were finding it particularly difficult. Maybe I should see if I can find it again, to use for myself. Damn, that's a depressing thought.

I don't really know why it's come to a head lately.  Maybe it's just the effects of my recent back issues tipping things over the edge.  I'm not really sure.  Given that my pulse pressure (systolic minus diastolic) has also been in the toilet I think Bob is getting a bit frisky in his old age.  When 40 is optimal, 30 is considered okay, 20 is considered shock, and all I can muster is a pissy 9, well it's not a particularly good situation.  It could just be a phase, and I'm truly hoping that's the case.  All jokes aside, the past month or so has really been hard and I've had about enough.

(Was lying down at the time I recorded this)

My neuro symptoms have been getting worse overall.  I tick and shake, and have muscle fasciculations up the wahzoo.  Managed to burn myself on the stove again thanks to the reduced feeling in my hands (good old SNAFU), which is always fun.  I asked my youngest if I had burnt my finger and he rubbed it, taking off a layer of skin.  Apparently what looked like flour was a wee bit of charred skin and we both had a bit of an "oh shit" moment.  

Luckily I finally have my appointment date so fingers crossed Uberneuro will have a clue.  I used to take classes with him back in the day so I am confident he's the go-to-guy when no one else has a clue.  But seeing someone I knew on a more professional basis will be uncomfortable to say the least.  I know his current Neuropsychologist quite well.  I was on our state professional board with her, so I'm really hoping I don't bump into her.   It's moments like those that I feel really self-conscious and it all gets a bit confronting. Ugh. That's all way to serious and depressing.  Will now play my happy song in my head and settle down to a nice bowl of denial.

I have finally taken the plunge this past week, and am now the less-than-proud owner of a walking stick.  I have put it off for a very long time, despite having balance issues on and off for quite a while (okay couple of years).  I knew I needed one, but my mind screamed "NOOOOOOOOO........" every time I saw one.  Now before anyone starts saying, "well you have to be practical Michelle", you should also know I will beat you to a pulp with my stick if you even start to go there.

People need to realise that:

Logic and Chronic Illness are not friends.  

They're not even casual acquaintances.  

In fact, if Chronic Illness was to serve Logic a drink it'd probably spit in the glass and smirk, whilst they watched them drink.

It's a mind space that you are either in, or you're not.  There's not a lot of grey.  Logically I have known that I needed some form of walking aide for well over a year.  But every fibre of my body has rebelled against the idea. 

I had a similar predicament with the shower chair.  I have a shower chair now, and I love it.  It means I can shower without face planting.  It means I can have the water above tepid, and stay in for longer than a nanosecond.  And it sure as hell beats sitting in the bottom of my manky shower.  All good things.  But the lead up to getting a shower chair was not paved with lollipops, kittens and rationality.  

Buying a shower chair represented tangible proof that I was broken.  Ptooey!  I spit on 'broken'.  "That's not me," I shouted whilst raising my fist in the air in defiance.  Not that anyone was listening.  Except my dogs, and they just looked confused.  It certainly didn't help that they were sold in the 'Aged Care' section of the store.  After a long period of denial, ranting, head shaking from a long suffering Mr Grumpy, and traumatising my dogs, I purchased a shower chair.  There may have been some pouting and swearing involved.  I may also have forcefully thrown it at my shower, rather than going for gentle placement. Whatever.

I still remember sitting down for the first time and thinking to myself,

"I'll show them.  It wont make one bit of difference.  I'll be right and they'll be wrong.  And I'll say see, see, SEEEEEEEEEE I was right, losers".   

But damn it.  It was better.  And easier.  And they were right.  And I was wrong.  Bastards.   See the extreme lack of logic involved?  I think I should be studied.  Or at least better medicated.

The reality is that I am now disabled.  And at some level I acknowledge that.  But there is a very large irrational part of me that continues to rally against that label. I spent my professional life, working in neurorehabilitation.  I helped to plan ways to maximise independence, including the use of lifestyle aides like shower chairs.  I know the theory.  I've seen it in practice.  And yet I still rally against it all.  As I said, logic is not my friend.

The acquisition of a walking stick has fallen into the same category of rabid illogical thought processes.  No doubt there will be many other items that will flail beneath the sword of irrationality, before I finally reach the point of acceptance and pull my head out of my own arse and acquiesce.

I am still on the lookout for a groovy walking stick, is that an oxymoron?  I'm not sure.  I really want one of those classy silver handled, black ones that look like they should be in an Agatha Christie movie.  But will have to save up my pennies.  I do feel as though I should be wearing a top hat and a monocle when I walk with my current stick.  And saying things like "tally ho", or "jolly good show old chap".  Or at least break into a song and dance routine complete with jazz hands and spirit fingers.  But baby steps first.  Coordinating, two legs, a stick, a handbag and breathing is still troublesome at present. 

(It's grannified but it works)

I have used my stick as a light sabre, complete with sound effects.  And as an improvised guitar whilst listening to AC/DC.  It has also proven a great tool to poke cheeky children.

I did see a fantastic sword cane (think Crispin Glover's, The Thin Man in Charlies' Angels)  which I want very badly.  That way I can stab people who tell me it's greatI finally purchased a walking stick.  And muggers beware, this disabled, uncoordinated chick would take you out.  It's all very James Bond.  Maybe I can also get one of those bowler that cuts off peoples heads, like Oddjob's in Goldfinger.  Now there's an idea.  I think I'm finally starting to come round to this whole walking stick idea.

Cheers

The dapper Michelle ;)

The Ministry of Silly Walks, Monty Python (1970)

Lady Melbourne, Westfield, and Shopping Extravaganzas.

Once upon a time I was fashion girl.  I loved shopping.  I loved looking for the perfect shirt, skirt or, my greatest love, shoes.  Unfortunately my Carrie Bradshaw taste was accompanied by the salary of an allied health worker in the public health system,with a husband, two kids and a mortgage. 

Still, I was undeterred by my meager finances.  I was bargain queen.  I could smell a 70% off sale a mile away and spot a red 'sale' sign at 100 paces.  I could mix and match with ease.  I would drive across 10 suburbs to get to a great op shop that was renowned for it's treasure of vintage pieces.  I always carried my wardrobe contents in my mental filofax.  I knew exactly where a particular piece of clothing or accessory would fit.  I could shop for hours and come home with only one piece, but it would be the perfect piece, that slotted in seamlessly with the rest of my wardrobe.  My own fashion version of Tetris.

I would frock up for work each day in a killer pair of heels, carefully selected vintage or classic inspired outfit with the perfect accessories. 

Then Bob came on the scene.

Slowly, bit by bit, my fashion sense went the way of my health.  Part of it was the exhaustion.  I simply didn't have the energy to do it.  It was a case of practicalities.  Ensuring adequate coverage for everything that needs to be covered in public became the number one priority, anything more was simply in the realm of fantasy.  Mind you that didn't stop me from going to work with my top on backwards, or forgetting to iron half my shirt.  If my hair was brushed I was pretty happy, as using a hair dryer was just too much effort.  Makeup went out the window except for a quickly applied bit of lippy.  I ended up with a wardrobe filled with slacks and shirts made from that hideous no-iron material. One less step to worry about in a world where energy was in short supply.

When I stopped working I gave up on fashion all together.  I slipped into a funk that if I'm honest, was quite comfortable.  There were small flashes where I would find a moment of care and put in some effort but they wee few and far between.  When your permanently exhausted it's hard to care.  With Bob my body shape also changed.  I really have no idea what size I am now, all I know is that most of my pre-sick clothes nolonger fit.  I don't really want to know more than that. 

Now I wear the uniform of the sick, PJs and old trackie dacks (see below).  Bugger brushing may hair, whip it up in a hair band and I'm set to face the world.  When you're stuck at home for the most part, why put in the effort?  I'm pretty sure my dogs are ambivalent to my permanent fashion faux pas.  My only concession to personal grooming these days is my bottle of Chanel No. 5 that sits by my bed.  A squirt every day to remind myself that once life was different.  

 (Abandon all hope ye who enter here.  

2yrs post leaving work.  Looking chic in pasty sick, 

with hideous dressing gown, unbrushed hair, dog chewed couch,

and large Thor sized accessory).

 

 (Mixing it up with old trackie dacks, which I still wear, 

and hair pulled back in a hair band, with small Freyja puppy accessory)

 

  (Ooh look, more pj's and another dog accessory, I have it going on.  

Note carefully crafted bed hair and pasty chic look)

 

 (And yet another pj, dressing gown and dog shot.  I am serious need on the fashion front.  

Good lord, even I can't believe my lack of style.)

Lately, I've been thinking that I need to put in some effort.  My eldest monkey boy is doing his deb with his best girlfriend and I really want to not look like the bride of Frankenstein's frumpier, pasty sister, when we do the mum and son dance.  PJs are simply not going to cut it.  Bob's not going anywhere and I really need to find my mojo again.  With his recent escalation I really need to put some serious effort into locating my elusive fashion sense once more.  (Though despite my stupor even I know that jeggings aren't pants, and that orange spray tan is only acceptable if you are an Oompa Loompa.  Maybe there is a remnant of my fashion sense left after all). 

Whether it's kismet or fate or whatever, but one of my favourite fashion bloggers, Lady Melbourne, (Phoebe was the inspiration for my Dorothy Shoes post last year) ran a competition for a $1,000 Westfield shopping spree with a stylist.  And,

I WON!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I know.  I can't believe it either.  I ran around (well stumbled around) the house yelling "I won", and doing a happy dance that may or may not have resembled the famous Elaine dance from Seinfeld.  I then took my laptop out to Mr Grumpy to ensure I wasn't delusional from lack of O2 or in the midst of a super brain fog.  But it's true I won.  My name was right there on the computer screen.  I have had emails from Lady Melbourne herself, and now have a pair of Westfield shopping centre gift cards in my hands.  No need to pinch me, it's not a dream.

Phoebe has been lovely, managing to squish me in on short notice before Monkey Boy's deb on the 14th so I will be all gussied up for the big night.

So this Wednesday, May 11th, which just so happens to be my birthday, I get to meet Phoebe, shop with a stylist and have the best birthday ever.  My gorgeous friend Kerri is coming along to help me out, carry bags or piggy back me at need.  I don't care how badly behaved Bob is on the day I am going to shop till I drop,  I don't care if I end the day being felt up by a pair of burly ambos or staggering like a drunken sailor and scaring small children and grey-haired grannies.  There will be fitting rooms, coat hangers, seams, hems, buttons, zippers and most importantly, fun.

And just think, with a stylist I will actually have a chance at avoiding the dreaded Mutton Dressed as Lamb Syndrome (at nearly 38 I am classed as high risk) or a bad case of What Was She Thinking Disorder.  Because lets face it $1000 on clothes can be spent wisely or very badly.  I think Princess Beatrice has taught us all a lesson in that money cannot be trusted to purchase style.

 (This must be avoided at all costs)

I will post photos of my new fashionable self after the big day and there will be no pjs or trackie dacks in sight!

Cheers
The soon to be re-mojoed Michelle ;)

A Word From Our Sponsor XV

With my heath in the proverbial toilet, posting has been a little slack of late.  I do apologise, but simply standing, especially when combined with the tricky act of breathing, has been challenging the last few weeks.

In.  Out. Stay upright.  In. Out.  Stop swaying.  In. Out.  Grab wall.  In.  In. In. Oh shit........

Fun times.

It appears that Bob was feeling a little ignored and he decided to throw a tantrum to get my attention.  It's worked.  All that screaming, foot stamping and dish throwing has been a little hard to ignore.  If only I could lose myself in a tasty bottle of mummies little helper, but alas that is off the cards at the moment.  I am already doing a fair impression of a slurring, staggering drunk, one little sip and I'll be on my ear, or singing Ke$ha songs.

I've been trying to catch up on some of that pesky blog administrative stuff that I always put off.  I've finally gotten around to writing an About page and added a Contact page.  Please let me know what you think.  If it makes sense.  If I look like a loon.  Or have created a grammar and spelling abomination that would make a unicorn cry.

Still working on updating my Dysautonomia Blogs list so if anyone has a blog about Dysautonomia and wants me to add it in please leave your link in the comments. 

In honour of Mother's Day I have re-edited an old post I did for 12 More Pages back in 2009, on combining motherhood and chronic illness.  It's easy to feel guilty as a mum for all the things we can't do for our children but it's time we gave ourselves a break and realise what's important.

Hope you all have a fantastic Mother's day.

Cheers
Michelle :)

I've been singing this a lot lately.  I'm thinking it would make a good Dear John song for Bob.

Basement Jaxx feat Lisa Kekaula, Good Luck, (2003)

Basement Jaxx - Good Luck on MUZU.

The View From My Couch: Tiny Umbrellas.

Well it's been a rather rough couple of weeks on the health front (hence the lack of posting).  Sad that I'm becoming rather sentimental about the 'good old days' of normal Bob symptoms.  But what's a girl to do?  Break out the tiny umbrellas of happiness, that's what.  If I'm going to walk like I just sculled a jug of margaritas, I might as well at least have the mini umbrellas.  And they are so pretty.  So here's to glasses of water, rimmed with salt and a cheery little umbrella on the side.  Though, a little medicinal tequila wouldn't go astray.

Twenty Years

Twenty years ago today Mr Grumpy and I went on our first date.

I've known him for more than half my life.

It's hard to wrap my head around that.

Then.

Nervous laughter.  Mumbled words.   Furtive glances.   Attraction.  Uncertainty.

20 years would have seemed laughable to us both.

Now...

His presence is comfort.

No need for fancy words. No need for overt demonstrations of love.

Silence is embraced, not feared.

A simple touch.  Our fingers entwined.  His hand on my leg.  My head on his chest.

He laughs at my jokes and I at his.

Even though we each know the others repertoire by rote.

We are both wider.

Grayer.

Saggier.

Youth has been replaced by 'character'.

Yet when he looks at me I'm still that 17-year-old girl, and he still that 18-year-old boy.

There are no words worthy to describe the bond created through those 20 years.

It is a creature born of time.

Of anger.  Of tears.  Of laughter.  Of love.

Thousands of fibres intertwined.

No beginning.  No end.  Ever changing.

I read an article recently about a Sliding Doors life.  About making choices too early.  About whether we would make the same choices given our time over.

As I write, there is a single, long-stemmed, red rose sitting in front of me.

20 years later, and he still remembers that first date.

There is no choice to be made.

Michelle :)

Copyright.

Being ill sucks.  It really does.  There's no two ways about it.  There's no sugar coating the joy of having an 80-year-old's body, when your only 37.  Doesn't matter your poison.  Could be Bob.  Could be MS.  Could be cancer.  Could be one of the other bazillion diseases, disorders and syndromes that pop up just to lay a large steaming nard on your life.  Nosology doesn't matter.  The result is the same.  Life turns upside down.  And where once you were tripping the light fantastic, you are now scrambling to recover your dignity and equilibrium after face planting in a big pile of the universe's fecal matter.

(Sometimes life just doesn't turn out quite like you imagined)

And when you're lying in that large pile of turds you can do one of two things.  You can cry and gag and try not to barf. You can woe is me.  And convince yourself the universe hates you.  Or, you can laugh.  Big belly laughs.  Guffaw and snort laugh, until you have tears running down your cheeks. 

That's not to say it's not okay to cry and swear at the universe.  I've been there done that and got the crappy t-shirt.  Grief and Illness are bound together.  You can't have one without the other.  You can't find the funny, or take back ownership of your life, until that grief is acknowledged, embraced, loved, slapped around, purple nurpled, and put in the naughty corner. 

And finding that funny in the most unfunny of moments is all about ownership.  About copywriting your experience.  About taking back control.  About saying this is mine, it belongs to me.  I may choose to share parts of it with you, but this is uniquely mine. And I don't really give a crap what you or anyone else thinks.

Those who aren't, or haven't been ill often find my reaction to being sick a little hard to understand.   Hell, even most doctors don't get my sense of humour.  I still remember the gynecologist who whipped out my uterus back in the day going on and on about the fact that I would no longer feel like a woman, and all I could think of was this Monty Python sketch from The Life Of Brian.  Was my reaction wrong?  Should I have been more serious?  Should I have felt less womanly?  Should I have ascribed to his belief and spent the rest of my life grieving and being 'less'?  As far as I was concerned he could take my dysfunctional and disrespectful womb and boot it up the arse.  I've never missed it.  In fact I celebrated it's removal.  Given the comically perplexed look on his face, I don't think he quite understood that. 

And so it's been since Bob came on the scene.  I've done the tears and the woe is me, and frankly it's exhausting.  Even I get sick of myself when I get like that.  I could sit back and let it consume me.  I could hand over title to my body and my life and sit back in a miserable state of perpetual helplessness.  A seductive choice at times.  That would be my right to choose.  But it's just not me. 

If I were to sit down and list off every broken bit in my body, if I were to look at my ever increasing list of diagnoses, if I were to look at my ever decreasing functioning, my ever increasing pill collection, 'tis all rather depressing.   The reality is that I can't change what is happening physically, I have no control over that.  My body will continue to go along on it's own merry way, and I'm just the unlucky side kick along for the ride. 

But I can control how I respond to what my body is doing.  I can decide how I am going to deal with what I face on a daily basis, and the rather scary unknown that lies before me.  I am going to choose how I experience this.  I am not going to act my illness, and no doubt I'll be one of those old ladies who doesn't act her age.

It's not about being brave or courageous, those words are overused these days. Instead, it's about making a choice on how to live your life.  It's about deciding to change your perspective and not letting anyone else, even your own body, dictate how you experience your world.

Illness takes away choice, it leaves you powerless, or so it would like you to think.

Those who have faced, or continue to face, illness know the power of perspective, the power of laughter.  Of finding the funny in the most unfunny of circumstances.

I will live my illness how I choose to live it.

Not how anyone else tells me I should live it.

This experience is my own and I will make of it what I will.

I will shape it and mould it.

I will alter it at need.

It is my work of art.

I will tell inappropriate jokes.  I will shock my doctors and those around me with my supposedly unconventional attitude.  I will put pink glittery feather boas around my puke bags.  I will name my doctors after Motley Crue songs and ask for my angioplasty balloon to be shaped like a unicorn.  I will make totally inappropriate glittery red Dorothy Shoes that I can never walk in.  I will laugh at the fact that my boobs are a garden or, that more recently, my lady garden has decided to grow a rather scary weed.  And I will not apologize to those who think I should be more dignified and serious.

Each of us must make our own choice as to how we deal with the cards we are dealt.

Each of us needs to ignore those who throw the word 'should' in our face.

Despite Bob and his ever increasing possee of abnormal peeps, this is still my life.

And I will live it as I want. 

Michelle ©

Alive and Brilliant, Deborah Conway 1993.

I will now impress you all

Well I've done it again. Broke out the camera and tried to be coherent for more than one nano second.  Why do I do these things?  Given that fact that Eunice is out on indefinite stress leave, you'd think that my nearest and dearest would intercede on my behalf and remove the camera from my delusional hands.  But no.  I'm starting to think they find the whole thing rather amusing.  Our own familial form of the American Idol auditions where tone deaf fools get up and sing Celine Dion abominations, completely unaware of how truly crap they are. 

Through my filmic endeavours I have discovered that I have a fondness for the word 'crap', that I forget to brush my hair, and that my misbehaving eyes are now accompanied by misbehaving mouth.  I think my next craft project will be to create a dapper tin foil hat to complete the ensemble.  Though I will have to borrow some cats from my neighbours as two dogs don't really give the right vibe.

As my creative endeavours did leave me a little the worse from wear (ie, in excruciating back pain and unable to move from the horizontal) my delightful children brought me a glass of wine and a pink bendy straw.  I am raising them right people.

(love my kids)

Cheers
Michelle :)

For those who don't know the joy of Faith No More, have you been living under a rock?  Here is Falling to Pieces 1990.  Brings back memories of Year 12 parties in dodgy backyards, a bucket mix of miscellaneous alcohol, and a whole lot of teenage angst.  Good times.

A Word From Our Sponsor XIV

Alternative title: I Am the Walrus, Koo Koo Achoo.

Shoot me now. Really, please do.  Or at least knock me out for a fortnight and wake me up when the world is a rosier place.  Next to the recent long list of horrific natural disasters that have happened around the world, my own grumbles appear petty. But hey, that has never stopped me from voicing them.  I'm sure others want to hear my long list of woe is me.  Particularly as I've been on strong pain meds for the past week.  If I break out in a tortuous rendition of Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, blame the meds and look away quickly.  When combined with my delusional belief that I am undiscovered singing sensation thanks to a religious devotion to American Idol, it's not going to be pretty.   I believe "hot mess", is the term being used by the kids these days, and may best describe my current level of decrepitude.

In time I will regale you with my exciting exploits of the past week.  Be warned it involves my lady bits, a radiologist I call Igor the Inept, who makes Peter Garrett look competent (sorry, inside Australian political joke.  Peter Garrett in Midnight Oil equals musical gold.  Peter Garrett selling his soul to the devil to become yet another useless politician equals horror movie), and Mr grumpy adding adult jokes to an ABC book he was reading to a complete stranger's two-year-old whilst I tried to not pass out in my local ER.  Good times.  Though the fact that the little boy kept yelling "mummy" every time Mr Grumpy got to "E is for elephant", still cracks me up.

(Do not let this man near your ladybits)

Long story short, what should have been simple pelvic and hip scans has led to popped discs in my back, a popped right hip and and introduction to the delight that shall for ever be dear to my heart, Oxycontin.  I have spent the past five days flat on my back, trying not to move, whilst my three slave boys have brought me chocolate, drinks and taken care of household chores.  I think they realised it was an above average amount of pain as I actually requested an ER trip, when normally I would rather poke my eyes out with a rusty spoon and sit through the entire movie travesty franchise, that is Twilight, than go to the ER.

I have now added the joy of trying to pass petrified pain med poo, and my youngest monkey boys pestilence (common cold to him, ebola to me) to the mix.  Uncontrolled sneezing and popped discs do not good bed fellows make. 

I am still not up to date with responding to comments, messages or emails.  Part of that is due to FB which is trying to drive me to drink, by not letting me access my messages.  If you'll get onto that Mr Zuckerburg, I'll much appreciate it.  And part due to the fact I break out in tears every time I read the lovely responses to Processing.  Stupid drugs making me teary.

Hilariously my friend Kerri has given me a copy of a speech she is due to present at the end of this month, to proof read.  I'm not sure if writing "I am the Walrus" 2O times in the margin and drawing pictures of unicorns in left over dark chocolate Lindt bunny crumbs is going to help, but damn it, aint no mountain high enough, or pain meds sending me gaga enough, I am going to proof read this talk if it kills me.  That's friendship people.  Kerri is a tireless advocate for MS patients here in Australia, so the least I can do is add my cracking intellect to her talk.

(Bob + pain + pain meds + passing rock hard number 2s + pestilence = ......)

Okay, time to go and pass out in a corner somewhere.  I do highly recommend pouring eucalyptus oil in the bottom of your shower, turning on the hot water, closing the en suit door, lying on the tiles and inhaling the fumes, whilst whimpering in pain.  Not sure if seeing Ringo Starr sitting cross legged on the edge of my toilet, drinking champagne out of Thomas the Tank Engine's head is a good sign.  But his voice is rather hypnotic and he had some really good ideas on how to de-mould my tub.

Ugh!

Do-over week please.

Koo Koo Achoo my friends.

Michelle :(

On a serious note:  please give to one of the many funds for the survivors of the Japanese earthquake and Tsunami and the ongoing nuclear threat.  I was lying in the ER watching it unfold live on TV and I still can't wrap my head around the size of this tragedy.  My heart goes out to them and all those around the world touched my natural disasters over the past few months.

I do find singing dramatic 80's tunes as loudly as possible does make me feel better.  This (1982, original filmclip) one of my favourite power ballads.  Sung many times into my hairbrush as a child, sung loudly in the car to the horror of my children and their friends, as an adult.  "Turn around bright eyes. Turn around bright eyes.  Turn around", I hear you Bonnie.  I hear you.  Children of the 80's sing it loud and sing it proud. 

1984 live at the Grammys.  Bonnie Tyler, Total Eclipse of the Heart.

The View From My Couch: Healing Places

It's not often I can say this, but I love my GP (General Practitioner) and her medical centre. I know, me giving a doctor a shout out, weird hey? But I do. When I see her it's never a stress. She goes with flow. She listens. She's helpful. And, perhaps most importantly she has a sense of humour.

 (If you have to be sick at least be sick in  a picturesque place. 

It's quiet except for local wildlife, and filled with every hue of green imaginable.  

There are even fish ponds and seats outside.)

Case in point. I rock up on Tuesday for my appointment, green, shaking, just a little wobbly. The counter staff don't bat an eyelid. They just take me out back. Hand me a puke bag and let me lie down in the quiet treatment room. No hassle. No stupid questions. No, how's your mother? My GP walks in laughs and says well "that's not how my patients usually great me" as she spies my legs elegantly shoved up against the window frame. She didn't make a big deal about my shaking as I stood up. She didn't make a big deal when I took an hour and a half to put on my thongs (shoes not butt floss underwear), thanks to uncooperative shaky feet. She gives me the option for lying down in her room but doesn't push the point.

 (It just doesn't feel like the road to a doctor's office)

She's helpful. She knows my case and also asks about my son's current issues. When she orders more tests and scans she gives me a heads up about a possible internal ultrasound because "you want to be mentally prepared when they start waving that thing around down there" (please, please, please let them get what they need from the outside sweep). As she hands me my new set of referrals she says "here's hoping for nothing new to be broken".

To top it all off her name is Cicily, which always makes me think of Northern Exposure.

The centre is in a gorgeous natural setting, and I love the decor.  It's clearly a medical centre but minus the cold clinical feel of 98% of the doctors offices I visit.  If you have to get felt up by strangers, this is my choice of location.

(It's red and Asian inspired, as soon as I walked in I knew it was the right fit)

Now I'm off to the old dark and dingy local hospital to be felt up by yet another stranger.  Fun times.

Cheers

Michelle :)