A NIGHTMARE FIVE WEEKS

It's been five long weeks since I posted anything to my blog. In that time I have been through hell and back and it is only now with a bit of light visible at the end of the tunnel, that I feel a bit stronger emotionally to talk about it.

Without wanting to load you up with boring detail, let's just say I was booked in for a simple surgical procedure on my stomach. This surgery was straightforward with 1% risk of something going wrong. I should have known that I'd be that 1%. The surgery was a disaster and I came out with a perforated stomach and fluids leaking into my abdomen.

I have never known such pain and yet now I will never forget.

One surgery became three in three days. I was transferred to another hospital where specialists used to fixing these issues existed. I was delirious with fear, drugs and just pain. At one stage I thought I'd been abducted, such is the power of some medications.

I was told healing a gastric leak takes time. I asked how long and was told the longest he knew was six months. I couldn't take this in. I suffered panic attacks at the thought of being in hospital for any length of time.

And then I got worse. Pneumonia and pleurisy became serious complications of my condition and I battled on. At one stage I was rushed back to the intensive care unit and theatre for almost a litre of fluid to be drained off my lungs. It feels surreal to even write about it.

The drugs continued. I could not swallow so everything was intravenously. Even food. It is currently five weeks since I have eaten food and tasted texture and flavour. I never knew this was possible but tube feeds ensured I was fed some concoction straight into my intestinal tract. Horrible stuff but it kept me going.

Then more procedures started to fix the tear. A seal was placed in the tear to block it up. It was successful for three days and then my body eliminated it and I went backwards again. A week later the surgeon triple blocked it and so far so good.

Healing a stomach takes time. The other day my body decided it didn't like my feeding tube so it simply fell out. I feared another trip to theatre to reinsert, but the surgeon moved me instead onto protein rich fluids, one of which has the texture of sputum. Next will come thicker fluids, then purée, then finally soft food. I feel like a baby being trained up.

I crave the taste and smell of food. I desparately want scrambled eggs, pumpkin soup, avocado, smoked salmon. I am hungry but I have to play the waiting game.

The question of why this happened is never far from my mind. When I am well conversations will be had and hopefully some answers will be given. But for the moment, healing only.

So six procedures in five weeks and a seventh soon.
Five weeks since I had my initial operation and still in hospital.
Buoyed along by friends and family to whom I am grateful.
Eternally confused as to why I always need to be the one who does things the hardest way possible.

Much love...xxxST

GREY NO WAY

A mild panic has descended this week that has nothing to do with illness or money or the football grand final and everything to do with the colour grey. Call me vain but my hair colour is overdue and my grey tufts are starting to pop out everywhere. It's like an invasion. One minute there's one and the next they've gathered supporters and multiplied in number. I look awful!

As a child I remember looking at photos of my grandmother and wondering why she never had grey hair! I was in awe at how everyone had a grey haired nanna but mine, well, she had dark hair. It was a miracle, a miracle in a small tube I learnt as I grew older. Someone once told me that my grandmother would go to her grave with a full head of coloured hair. I hope so. She was an inspiration to all grey hating folk.

Of course grey was never an issue when I first started colouring my hair in my twenties. It was permed, bleached, coloured, cut, grown, shaved, straightened BUT IT WAS NEVER GREY. I went from shades of brown to black to tinges of red and not a grey hair was ever seen.My hair was my pride and joy and in a time when I was bearing my daughters and we were on one income, my only extravagance.

Somehow as I grew older things changed. It crept up on me this change and one day looking at the roots of my hair I shivered in horror...grey was in the head. Oh the shame of it all. I imagined my grandmother grimacing in her grave and from there onwards my appointments became more frequent and I would personally check on a daily basis for any grey infringements.

But it's becoming harder and harder work to be vigilant and I'm really feeling like home base for the grey invasion. Check the eyebrows and there's a grey invader. Pluck. Check the face. Oh gross. It's IPL for you. And don't even get me started about down south. May as well take out shares in Gillette razors and employ a full time beauty therapist!

I don't know why it worries me so much. Is it wanting to remain young? Is it the pleasure of the fight against a body that always gives me grief? Is it just inbred into me? I have no answers folks other than, grey makes me quiver with fear. Grey makes me wear my hair long, hide behind sunglasses or simply stay home until that blessed hairdressing appointment arrives.

And the bliss of it all. As the colour is applied I feel the stress escape from my body. As I view my new head of hair I feel renewed pride. I got this. I am no longer grey.

Till next time...xxx

WINDY SPRING

Spring in this part of the world is really lovely. Not only do we have the most amazing wild flowers but we also have beautiful beaches and the right climate to enjoy them. There is only one downside - the wind. Geraldton is regarded as the windiest city in the world and wind speed peaks around this time.

The people of Geraldton are used to the wind. Women for example know that on leaving the hairdresser you require industrial strength hairspray otherwise your money has been wasted. Schoolgirls are adept at wearing shorts under lightweight school uniforms so that their dignity is maintained and make sure you peg your washing on the line well, or you will find it in the next town, half an hours drive away.

Yes the wind in Geraldton is here to stay and as I watch my sheets curl around the line a number of times, I moan at the effort that will be required to remove them later. The laundry basket mistakenly left outside nestles in the farthest garden bed and the pegs...well, they're everywhere...another job for later.

View from Cafe

But despite the wind a happiness descends on a town used to living outside.
This morning while having morning coffee with the husband at a beach side cafe, we both commented on how relieved everyone seemed to be to have another winter over and done with. People everywhere looked like they had emerged from their cocoon homes. Kids in bathers were racing to the water. I grimaced as the water though inviting would still be freezing. But they couldn't give a toss and were soon wet from top to bottom. White, winter skin was everywhere but this would only be temporary. People in this town change into summer clothes at the hint of sunshine and consequently are rarely white for long.

Yes spring is like a promise of all good things to come. Electric blanket off and aircon on. Jumpers
put away and pretty summer dresses out again. Flowers alive in the garden rather than the boring winter colours. Yes, good times with barbecues, holidays and summer shenanigans are around the corner.

For me this spring is another new beginning. Having recently resigned from my teaching position I can now be open to new possibilities, ones that leave me able to deal with all that is on my plate. It was a big decision and a hard decision but the right one. I'm going back to basics. Care of self and family first. The rest will sort itself out. Wow that sounds so grownup!!!
I'm off to pick up pegs. Have a great week.

Another cafe view

Till next time ...xxx

PS - Flower photos are my husband's hard work in our garden.

FRESH EYES

I'm a little out of my blogging norm because I have been away in the big smoke doing lots of stuff - catching up with the kids, catching up with friends, the usual doctors appointments, Father's Day, my nephew's 21st birthday. Its been really busy.

One of my doctors appointments was with a brand new doctor. This process usually fills me with dread as I have mentioned many times before, but this time I need not have worried. Enter Dr Mike, a doctor who thrives on learning more and is not threatened by his patients knowing " stuff".

I'll get back to Dr Mike in a minute. Let's backtrack a bit.

I had my thyroid removed in 2007. It was a horrendous operation because years prior I had a part removal and the scar tissue from that op had wound itself around the remaining thyroid. This caused great stress for my surgeon when in 2007, the whole organ had to be removed. I remember the look of relief on his face when I spoke to him after the procedure. He said he was terrified that he had nicked my vocal cords and that I wouldn't be able to speak at all. God forbid!

What he did remove along with my thyroid were two of my parathyroids. So, here's a small Human Biology lesson for those who have never heard of the parathyroids:
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The parathyroid glands are four tiny glands, located in the neck, that control the body's calcium levels. Each gland is about the size of a grain of rice (weighs approximately 30 milligrams and is 3-4 millimeters in diameter). The parathyroids produce a hormone called parathyroid hormone (PTH). PTH raises the blood calcium level by:

1. breaking down the bone (where most of the body's calcium is stored) and causing calcium release
2. increasing the body's ability to absorb calcium from food
3. increasing the kidney's ability to hold on to calcium that would otherwise be lost in the urine.

Normal parathyroid glands work like the thermostat in your home to keep blood calcium levels in a very tightly controlled range. When the blood calcium level is too low, PTH is released to bring the calcium level back up to normal. When the calcium level is normal or gets a little too high, normal parathyroids will stop releasing PTH. Proper calcium balance is crucial to the normal functioning of the heart, nervous system, kidneys, and bones.(http://endocrinediseases.org/parathyroid/parathyroid_background.shtml)
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 Now, I'm going out on a limb here and saying that I have never been the same since my thyroidectomy. I took my thyroxine to replace the thyroid hormone and took my calcium to help out my diminished parathyroids. But despite doing all that was instructed, I have never felt myself again. For ages I have felt exhausted, tired, either sleepy or an insomniac, twitchy muscles etc. It has been a nightmare and because I have had so many other health issues its always been put on the back burner.

Go to the gym they say...you've got to be joking I say.

Go for a walk they say...I can't walk without feeling dizzy I say.

Why are you napping they say...cos I never sleep I say

Enter Dr Mike with FRESH EYES. I say fresh eyes because my GP has tried and tried to help me but nothing was working. In fact there is usually so much to talk about, I rarely mention how I feel any more. I just put up with feeling dizzy in shopping centres, an out of control hand tremor, lack of sleep, leg cramps.

All it took was a pair of FRESH EYES.

In one hour this doctor took me apart and put me back in a different way. He canned some of my medications and ordered some new ones. He added in some multivitamins and re-organised the way I took my calcium tablets. Apparently for eight years I have been taking them wrong. Go figure! I was taking them as I had been told at my surgery oh so long ago.

Two mornings later I woke up at 6am. This in itself is unusual as I rarely sleep at night and NEVER have eight hours sleep. I was stoked! The next thing I realised was I felt happy. It's not that I never feel happy. It was more the feeling of being ready to face the day.

Could it be??? I googled calcium and found a definite link to mood and depression. This is unbelievable.

Since having my medication regime looked at with FRESH EYES, I have continued to feel better. Dr Mike has also added another specialist to my army so this never happens again. From now on my calcium levels and parathyroid hormone levels will be monitored. YAY...it only took eight years.

So, why am I telling you all this. Simple - learn from me and do NOT ever settle for feeling subnormal on a daily basis. If need be ask for another opinion and a set of FRESH EYES. Its not that your normal GP isn't doing a good job ( mine does a great job). It's just that those fresh eyes can change your life!

Till next time...xxx

INTRODUCING KATJA

Introducing Katja, my fiery, strong willed beautiful niece. She is also a talented writer and when I read what she had written for a school assignment, it gave me chills. It's based on her cousin Ashton but written from my perspective. I will let you make up your own minds.

PLAN B

Plan B. It is simply the plan before C, and after A. But how many more plans can be left after C? Do we simply continue on until we reach the final letter, Z? And if so, how does one get to Z and still bear some resemblance of sanity? But here we are, plan B. We were promised that this plan would work, but I’m sure that is exactly what he said when we discussed plan A. The thought that maybe I should question trusting him again flashes through my mind, but in reality, who else can we trust? This is the drastic alternative decision that I, we, had to make to save our baby’s life. 

 Approaching the decaying hospital with my husband’s hand in my right and my girl’s hand in my left all I can think is, here we are again. The familiarity of the Dettol clean hospital that never fills me with the warmth and certainty I desire enters my field of vision. This place, although, overflowing with heavenly blessed nurses and doctors, still will forever remain sterile, cold and uninviting. As we sit and wait for her name to be called, I stare at the stained yellow wallpaper covering the wall in front of me, and I fade out of reality wondering what each stain means and how it got there. Each one telling a different story of what these halls have witnessed, whether that be of pain or happiness is beyond me. 

After waiting for what feels like two hours but in reality is only ten minutes, her name is called. My internal organs start to twist and knot themselves as we embrace her one last time before she leaves us. I hold her with my arms surrounding her in a protective mothers cocoon, hoping and praying that this won’t be goodbye. The only seven letter and two syllable word that can bring me to my knees. As they call for her again, my husband pulls me off her, and reminds me, “she will come back to us, she is a fighter.” She walks away from us entering the guarded hallway and our ability to see her is lost as the doctor shuts the heavy door behind her. I talk to her in my mind, hoping she can hear me, begging her to never give in and that I’ll be here, waiting, on the other side. 

As the clock continues to tick, tick, tick, tick my head slowly begins to become too heavy for my shoulders to bear. How much longer can I wait before the tears start marring my crumpled face and the fear that I might lose my daughter consumes me again? The realisation that I just gave permission for a random man to violate my daughter in such a way that  can either save her or kill her sinks in. It’s like tempting fate isn’t enough for me anymore, and I am offering my daughter on a silver platter as a sacrifice to the gods, asking for them to take her away. Did we make the right decision? Please tell me my angel child will cradle into my protective warmth again. The memory of her floral smelling soft brown hair fills my mind and unconsciously, I move to accommodate her imaginary head in my lap. As the thought of being able to hold my child again relaxes me, exhaustion takes over and I fade out into my fantasy world in my husband’s arms. 

I hear her laughing, and in my head I can see her gleaming smile, ear to ear, brightening the halls of our small family home. Gliding around in her fathers arms she dances and giggles over how awful of a dancer he is. My face softens at the beautiful scene in front. The sun bright, but she brighter, and the soft tones of her dress complimenting her pale skin highlighting the beauty that she has to offer the world. Her green eyes shimmering with mischief and his with adoration. My perfect little family. Love fills my lungs as I breathe in the air of my fantasy world, where all is quiet and still, and no harm can come to my loved ones.

Soft shakes wake me as my husband whispers, “they are done.” I look at the once annoying clock, it reads 10pm, ten hours have passed. I see a nurse out of the corner of my eye glance my way. Our eyes lock and her eyes liven slightly, she raises her thumbs and whispers, “success”. That is all I needed, and the barriers that I have built up protecting the river of tears from overflowing, break down and all I can do is weep. We made the right decision. A trolley is rolled out from behind the barred doors and I can see her angelic body laying silent in its hold. They wheel her past us into a private room and as they did before, they lock us out, shattering my hope that I could possibly just touch her and feel her life force for just a second, so that I know, that my baby is safe. 

As time passes, minute by minute, second by second, frustration begins to seep in mixing with the ever present exhaustion. Breathing heavily, rage swirls with in. Why can we not see her yet? Ten hours of not knowing, ten hours of waiting, ten hours of excruciating pain and they can’t have the decency to tell us how she is, and what they achieved. The only thing keeping me from screaming is the memory of the nurses’ words, ‘success’. I grasp onto this memory, knowing that I just have to trust them. 

A single nurse finally walks out of her ward and approaches us. She invites us in to see her, but warns us, that although strong, my angel is tired and is hanging on to her life with the help of modern medical machinery. I slowly stand after sitting down for what feels like days and the blood rushes to my oxygen deprived legs. Pins and needles begin to burn down my thigh but the thought of seeing my baby, allows me to push through the pain. I think to myself, place one foot in front of the other, that is all you have to do. Steadily I sway down the never ending hallway towards her cold room where she lies waiting for me. Nurses buzz past me at a million miles an hour fluttering like little angels, but all I can focus on is my destination.

As I turn the corner into her ward, I have to stop myself for a minute. My hand reflexively covers my mouth as I start to tremble seeing her there under all the tubes and wires, so fragile. No matter how many times I see her like this, it is always a shock that I can never prepare for. My husband holds me tighter as my legs start to give out on me. He looks down at me and entwines our fingers, “We do this together.” He gives me the strength that I need to continue to walk towards her bed. The nurse walks along beside us and begins to ask her questions;

“Where are you? What is your name? What is the date? When were you born?”

Knowing that she grows bored of these stupid questions, I ask my daughter one I know that she will enjoy, “Who is going to win the grand final this year?”

She whispers, “West Coast.” Relief sweeps through me as the tears begin to travel down my gleaming face. She is still in there. She is still the girl we raised. She looks up at her father and I knowing that she is now in a safe place, and her eyes flutter shut. I slowly hear the heart monitor slow down as sleep consumes her and her recovery begins.

My body relaxes knowing she is in good hands and that it was a ‘success’. After a few minutes of standing over our daughter in a loving bubble, we are interrupted by a slight cough. Turning, I see the doctor in his pristine white coat holding his clipboard which contains all my daughter’s information. He takes in a deep breathe as he slowly approaches us and I am torn between my knowledge of the brain surgery being a ‘success’ and my dreaded gut feeling that something is not right. It was at that point in time in which the thought that maybe everything is not as good as I was previously informed rattles me. The Doctor turns to us with an apologetic glance and I suddenly knew instinctively from the doctors face, although it was the ending of plan B, there would still need to be a plan C. It wasn't over yet.

WE'RE NOT SO DIFFERENT REALLY

The greatest gift I have ever been given is the right to be called a parent. It is a gift I have held close to my heart for over 21 years and one which I will never, ever stop being grateful for. I remember most parts of my daughters' childhoods- the births, the toilet training, the many firsts, the awards at

school, the dancing concerts, the squabbles with friends. The list is long and ingrained in my memory banks. Of course there are also events we could have done without. The falls off skateboards, the asthma years, the hearing impaired years, the hearing aids, the fight for support and recognition at school and of course Ashton's diagnosis with dural fistulas and consequently Cowden's syndrome. Life is never simple and you learn to take the good with the bad, adjust everything into some sort of workable programme and soldier on.

This morning I watched my 15 month old niece Isabella jump when a bird tweeted next to her. She was totally terrified and only calmed down because my sister in law and I kept making bird noises and laughing, showing her it wasn't a threat. It made me realise how we have the ability to create these tiny humans and are totally responsible for their care and learning. They are helpless without us.

The reason I am thinking about all this is because lately there have been an increasing number of stories in the media about young children. And I'm not talking about good stories. Deaths at the hands of parents, accidents, abductions and the heartbreaking pictures of a three year old refugee drowned while escaping from the horrors of his country, have been just too frequent.

It totally baffles me how anyone could hurt a child, worse still their own.
It totally baffles me how anyone could deny parents their child and the memories of his or her childhood.
It totally baffles me how people can be ok with not helping refugees, how they always have an argument to oppose anyone who has a heart and a conscience.

Children are so precious and it doesn't matter whether they are yours or someone else's, we all have a responsibility towards their safety, care and upbringing.

I remember praying to every saint I could remember to protect my daughter during surgery. I would have given anything and done anything  in exchange for her good health. It was a very intense feeling born out of love, fear and a desire to protect my child at all costs. How hard it must be for parents to put their children in a refugee boat knowing the risks involved. I wonder how often they promised God anything as long as their children were safe.

We're not so different really.
Till next time...xxx

HAPPY FATHER'S DAY

Dear Birds outside my window,

                

I'm not sure if you are aware of the time but it's only 4am and that is way too early to start all of that racket. In fact let me go so far as to say your tweeting has woken me up and I am NOT impressed. Yes I know it's spring and I know it's not so cold anymore but really it's still 4am!!!

Now look what you've done. I am wide awake. Thanks for nothing. Between your noise and someone else's snoring ( points to husband), this is it folks. I am officially awake.

And that's not really such a good idea because at 4 am I have the tendency to overthink. This week will bring two doctor's appointments; the week after will be three. One of the appointments next week is for Ashton. Yes, folks it's 3 months since we saw Dr Hot Stuff and this week it's catch up time. Just as I managed to get over my " something is bound to go wrong today " negativity, here we go again. Miss Ashton ( touch wood and reaches for bed head) has been well. She looks well, sounds well and feels well. That of course doesn't mean her pretty little brain is doing the right thing but we will take it anyway. She looked very proud of herself yesterday when she pointed out it's been 3 months. And so she should. Three months without incident is huge progress. Let's see what HS has to say about that!

Love

ST
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THE HUSBAND

FATHERS DAY in Australia is today September 6 and I would love to especially wish my father and husband a very happy Father's Day. They have both put up with lots over the years and I am eternally grateful for them both.  The girls and I would be lost without them both.

Ten things about my Dad:
1. He is still working as a doctor at age 76.
2. He has an awesome memory for anything that happened fifty years ago but not so much for what happened yesterday.
3. He diagnosed my Cowden's syndrome.
4. He knows every proverb ever written and will test you on your knowledge of them.
5. He is a grammatically, fastidious writer and has sworn not to die till I know the difference between its and it's. ( I do. I'm just testing him).
6. He is the second of eight kids and the only one to leave his homeland of Malta.
7. He is never wrong and on the odd chance he might be, he will spend hours looking for a loophole to make him right.
8. He knows the most random stuff about the most useless topics. Eg he is full bottle on POPES.
9. He can recite the catechism he learnt when he was a very young boy.

10. He used to dislike Australian rules football but somewhere along the years this changed and he became an expert on that too. At the football he knows every player's number!

My Dad is the best!

Till next time...xxx

SELFIE WITH MY DAD

ST