Plumbing the Deeps

The long haul back at Catalina

2012-02-18T00:00:00.001+11:00

On Monday this week, Ross, Robyn and I drove Barry from Port Macquarie Hospital down to the Catalina Aged-care Facility at Rathmines, on Lake Macquarie. He looms large in our history doesn't he, Lachlan Macquarie?

If you recall, after Barry's stroke at the end of October, he spent a week in Port Base hospital, three weeks undergoing rehab in Wauchope District Hospital, then, after minimal progress at rehab, he was admitted as a High Care resident into the Bundaleer Nursing Home in Wauchope. He absconded from there in the middle of January, and upon his return was admitted to Port Base hospital again. I agree. Old people in need of ongoing care, should not be occupying a bed in a hospital which may be needed for more emergency care.

So, the excellent social worker at Port Base, helped me find a longer term solution.

Ross and I had agreed to keeping Baz within the Wauchope area, because that was what HE wanted. He has many friends up in the area, had lived there since the late 70s, and liked the rhythm of the place.

However, he now agreed to come a bit further south, which helped us, but also there were very few places in the area that could accommodate him in a secure dementia faciltiy. Thursday last week I interviewed this facility which is on the site of the WW2 RAAF flying boat base. Hence, Catalina. It is older. It is more of a rabbit warren. It is within the City Rail zone, and although I have to train and then double bus, it is achievable from Sydney within one day. And it was available. Immediately. He does not have his own room, but is in with two other chaps. Both named Kevin. Bloody name haunts us now!

We settled him in during the early arvo last Monday, whilst he toured his new home and chatted to the Activities therapist. I promised him I would return today. Which I did. And for the first time since October, I am feeling a bit more upbeat. Not hopeul, but not depressed either.

I have spent the last three days making two 'books' for him. The first is a photograph album with examples from over the years, blown up and labelled, with his photograph on the front to attract his attention. I left it on his bedside table, and will go through it with him when I go up again next Thursday.

I am trying to chat individually with each of the Activities Therapists you see. There are two of them, and another comes on stream in a wee while. They used to be Occupational Therapists, then they were Diversionary Therapists. I no longer know. Let's call them the ATs. One is Kate and the other is ... can't remember (Nicole).

The second book I have made this week involved tearing pages out of my Picasso book. Oops ... good cause. I tore out about 20 large prints which I liked and thought Barry might also like. Big bold lines, and big bold colours. I put each on a coloured sheet of A4 paper and slipped it into its own plastic sheet in a folder. I labelled and dated each picture.

Ross and Robyn, and Jan and John (friends and neighbours from Rollands Plains) had stocked him up well with painting gear and with drawing gear. I had the task of trying to motivate him, and cajole him into drawing/painting again after all these years.

I took Kate aside and told her my plans for 'resident centred care' and she was wrapt (?sp?). I said he would need his own area with a table and a chair, and he would need to be able to store the gear for each of the activities I have dreamt up. In addition to the painting, we will have a box for leatherwork and another box for woodwork. We started off in a courtyard in the sun, but even with his big hat (thanks Jan - it works a treat and looks the part!) we had to move him under cover. Which means it can be an all-weather activity. When he moves into his leather work we might need a bench that can take a pounding. But shall cross that bridge later ...

I think today might have been a big day. When I arrived a bit after 11am, he had just finished an Anglican church service, and was sitting in a group watching a Laurel and Hardy film. We did all the painting after his lunch, so I guess that was about 1pm and I left to catch the train at about 2:45 pm. So he concentrated big-time for about an hour and a half. He did resist a bit to begin with. His head was warm on the inside. He had pain. He would think about getting back into painting. Da da da da da da ... I started to explain that his head being warm might be because I was asking him to concentrate and perhaps the blood was starting to flow back into the parts that the stroke had damaged. Or at the very least find new ways to move around his brain. And surely that could only be a good thing. I think there was an element of fear of failure in there, too.

Now comes the hard part. Keeping it going from week-to-week. And keeping it going when I am not there.

In case you were wondering, the Picasso picture is a self-portrait completed in 1972 when Pablo was 90. He died in April 1973.

Rummage Boxes

2012-02-03T21:14:00.003+11:00

I had a long chat with the social worker/psychologist at Port Macquarie Hospital this afternoon, who provided lots of wonderful advice and support with regard to Barry.

I spent all of yesterday traipsing around nursing homes on the Central Coast, well two of them anyways. I knew the criteria that I needed to meet: secure dementia facility; own room with ensuite; strong activities programme.

The first one, HammondCare at Erina, had the first and second, but not the third. The second one, Woy Woy Community Aged Care, had the first and third, but not the second. I had a long talk with Ross, and we agreed that the HammondCare facility suited Barry more than the other. Baz has lived by himself for 40 years. He might have gone a week without talking to another person!

HammondCare has 74 dementia residents in five cottages. Two of these cottages are for bed-bound residents and they each have 18 residents. There are different cases in each of the other three cottages, but there is one cottage with a vacancy and it houses 10 residents and their housekeeper, plus nursing staff who come in and out. All 10 are ambulatory but with differing needs. Barry is ambulatory with the NEED to do things, to still feel usefully employed.

The social worker and I discussed how to create this sense of contribution for Baz.

Firstly, we need to set up his room appropriately. Less emphasis on the bed and clothing being the focus, and more on the work bench being the focus. A computer table, a work bench, and a part of the courtyard set aside for him to garden and keep tidy.

Then she introduced me to 'Rummage Boxes'. Apparently, they are valuable in the care of dementia patients. I have described them for Ross, and declared their creation and stocking to be HIS responsibiity.

There will be a RB about leather working; a RB about gardening; a RB about clocks; and, a RB about valve radios. That should get us started.

I have a whole bunch of things to do - official things, that involve filling in lots of forms, and making lots of phone calls. And probably going to Port Macquarie for Monday and Tuesday.

HammondCare does not have an official activities programme because it is individual-based care, which is the best sort for dementia sufferers. I gather the best style of care is provided by both HC and by Uniting Care. He lives in this cottage, and his life does not revolve around his affliction but around what he wants to do with himself. Once he can get involved with things that strike his fancy, they will treat the dementia as a side issue.

Ups and downs

2012-01-28T20:05:00.005+11:00

Words are superfluous!

Wet weather plans

2012-01-17T18:45:00.007+11:00

We were betwixt and between on Monday, were Alannah and I. Was it going to rain, or was it not going to rain. As it turned out, for about 30 minutes it teemed. So we did lots of indoor play. And it was indoor play in the morning. I was ready for this just in case, but BoM led me astray, it did.

We read lots of books: Tough Trucks, Roadworks, My Uncle's Donkey, and Waterhole. A number of times in various settings for each book. We did crayon writing, but I think I need more colours in the crayon case. So I set Alannah up on my computer table here, where I am typing this, wrote her name and she picked up the pencil and wrote away herself. Was it wishful thinking that she understood when I said that was her name? Yeah, probably. But she holds a pencil fairly well for someone who is not 18 months until Sunday.

We did our usual sorting with sticks and UNO cards. I added to this another set of cards produced by Usborne which is shape cards. Well, the cards are all large rectanngles but they have about a dozen shapes (4x) showing shape and word, eg circle, square, triangle, rectangle, oval (which she can recognise and say, for some godforsaken reason), spiral, semi-circle, star, cross ... how many is that? Oh and heart. I have only introduced six to start with. We are not doing anything literate with them, just mixing them all up and then sorting them into three 'bins'.

So, now to the final two shots. I asked Kirsten's permission to post these two. Yes, she is upset, and yes, like a good journalist, I recorded the situation rather than go to her aid. So, what were the circumstances. It will not surprise you to know that it involves a cat. And the least obvious culprint - Sellie!

Sellie is the sweetest, most loving cat that I have. Yet she is also the most scared - she is the quintessential 'scaredy-cat'. She spends the first hour of my play-days with Alannah, hiding under the stairs, and I have to eventually coax her out. Once, she realises that all is okay, all she wants to do is come and nose-touch and rub against a leg. Even. Alannah's. leg. This time, however, we were about to go outside. The rain had stopped. It was after lunch. Things had dried a smidge and we had our hatties and our sunscreen on. But.

Sellie. was. atop. Ma's. toy. box. which. is. beside. the. door.

Alannah felt trapped. Sellie had to be coaxed to come to where I was before Alannah got a grip. A couple of times later in the afternoon, Alannah actually put her hand on Sellie's back. She feels most comfortable with the ginger cat, Sylvie, who is fat and old and lies on the sofa all day. You saw them together last week. I think it is safe to say, that the cat's blow Alannah's mind.

Taking into account attention span

2012-01-11T22:07:00.007+11:00

There is a lot of 'brmming' going on in the top image

My working life began as a Primary Teacher, mainly of Year 3 and Year 4, making the children nine and ten years of age. After three years of that (at Lyneham and Cook in the ACT, then Waratah West in Newcastle), I moved down to Melbourne and spent 18 months working in a range of city and suburban schools as a long-term (weeks) relief teacher. All this I relate, to slip in the sorry tale of the hardest day's work I have ever done. I was at Brighton Beach State School and although primarily on Third Class, one day I was asked to take Kindergarten in an emergency. I did not know what hit me! They couldn't concentrate, they couldn't sit still, and they completed every task the moment I finished explaining it. I needed a squillion things prepared, and more backed-up in my head.

And yet, from 1982 to 1986 I was involved with Family Day Care, and a Pre-School all in St Ives!

So, on the days when Alannah is coming, I am up early 'ploughing the field' to use my favourite metaphor when it comes to educating children. I make sure the bedroom is ready for when she needs to sleep or have her nappy changed. Then, I lay out the living room, then the courtyard.

In schools, the most valuable time is the time prior to recess and immediately after recess. The value of each minute reduces from about midday. Certainly, by the afternoon, you need to have programmed 'fun' activities, winding down activities. Hence, number and language is done first when the children are more likely to be fresh. Hence, in my opinon, PhysEd., sport, music, drama, dance, and art are all scheduled for during the afternoon. Of course, the teachers of those subjects would probably have a different attitude.

I need to follow this 'rule' with Alannah: get her inside into the living room first; then, allow her out into the courtyard later. It is difficult though, because she enters via the courtyard, and I have set out the sand, and the water, and the trucks, and the balls. Plus, I am not sure I want this quite that prescriptive at this stage.

Wednesday is a short session: 8am to 1130am only, which is when her nap starts. That aspect is working well. Bang! She was asleep when her head hit the pillow today. I must learn the words of 'Lavender's Blue'. However. I have maybe a dozen nursery rhymes that I 'rock' her to sleep with.

Although today was scheduled to get to 29C, it took its time doing so, and a cool breeze blew early, making it tough that Alannah chose water play first. Well, first after she had a lenthy 'hello' with the cats. She is learning how to pat and the meaning of the word 'gentle' and that you DO NOT pat a cat 'in reverse'. They do not go for it! Then we sorted the coloured sticks from the pack of UNO cards, one into that plastic tub, the other into this plastic tub. In a little while we will graduate into sorting by colour using both cards and sticks. Later on, outside we collected enough 'things' to make a natural tray selection: black stones, white stones, shells, leaves etc. I have various seeds and cones to add to this. We did not touch crayons today, and the reading was cursory (Busy Spider, Waterhole and Roadworks). I want to find a book of poetry (illustrated) for children. Not nursery rhymes, but poetry.

However, dancing was made more complex, and a hoop and bowling were introduced. Margaret had made a suggestion that I introduce some of the costumes of the Morris Dance to go with the Scottish fiddle music that I mentioned the other day. So we put on our hatties, tied a scarf around our necks, put our ribbons on our wrists and trailed a hanky (a la Oscar the Wilde) from our fingers. A pair of whirling dervishes. Alannah warmed to it: meaning she would not have a bar of it to begin with! I need a smaller scarf for her, and preferably in primary colours. I complicate this when appropriate, with bells on our legs and show her a Morris Dance on U-tube.

We did more vehicle spotting again today. She knows a bus now even when her back is to the road!

So, Grandad arrived at the bewitching hour, and Alannah spent ages introducing him to all three cats - a number of times.

More than mere baby-sitting

2012-01-09T21:30:00.003+11:00

This is my challenge to myself: how do I ensure that 'ma-care' is more than 'baby-sitting'. If I were providing child-care for a just any child, I would want to ensure that there was a learning component. Learning that was balanced between the skills, learning that was cumulative rather than repetitive. Learning that was fun; that was bonding; that was cerebral. Just because the child is the child of my child, should impact diddly-squat on the equation.

I find it easy enough to set a programme that includes the physical, the emotional, as well as pre-reading, pre-number, our culture, music, and dance. The difficulty is making the programme cumulative. To enable the child to develop over time.

BTW, you need to know that in the first photograph, Alannah is saying the word 'two'.

So, what did today involve?

Sandpit: We played 'Patty cake Baker's Man' then smashed the cakes down. In between time, we had to fetch buckets of water to keep the sand sufficiently moist.

Water Table: We have two basins, and numerous colourful pouring containers, as well as two colourful watering cans. Alannah had to help me fill the containers, carry one back to the clamshell. Then pour directly or via a mug. The day reached 26C so there was a lot of water play.

Culture Studies: Alannah is learning to identify by sight and sound, vehicles which pass by: car, truck, bus and motor-cycle. She can correctly identify the sound of the last two. She is learning to say 'big blue bus' especially the 'b' sound.

Pre-reading: We read "The Very Busy Spider', 'Roadworks', 'Tough Trucks' and 'The Fire Engine Book'.

Music and dance: we listened to a CD of Scottish fiddle music called 'The Red House' and Alannah loves to dance, moving easily to this infectious beat.

Pre-number: We had sticks, buttons, stones and crayons and sorted them into plastic mugs. Sometimes she picked up many, but more often she picked them up one at a time. She sorted and put (new word to replace toss) buttons into an egg carton, one per slot. An engrossing and not easy task.

Pre-writing: crayons on large drawing sheets. Free style.

Singing: I sung nursery rhymes to her at sleep-time as she snuggled into my shoulder.

Physical: This is a very physical day, but just to top it off, we played chasies from room to room, changing direction to trick the other. She tried to trick me more than I her!

And then, there are the cats ... they are coping really well. They all stayed around today and somehow realised that her enthusiasm was not going to actually hurt them.

A case of 'back to the future'

2012-01-04T20:28:00.007+11:00

Back in another life, I ran a child-care centre. Prior to that, I had been a primary teacher. The child-care was when my own children were aged up to 6 or 7. As before and after school care was involved, I had a couple of assistants enabling me to run some children to and from school. One cannot work those hours, at that level of intensity for too long. I note too, that I have a Diploma of Teaching, my undergrad degree is in Early Childhood, and I have a Masters of Educational Administration.

So what does all this have to do with the price of bread, I hear you cogitate?

I've had two wonderful days this week. Last year, I used to play with my grand-daughter, Alannah, each Wednesday morning from early until after lunch. Well, this year, that playing is happening at my house, where we have the wonderful courtyard. In addition to the Wednesday, Kirsten is working up a couple of part-time jobs which have grabbed her imagination. Once she recovers from her second jaw operation next week, she is hoping to work 4 days per week. Durng our traumatic 2011, Alannah was going to day-care two and sometimes three days per week. Now she had dropped down to two days at child-care, one day shared between Grandad and Ma (me), and another day, where she comes to my place all day. It strikes me that this is a wonderful mix.

We are learning about buses, trucks, cars and motorbikes. By the end of next week, I suspect she will be able to identify each vehicle type by sound!

I was up bright and early this morning, sweeping leaves, checking for spider webs, cat poos, and making sure the equipment was out and books were scattered around the living room. By next Monday I hope to have solved the problem of afternoon heat in the courtyard. I need a heavy drum to sit my garden umbrella in. But all is working wonderfully well at this early stage.

Recharging the batteries

2011-12-26T21:44:00.007+11:00

Here are my lovelies. I thought you might like to see them. I took these photos on Saturday at our Christmas lunch.

They then went down the South Coast to spend a few days with Darren's family. Guess what Alannah got for Christmas?

Gene-rational change

2011-12-20T18:48:00.007+11:00

It would not be breaking confidences to delare, in a public forum, that neither of my children has a 'green-thumb'. A plant can wither through lack of attention - things like water and air and soil - under their very nose, and they have no knowledge that the plant is carking it! I guess it can be sheeted back to the negligence of their mother: not setting a good agrarian model during their formative years. Whereas, when I was growing up, my mother had the main veggie garden, and we three children were allocated specific beds to compete against each other. Our father, wierdly, grew flowers like sweet-peas. And crops like wheat. And maize. And sorghum.

So, if the gods give me the nod, and I get to care for my grand-daughter for a day at my place during the coming year, we (she and I) will do gardening. Do you think she will like this watering can?

Oh I do like to be beside the seaside

2011-12-12T21:34:00.007+11:00

It rained most of the morning, and was dark, bleak and overcast this afternoon. But a toddler cannot stay inside all day.

So off we toddled to Watson's Bay. First to the library, but she was not really interested in reading the books, except for the one where she pressed a button and a duck quacked.

She is, however, crazy about sand. Anyone who has watched the short film on Vignettes will know that she picks up handfuls of dirt or sand, tosses it and shouts 'No'.

Because she can.

The patience of Job

2011-12-09T18:51:00.005+11:00

I trained to Wauchope last Sunday afternoon, and returned to Sydney last Tuesday night. My younger brother, Ross, and his wife, Robyn, drove there from Newcastle this afternoon and return tomorrow afternoon. I go up there again this coming Thursday and Friday. Each trip costs me about$150. I want to continue to go up there each fortnight for a while longer yet.

When we were shown the results of the CT Scan on Baz in at Port Macquarie Base Hospital, the geriatrician said that many/most people who have a stroke of this severity will usually have another stroke within three months, unless the underlying problem can be treated. Barry's underlying problem is that he has an atrial flutter which is flinging clots around his body. This needs to be treated with Warfarin or, at the very least, aspirin. However, there are complications. Not only did Baz have a subacute infarct in his left temporal and occipital lobe, and a smaller subacute infarct in the cortex of his posterior right occiptal lobe, but he also had an acute haemorrhage in the inferior posterior left temporal lobe. The infact measures 11cm from back to front, and the haemorrhage is 5x4x3 cms. There has now been a followup scan, and the haemorrhage has receded minutely. Unless this haemorrhage goes, there can be no treatment with warfarin. Therefore, he is likely to have another stroke.

I have not told Barry this. However, he complained to me that the back of his head hurt and his brow. There was a sizeable indentation in his head - above the haemorrhage. And across his brow appeared to have 'bubbled'. I asked the attending physician at WDH who said this was all the swelling due to the haemorrhage and it was something Barry simply had to cope with. It is when the pain becomes suddenly sharp that they know Barry is in real strife. This cannot be masked.

Barry cannot read, and he cannot do Sodoku. He cannot watch television. However, he was playing Bingo when Ross arrived this afternoon. He calls Ross 'his brother' and he calls me 'his sister'. He can tell the time because he was anxious when I arrived on Tuesday at 10:03am. The rehab unit said that some of these smaller skills may flow in and out. I tried to browbeat him into getting into his pyjamas to go to bed each evening, and to put on casual clothing for the daylight hours. I will ask the nursing staff how this is going. I am sure they have to remind him. He is now going to the toilet approrpriately, rather than using drawers or waste paper bins.

I am very pleased with the nursing home up there. Bundaleer. It appears to be very well staffed, with an adequate number of RNs to aides and cleaners. They were very kind to me, like family in many respects. I need to check just who the visiting GP is - Dr G or Dr K. I have also spoken with the private speech pathologist who will include Baz in her weekly rounds. Now to get on with the application ot the Guardianship Tribunal for the powers to oversee the financial and medical decisions that I am making. I asked Barry for permission to do this. Not sure whether I got it or not. But at least I tried to tell him, which is my legal obligation.

Ross and Robyn are doing massive amounts of work on Barry's stock of leather belts which were all around his house. Probably with a market value of close to $10,000. They have three markets lined up to try to sell them all in the lead-up to Christmas.

I have paid a young lad, who also lives on the cooperative farm, to slash the jungle around Barry's house, and to bash down the bamboo. However, with all the rain this week, the paddocks are sodden and the creeks are flooded. I need to get out there to see the condition of the house and immediate paddock. With noone living there, the situation will deteriorate rapidly. I hope his dog, Free, has stayed with his 'new owner' and not done a homing-pigeon. I have not mentioned the farm, or the dog, or the truck to Barry. And, tellingly, he has not asked. It was only this afternoon that he asked Ross where he was and how long he was going to be there.

What to do for the best

2011-11-30T22:09:00.005+11:00

Last Wednesday, at their weekly assessment meeting, the rehab team at Wauchope District Hospital, deemed Barry not to be making sufficient progress to warrant staying in rehab. He had been there three weeks, and the improvement was minimal. So the Aged-Care-Assessment-Team (ACAT) was called in. Today, the ACAT team 'interviewed' Baz, having interviewed me yesterday over the phone.

The ACAT team wants to assess Barry as requiring Low-Care or Hostel Care. They are going to discuss with the Aged-Care facility of our choice, Bundaleer, whether they have space for him, whether they will take him, and whether they can support the specific care-plan that he requires. Bundaleer is the only aged-care facility in Wauchope. It has a 55+ area, a 100-bed Hostel, and a 40-bed Nursing home. I had discussed availabiltiy of a Nursing HOme place for Barry and one was being held for him. However, I had not organised a Hostel place for him.

However, later this afternoon, I received a phone call from the Rehab Unit. They are convinced that Barry should go into High Care, not Low Care. So, we have a bit of a stand-off. However, the professionals are going to sort it out. The Rehab Unit has been with Barry for three weeks, the ACAT team for less than an hour. Rehab is concerned that at night, a Hostel only has two staff rostered on. Barry wanders at night and gets lost and confused and can wander into wrong rooms. This is when he becomes incontinent. During the day, he cannot be left alone for longer than an hour. Issues arise otherwise, and he becomes anxious. Today, he was anxious because a toaster was hot. It had been used to make a sandwich. Cleaned and turned off. But Barry was anxious because it was still hot. He did go and get someone though.

One of the issues, is that Barry has no physical impairment. He is not paralysed down either side, nor anywhere on his face. He knows that something is wrong with his head, but not what. He tries to respond but cannot find what he needs for the grey that envelopes his mind. He is sympathetic to the others in rehab because they are 'worse' than he is. The very injury that he has suffers, stops him from understanding the injury he has suffered.

What I understood from the initial CT-scan is different from what Ross understood from it. Ross maintains that Dr Crighton did not say that the LHS of the brain was destroyed. We were shown a scan with abou 7 slices through the brain. Each slice was nearly totally grey with just a thin line of non-grey around the extremity of the hemisphere (immediately below the skull). A bit like a cowlick in the hair, and about at the apex of a hair-part there was a large blotch of white which we were told was the haemhorrage. This was not the same size in all seven slices, this blotch. Ross thinks that synapses and pathways will be repaired with time. With the second scan last Thursday, we were told that the haemhorrage had shrunk a little, but was still there and still as dense. The stroke was Thursday 27th October, which was 34 days ago. Ross is much more hopeful than I.

There are flashes of interesting insights, though. Today, being shown on a card 7 + 4, Barry wrote down 11. He could not say 'seven plus four equals eleven', but he could compute it in his brain. I told the rehab nurse that Barry is a sudoku fanatic, and they are going to try him on those tomorrow. If all goes to plan or whatever, I will get him a build-yer-own morse code set. He was a radio-technician by trade, in the pre-computer days.

So whilst I would like to see him in a Hostel, I do not really think that is appropriate for him just yet. He would get lost among 100 people, and the care would not be as targetted as may be necessary. The rehab nurse said that his incontinence is improving, now just to control the wandering, and to work out what he CAN do with his brain. Maybe, he will be able to move into a Hostel somewhere down the track.

What I am convinced of, though, is that I can not take him on. I had a long talk with Rehab about this today. They think there is a good chance that he will always have to be monitored by the hour. He is not a physical chore, as long as the incontinence improves. However, he is a mental and emotional chore. And my younger brother and I have both agreed that our families come before Barry. Our families and our own health. That is tough to write, but I acknowledge that it is true.

Top photo taken in Mark Foys Liverpool Street store at Christmas in 1952, making Barry 7, Julie 4 and Ross 2. The bottom photo was taken in the yard of our Hornsby home in 1950, making Barry 5 and Julie 2.

The road we hoe

2011-11-06T07:04:00.002+11:00

This has been a tough week, with tougher weeks to come. On Tuesday afternoon, I received a call telling me that my brother was 'not well'. The call came from his neighbours on the share-farm out of Port Macquarie. Generally speaking, they each mind their own business and might not see each other for a week or more at a time. I have been known to ring them and get them to check on him when he doesn't answer his phone. This time it was not hard to diagnose the problem; I could do it over the phone. He had suffered a stroke. I spoke to him on the phone; he was hazy and non-communicative. Apparently, it had happened maybe 4 or 5 days earlier and he was wandering around confused and hungry.

A neighbour took him into Wauchope Hospital and he was quickly transferred into the Stroke Ward in the Port Base Hospital. Which is where we found him on the Thursday.

The gerentologist left us in no doubt as to the severity of the stroke. The left half of his brain in nearly totally destroyed. And there is a haemorrage into the dead areas. All caused by an irregular heart-beat for which he was getting inadequate care. All they can do is prescribe bed rest. No medication or surgery will solve the problems. He can walk, but his speech and understanding are grossly affected. And the clots will continue to be thrown off, causing more infarcts. If he can survive the next few weeks, the seeping blood has a chance of being reabsorbed.

This week coming he will return to Wauchope Hospital, and the social workers will decide where he will be placed for future care - either hostel or nursing home. He will not be returning to the farm here he has lived for the past 28 years. We were out there on Friday. Very sobering visit. We have a potential home for his dog, Free. We have engaged a neighbour to slash around his house to keep the bush at bay. He will also get Barry's car inspected once I have paid the green slip.

We have to do all the organising bits with no legal standing whatsoever. I guess we throw ourselves upon the Public Trustee. So good that we had the long weekend together at Lake Cathie just two weeks ago.

Barry is 66.

Colouring my world

2011-10-28T23:32:00.003+11:00

What constitutes a War Grave?

2011-10-20T04:32:00.008+11:00

I was asked this by Joan a couple of weeks ago, and it has rattled around my head ever since.

Within the Department of Veterans' Affairs (DVA) in Canberra, there exists an Office of Australian War Graves (OAWG). Many of the rules that the OAWG operates under have been set by the Commonwealth War Graves Commission. It is not necessary to have died in combat, or in a war zone, to qualify for assistance and commemoration. It is sufficient that a service-person die from a war related injury.

Let us go straight to the specifics of my father's case, as I am on firmer ground there. My father joined the AIF in October 1941 (he had wanted to join the Navy but needed his fathers permission, but upon turning 21 could make his own decision), and was demobbed in December 1945, having spent 12 months in New Guinea as a despatch rider. He would take official messages from one command post to another. To do this, he would ride a motor bike or, when the jungle became impassable, he would take a small boat in and out of Milne Bay. He never mentioned being shot at on land, but did tell stories of being shot at out in the water.

Whilst at Milne Bay (Dad rarely used the term New Guinea), Dad got a couple of doses of two strains of malaria, which were treated for the rest of his life. He also came a gutser off this bike, sliding down a slippery, pot-holed track, which stuffed his right knee, causing him considerable pain right up until the last week of his life. However, neither of these afflictions qualified him under the rules used by the OAWG. What did qualify him, was that during his service in New Guinea he took up smoking. He did not smoke before his service, and I can remember him smoking as a child in Hornsby, which he left in 1955. So, my guess is that he smoked (not heavily) for about 12 years.

Immediately post-demob, Dad was awarded 10% incapacity because of his knee, plus free medical in a repat hospital but not private. This meant he received a service pension. By the time he went onto the Old Age Pension (OAP), he was receiving a service pension at the 70% rate. By the time he went into the nursing home, his service pension was larger than his OAP. However, he was not receiving a 100% pension. If he had been, then he would have qualified for an OAWG immediately without me lifting a finger. Had he been a POW or a VC, likewise immediate qualification. But he was neither.

DVA works on a series of 'Statements of Principles' which are, and I quote 'legislative instruments that set out the factors which can connect particular injuries, diseases or death, with service'. Hence, the claimant states his medical condition, they are related to a SoP, and either officially accepted or rejected. It all goes on the record. At the time of his death, Dad had 5 accepted SoPs on the record. Luckily enough, 4 of these accorded with cause of death on his death certificate, things like emphysema and arteriosclerosis. I feel certain that had Dad wished to apply again to the DVA, he could have been totally accepted during his life time. However, the last time he applied (to get to the 70%) was in 1992 because he could not stand filling in the forms and answering the questions. So, I did it instead.

It was quite obvious to me that he qualified. However, to ease the passage, both my step-mother and I applied through Legacy. They have people who have been trained by DVA in what information to look for and how to fill out the forms. Once Dad's death was accepted as 'war caused', my step-mother automatically qualified as a 'war widow' (even though they only met in 1978), and received a considerable increase in pension, plus her own gold card. And, funnily enough, I did not have to apply to the OAWG in Canberra. I had already spoken with them at the time of Dad's death and had all the forms ready to go. However, THEY contacted me once the DVA had made its determination. One government department talking to another. Will wonders never cease.

A war grave means that the government pays for the internment. Not for the funeral, not the cremation. Dad did not want anything; he wanted to be scattered. But I reckoned this was because he had no idea what he qualified for. The biggest thing in my father's life was his war service. He kept up with all his war mates for the rest of his life. Indeed, he was the organiser. The only thing he wanted on his coffin was an Australian flag. I insisted upon flowers, too, but hey, that's me. So I have found a niche in a gazebo wall at Botany Cemetery, which is immediately over-flown by an Australian flag which is raised every day.

Now, if I were paying for this niche it would cost me $1,650 for the niche (in perpetuity, as is the NSW way) and for the brass plate. The OAWG pays the cemetery $891 for a particular (unalterable) style. I could do it my way - and pay - or do it their way and get it all paid for. The two styles are obvious in the photographs. The OAWG style is limited to 70 characters including spaces, and allows pretty much only name rank and serial number. I tossed up both alternatives, but have opted for the OAWG style. We have complications in Dad's extended family which meant I was never going to satisfy everyone.

I reckon it should all be done by sometime in February 2012.

The two outside images below were taken during Dad's time at Milne Bay. The middle image I found during my recent wander through the AWM in Canberra. It is an image of Amy Myers, and it interested me because of the cigarette in her hand. One of the stories near her talked about how the boredom for the troops was alleviated by cigarette rations!! The DVA is aware that many smoking habits commenced during miltary service. It, and the government, do not want to endure court cases, so just accept smoking diseases as war related.

One more thing that Joan asked about was the use of the service emblem which can be seen on the plaques in the photographs. This is mandatory on the OAWG maintained memorials, but can also be displayed on private plaques, upon application. It is hardly ever denied, but they insist it not be altered/defaced. As well as a plaque on his ashes, Dad will also have a plaque in the War Cemetery at Rookwood. All servicemen, acknowledged to have died of war-related causes, are given this additional honour.

I will try to answer questiions, if you still have them.

Summer and the new normal

2011-10-16T15:41:00.004+11:00

Gradually, we return to the new normal. Last summer, Kirsten and Darren took Alannah to swimming lessons, water-awareness lessons, more accurately. This morning (yes, Sunday at 8am) they regrouped, and off she went again. The pool this group uses is in the basement of a large block of apartments on New South Head Road. It could even be the pool for owners which was under-used, and so the body corporate is employing it usefully. Would like to think so!

Alannah was not all that keen to begin with, there were some tears but not really sustained. In this series of photos you can see her relaxing as the half-hour session progressed. They even have homework, which mainly involves getting her head/face in water, blowing bubbles, and the like.

Pleasure, Utility and Virtue

2011-10-09T10:57:00.006+11:00

A fascinating essay in The Australian this morning by Tim Soutphommasane. I have a couple of his books which are essentially collected essays: 'Reclaiming Patriotism'; and, 'All that's Left - What Labor should stand for'. He is one of those 'progressive' thinkers that are often derided in this day and age where pragmatism has it all over policy. I like to read him and then read Chris Berg from the IPA (arghh!!) as a sort of antidote. Who of whom, I am not sure. Berg has an interesting essay in the SMH this morning tearing strips off the 'Occupy Wall Street' concept. The thing that fascinates me about OWS is that this is presented as some kind of 'progressive' movement. To me they read like minutely to the left of our own Anti-Carbon-Tax crowd. BTW, I agreed with Berg in this essay. Scares me, that! Like when I agree with Gerard or Janet. I have to have a glass of Shiraz and go did in the potting mix.

Now to Tim. He is an interesting bloke - young man. One of those who came here from Asia (Thailand) to study and eventually just did not go back. Goodo. He has many points in this essay to cogitate upon:

the most number of friends a person can manage to maintain any meaningful personalised interaction with is about 150.

Even then, a typical collection of friends will usually resemble a set of concentric circles. At the core, there may be an inner circle of, say, five: our most intimate friends. Surrounding them is a layer of 10 or so. Then there is another 35 in the next circle, and another 100 in the one outside it.

He then goes on to distinguish between friends and acquaintances. And my title? Tim (and Aristotle, oops) reckons these are qualities that friends contribute to our life, or that WE take from knowing them. And it is those who show goodness and character, virtue, who will matter the most to us.

Phew! I have nowhere near 150 friends. But if I follow the concentric circle schema, and make a distinction between friends and acquaintancees, I feel mucho better. And there is the distinction between 'real friends' and 'virtual friends'.

I also wondered, where do family fit into this schema? And, so pondering, I include gratuitous family images. Have I ever told you that my daughter has a daughter ...

Brer Jools and the Veggie Patch

2011-10-06T22:50:00.013+11:00

When I was a kid, in the middle of last century, I lived on a farm with my two brothers. I am in the middle. I aged from eight to thirteen on that farm. Sorry, Jesuits, your maxim zeroed out with me. It was the second seven years that were crucial to my formation. And during that seven years, I had a vegetable patch. Correction, we all had a vegetable patch. It was the corner of the house paddock closest to the dam. Between the dam and the well. It was fenced. Yes it was fenced - a real fence and a virtual fence. The real fence outlined Mum's 'holding' and the virtual fence our three individual holdings. A bit like running yer elbow down the school desk and glaring if her shirt sleeve dared so much as to flap over the boundary!

So, the boys and I grew veggies. Mum grew flowers around the house, but they were weedy things. And had no purpose. And there was no competition. Who gave a damn if my petunia was bigger than Barry's pansy! So, veggies it was. We had paths between the beds. We had gullies around the beds. This was before the era of the raised bed. Oh, golly gosh yes. We dug DOWN. We had to use our shoulders. And then we had to take the barrow out amongst the rabbit burrows and wire grass and prickly pear to collect the cow pats to make our own compost. But we helped each other. I think. Anyways, we had wire strung between posts to help our beans run. And our tomatoes climb. We had fingers to nip out the suckers - in the days when that was still de rigeur.

So, here I go, with my first veggie garden since 1977 when I was overwhelmed in Canberra with tomatoes and zucchinis and capsicum. Hah! The poor man from 'Woolies Online' when he had to deliver 10*25 litre bags of potting mix plus two bags of blood'n'bone. Now I need two more black bins and some more plants. I have two tomatoes (Russian Reds), nice leaf lettuce, and a tiny pumpkin. Also some rock melon seeds, but not convinced by them.

The old scavanger

2011-10-03T21:21:00.004+11:00

See that old plant pot down there on the right, the largish, black plastic round one? It is now mine!

As I wander the streets and the gutters of my 'hood, I look for items that might come in handy in my garden. I am looking for things to get my plants up into the third dimension. The other day I found a blue plastic milk crate, not many lanes away, and hoiked it home. Today was a bit of a struggle as I was trying to take photos at the same time and not scratch Ann's camera that she so trustingly lent me. I didn't scratch it, I hasten to add Ann. *phew*

I will go back later this week and check out the other trays in this pile where the pot plant was. I think only the bottom two will be useful We scavengers must be discerning, you realise.

The chap in the apartment above me - who flew to the New England states of the USA today to experience 'fall' - managed to get me a couple of large black plastic (rectangular) containers from the convent whose garden he maintains. I mentioned that I wanted to start a veggie garden. I have sufficient soil for two tomato rings, and one other 'garden'. Shall go to 'Honeysuckle Garden' in Bondi Junction later this week to decide what to plant. Maybe some spinach. How hard is asparagus? Lots of water. Lots of manure? I will go read about asparagus.

Update: Perhaps, tomato, zucchini, silverbeet and rockmelon. Asparagus takes two years ...

He has lift off!

2011-10-01T20:45:00.004+10:00

His feet aren't on the ledge, and yet neither are his wings flapping. I seem to have caught him suspended in mid-air. Suspect it means that they jump BEFORE they fly away.

This is a Grey Butcher-bird. There was one a little while later whose beauty of song from high in the gums stopped me in my tracks. I thought somehow that they were related to Mapgpies, but cannot find that reference in my bird-book. Apparently, this bird impales its prey for later. An avian version of a pantry.

He kept an eye on me, but was not scared of me. He knew he could easily outsmart me if needs be. But he really wanted that bug. Then he was off, which is when I got the top photograph.

The Reading Nook

2011-09-27T21:31:00.005+10:00

When Kirsten was young she was read to a lot, although I don't remember reading to her before she was about one. This was the time of the Little Golden Book called 'Baby's First Birthday' and the book of nursery rhymes that she in turn reads to Alannah. The LGB proudly proclaims on its cover that it cost 39c. It was back in 1980.

In addition to reading, I would play card games with her, mainly using a pack of 'UNO'. We would sort them into colours. We would sort them into numbers. We would sort them into 'specials'. Then we would play 'Snap'. There were other packs of cards, like the one that took Grandma to market and we had to memorise the things she bought. These were played on a small set of table and chairs, after the lunch had be squared away.

Later, when Alastair was incorporated into the routine, the reading and the games went to after dinner. They could each choose a game and the four of us would play on the living-room floor. It might be Snakes & Ladders or Fiddle-Sticks or Who or eventually Monopoly and Scrabble. After the game, they were allowed two books each and they would sit on the sofa with the choices alternating. Parents alternated night about: reading, or washing up.

Eventually, the games became replaced by homework (at the tender ages of 5 or 6, yes) and the reading altered but continued until they completed primary school (aged 12). Each parent would alternate about children, but with continuity of book. This is where Kirsten became addicted to 'The Pastures of the Blue Crane' and Alastair to 'Goodnight Mister Tom'. From memory these were read whilst lying down on their beds. Then they could have private reading time. Then, lights out!

The books involved in this session between Kirsten and Alannah were: the LGB called 'The Fire Engine Book'; 'Go, dog. Go!' again; and, a board version of the nursery rhyme 'The Owl and the Pussycat' which must be sung. I forgot to tell you that Miss Molly got to listen, too.

Go, Dog. Go!

2011-09-24T14:55:00.003+10:00

Closing in on the infinite

2011-09-18T22:16:00.004+10:00

Tonight, on ABC-24 there was an interesing story on Norman Swann's 'Tonic' about vertigo. It starts at the 1:12 point and finishes at the 8:50 point. It talks about vertigo, menieres, BPV, dizziness, and balance. The resident expert is Profesor Michael Halmagyi out at the Balance Centre at Royal Prince Alfred Hospital.

It was interesting, but progressed me no further along my long and winding road to knowing what my own balance issues are. However, yesterday I did locate a short video which shows you what oscillopsia does to my life as I walk anywhere. Distressing, isn't it? All of that is my own reality EXCEPT the shots of the sidewalk from the car. I was going to say that mine is not that agitated. Then I remembered that when I am in a bus looking sideways out the window, I shut my eyes because it is too distressing. When I toured around the Myrtleford area, I could not look out the side window, but had to look straight ahead through the driver's head!

However, I do have something to report to Halmagyi when I see him again. I am not his flavour of the month as my symptoms are not what he is investigating at the moment. He is into something to do with low blood pressure. My blood pressure seems to be okay at the moment: on the high side but not excessively so. However, whilst in Melbourne I had something slightly 'off' happen.

My friend, Diane, had a party at the local pub on the Saturday night. It was a cold night, but I knew the pub would be hot and the 30 odd people would make it seem hotter still. However, I had a long-sleeved top and a pair of pants on. The stress started when I realised that I had eaten too much. I had some of three courses, and I had one glass of wine. Another one was poured for me but I left it untouched. There was finger food to begin with. There were 4 different things and I had one of each. Then there was a main, and I had the gnocchi. There was a dessert, and I had one which I should not have. I was over full, uncomfortably so. I have a small stomach, and this is impacted by whatever is happening with my central nervous system. I feel full very quickly. I should have chosen the gnocchi only. My fault.

So, I was full. The room heated up. I got stressed. I heated up. Then I knew I had to leave. It was 11pm anyway. I was very stressed out, and a friend, Terry, took me home in a cab even though it was a very short way. When we got out of the cab, my legs refused to work. Both of them. Terry grabbed me and hustled me into the house. He said the next day that my legs just dangled. That was the sensation for me too: a pair of spastic legs. However, once he lumped me onto the porch, the sensation in my legs returned and I stumbled into bed semi-conscious. I remember saying to Terry, 'I can't get my legs to work.' Never had this before. So I guess I should report this to Halmagyi. I am not sure if it was the heat, or the stress from the heat and the feeling of overfullness that caused the spastic reaction. I am expecting at some stage that I will lose the ability to walk. Not just yet though.

Treading the boards

2011-09-17T10:23:00.004+10:00

Here I am, treading the boards in the Beechworth Town Hall. This building started life as the Shire Offices in 1858. The hall out the back, where I am posing was built as the Shire Hall in 1859. The hall was sometimes used as a second courthouse; the bushranger Harry Power was tried here in 1864.

This image (taken by Di) makes me think that I am about to recite 'Songs of a Sentimental Bloke' by C.J. Dennis. The songs as related by Bill, a member of the Little Lonsdale Street push, who is searching for his Doreen.

I was very disappointed with Beechworth. My only other visit had been sometime in 1972, which seered into my subconscious the many magnificent old buildings of the town. However, this time I found them sanitised beyond belief. I am not sure what has changed the most: the town or moi.

The Roadtrippers

2011-09-11T22:08:00.004+10:00

After five days in Melbourne, St Kilda actually, we humped our bluey up the back-roads to the holiday house of choice in Myrtleford in NE Victoria. Not very far, really, considering our longest drive was just over 400kms. Di designed the trip and was our chief driver. This photograph was taken on my final night. The others were pressing on after Myrtleford, up and over the High Country, through Omeo, Bairnsdale, and Bena, and thence back to Melbourne.

From L to R: Julie, Diane, Tom, Noreen.

Di arrived in Sydney from Canada in 1971 and she and I met the following year. Noreen had been at university in London, Ontario with Di. She and Tom have been in NZ for 37 years now.

Once I have designed and shaped some stories, I will begin to post them on 'Hither & Thither'. We visited towns like Mansfield, Milawa, Bright, Beechworth, Yakandandah, and Chiltern. We went to wineries, cheeseries, bakeries (lots of bakeries!!), a butter factory, and a trout farm. Each day we hunted down our requirements for the evening meal, gathered them up and carted them home, and set about creating a feast for four. Using Diane's Panasonic Lumix 'point and shoot' (my camera having been pourloined, you might recall), I documented our raids into the countryside in my usual detail.

Hunting and gathering

2011-08-26T15:06:00.008+10:00

Maybe five years ago, I stumbled upon a film, a French film, entitled 'Hunting and Gathering' ('Ensemble, c'est tout'). It stars Paris, Audrey Tatou, and Guillaume Canet. Not only, but also, it features Francoise Bertin, as Paulette, the frail grandmother. And I fell in love. With Paulette's garden.

It is a cross between a junk-yard and a briar-patch. It uses all three dimensions. It divides the area, as entreated by landscapers the world over, into 'rooms'. In this case, des toilettes!

The film was based upon a romance by Anna Galvalda which I read in translation. However, I had seen the film too many times, and the real interest was in the briary. The poor writer was not to know that.

Should I admit to scouring the laneways of Paddo for orphaned crates, yes plastic milk crates suffice. For empty wine boxes. Wooden trays. Anything upon which to pose a plant, or a hunk of chain. I am seriously looking forward to 'Second Hand Sunday' on 18th September when I can come out of the closet, hold my head high and storm the bastions in search of treasure.

The blobs of jelly surrounding this custardy text, were taken in (and above) my courtyard prior to my camera being purloined last Wednesday morning early. The deckchair sling I purchased at 'Ici et La' (free plug).

Reading is a performance art

2011-08-22T20:11:00.008+10:00

Out of the gate and off for a walk

went Hairy Maclary from Donaldson's Dairy.

With

Schnitzel von Krumm with a very low tum,

Bitzer Maloney all skinny and bony,

Muffin McLay like a bundle of hay,

Bottomly Potts covered in spots,

Hercules Morse as big as a horse

and Hairy Maclary from Donaldson's Dairy.

When suddenly out of the shadows they saw

Scarface Claw the toughest Tom in town.

"EEEEEOWWWFFTZ!" said Scarface Claw.

'Hairy Maclary' (1983) written and illustrated by Lynley Dodds (NZ). This is a great book which, as you can see, Alannah anticipates with glee.

Julie took the upper photo last week. Kirsten took the lower three today.

Making the world a friendlier place

2011-08-20T14:34:00.011+10:00

It's true: blogging helps to bridge the divide. It helps to make the world a friendlier place.

There is an aura about friendships made through the virtual world: that they are not the same as friendships in the real world; that people always have ulterior motives; that what you 'get' is not necessarily what you 'see'. Yes, all that COULD be true. But equally true to friendships forged in the real world of a pub, or a soccer team, or a choir, or a writing group. Maybe what is meant is that virtual friendships can not replace reality friendships. Oh, I would agree with that.

So, it is up to the individuals to convert virtual friendships into real friendships. By meeting. By taking a punt that the person/people at the other end of the mouse are as genuine as you are. And if YOU are not genuine? Then, you DO have strife.

Virtual friendship is the art of telling the book from its cover. Frequently, in real friendships, the 'cover' - what a person looks like, what they dress like, whether they are fat or thin, tall or short - overwhelms the inner person of ideas and emotions. I digress to the political scene at the moment, where the politics of nearly all isssues is overwhelming the policies of nearly all issues. I look for the sausage, not the sizzle, to use an analogy favoured by a RL friend.

So, this week, I caught up with two virtual friends who have crossed the divide into real life friends. Diane and Bill were down from Brissie to catch up with their children and grandchild - the fantastic Mr Fox! After a couple of texts and calls we sorted the possible time slices allowed by grandparently duties - theirs and mine - and had lunch together at 'Blue Orange' in Hall Street, Bondi. We yakked for two hours: illnesses, grandkids, travel, photography, ageing. It was wonderful. The wind battened down the hatches. The rain pelted in sideways. Umbrellas turned inside out and littered the footpath. But did we care? Not a jot.

Diane and Bill are virtually real life friends of mine now.

The soul's dull thud

2011-08-19T08:56:00.002+10:00

Earlier this year there was an extraordinary set of programmes (2 or 3) on a Sunday evening, showing the greening of Central Australia during 2010 and the inevitability of the Queensland floods. These programmes were shown on the ABC, and were created by a team that included three men who died last night, Lockyer, Bean, and Ticehurst. During these programmes, we came to know all three, and to be infected with their love of country. To be up in the air zooming in over the Diamantina or the Cooper and to see through their eyes, was a joy. Lockyer, being the reporter, was the public face. But he was the first to acknowledge that he was part of a team.

Long have I followed Lockyer's stories, and his reports for the news or The 7:30 Report. He was at his best walking lines of stubble with farmers, crumbling dry sods between his fingers. Travelling down the Darling, and explaining the salting and death of Lake Alexandrina. Less so interviewing Lockyer Valley survivors earlier this year: he was a master of the understatement, of letting the place tell the story.

I travelled in and around Lake Eyre in April 2008, camping out the back of the William Creek pub, eating my obligatory chocolate paddle-pop at the Maree Creek store, crunching the salt pan on Lake Eyre south.

Vale you three ...

The long and winding road

2011-08-17T21:48:00.006+10:00

Today was Kirsten's 8th day since leaving hospital. She is looking well. She still gets tired and needs a sleep in the middle of the day. She can get herself around really well on the crutches. The trachy still has a bit of air escaping which can set up a megaphone effect which can be disconcerting, but it is easing with time. All the medical people are really really pleased with her progress.

She has a wonderful mental approach, too. She is positive without flaying herself to progress even faster. There are things she cannot do with Ally which, whilst disappointing, are to be expected. As she said to me today, 'this will just be a blip on the radar for Ally'. Darren is working like a trojan: he goes to work and works; he comes home and works. They had a daily nurse from the Royal District Nursing Service, which was worth every penny, I gather. This service has stopped now, mainly because Kirsten and Darren feel on top of both the wound care and the showering. As well as instilling confidence, this service knew how to access equipment, like bathing boards, and additional bandages of the right type.

In just a couple of weeks now, Kirsten will be able to put a bit of weight on her left leg. This changeover will be a challenge: when does just a bit become too much! But she is wise, and is looking at the longer term, rather than the short-term advantage.

Revenez aux leçons françaises

2011-08-13T18:02:00.004+10:00

So, once again, I headed across to the north side of the harbour for my weekly French lesson with Guy at Mosman High School. Once again, there were five students - all female. My guess is that two of us are in our 60s (as is Guy), one in her 50s, one in her 40s, and one in her 30s. I really enjoy this group. I am not sure what their standard of grammar is, but some have wonderful accents already. With just 5 of us, there is so much more interaction than when I was in a class of 20. Here we can ask questions, interrupt the flow for clarification, without feeling we are holding half the class up. I have an issue with the pronounciation of 'gare' and want to rhyme it with 'bear' rather than 'far'. The two hours fairly skittle along, and I have to be on my toes all the time. I actually listen to the others, rather than tune out.

One thing that was remarked upon and which horrified us all, was the condition of the classroom. Delapidated, in need of a paint, refurbishment of student tables and chairs, and the heating was woeful. How do the kids concentrate on their work? And this in a state high school in a very high socio-economic area, albeit a high proportion of teenagers in that area attend private/independent schools.

Logistically, I am still getting the hang of it. The 389 bus arrives across the road at 7:32 and the 245 leaves the rank at Wynyard at 7:56am. So I jig-a-jog (take that with a grain of salt) from Elizabeth Street, down through Martin Place, across George, across the Batallion Memorial in Wynyard Close, and into Carrington Street where I have to make it to the very last bus stand of quite a few. Luckily there are a couple of dozen other students waiting there for the very same destination (probably Business classes, or English as a Second Language). Arriving at Mosman Junction about 8:20, I have tonnes of time for a large flat white and a pain aux raisins (aka a snail) at La Pattisserie Francaise before crossing over Bradleys' Head Road on my way to class.

Here is another selection of shops in Mosman Junction. The shops over there are quite similar to the shops here in Paddington, but the houses are so very different. Shall try to show you some next week, when instead of coming home the same way as I went over, I want to work out the logistics of bussing down to the Athol Street Wharf (below Taronga Zoo) and catching a ferry back to Circular Quay. Hah! What joy!

Day 10 (Thursday) - The forces that sustain

2011-08-12T08:32:00.020+10:00

During her final full day in hospital, Kirsten received a gift from a work colleague, a special work colleague as you will realise.

Let me guide you around this quilt as a means of completing this series of vingnettes about Kirsten's 'journey'. I will come back to provide updates every-so-often, but she is into another phase now, and is getting on with it. She is aided her by her innate intelligence, and her strong mental discipline, and determination. Annette, the quilt-maker, acknowledges these personal characteristics, in the various panels of her quilt.

There are two stitched corners to the quilt, this one and another personal message from the quilter. The colour scheme is immensely pleasureable to my eye. The texture of the panels vary, with the deep green of the velvet being that which Ally responded to. The centre panel of each of the four borders contains the largest stitched messages: Dreams, Hugs, Kisses, and Laughs.

Then, scattered throughout, are further forces to sustain Kirsten over the coming weeks and months. Many of these forces Kirsten is digging deep for: patience, determination, time, family, healing, perseverance, courage, love.

As I spread the quilt on the living room floor, Ally brought her book and sat on the quilt. Not content with just sitting, she rolled around the quilt's lushness. It occured to me, as I designed this post, that had I wanted to ram home the point, I would have ensured that the Dr Seuss book that Ally was 'reading' was "Oh! The places you'll go!'.

Instead, the evening before, Darren had read through half a dozen Seuss books that Ally received for her first birthday. Her choice just happened to be the wishing for duck feet one.

Alannah, of course, is Kirsten's sustenance, sine qua non. Therefore, on Ally's behalf, I also include a rhyme from the incomparable Dr Seuss:

And when you’re alone, there’s a very good chance
you’ll meet things that scare you right out of your pants.
There are some, down the road between hither and yon,
that can scare you so much you won’t want to go on.

But on you will go though the weather be foul.
On you will go though your enemies prowl. On you will go though the Hakken-Kraks howl.
Onward up many a frightening creek,
though your arms may get sore and your sneakers may leak.
On and on you will hike. And I know you’ll hike far
and face up to your problems whatever they are.

You’ll get mixed up, of course, as you already know.
You’ll get mixed up with many strange birds as you go.
So be sure when you step. Step with care and great tact
and remember that Life’s a Great Balancing Act.
Just never forget to be dexterous and deft.
And never mix up your right foot with your left.

And so, to the final verse, Verse 10, of Mr Yeats' 'A Prayer for my Daughter'. Yeats completed this poem in June 1919, and it was included in the 1921 collection: 'Michael Robartes and the Dancer'.

And may her bridgegroom bring her to a house
Where all's accustomed, ceremonious;
For arrogance and hatred are the wares
Peddled in the thoroughfares.
How but in custom and in ceremony
Are innocence and beauty born?
Ceremony's a name for the rich horn,
And custom for the spreading laurel tree.

Day 9 (Wednesday) - Homing pidgeon

2011-08-10T23:13:00.008+10:00

And so, today around 1pm, Kirsten returned to her home.

She had much to-ing and fro-ing with last minute arrangements: nurses, appointments, visits from other 'mandibularians', physios, speech therapists. There was a lot of adrenalin flowing. Not the least from yours truly. The quote was 7-10 days in ICU and 2-3 weeks in hospital. Yet here she was blitzing it in half those times. Am I nervous? Am I what! Yes, she is fit and healthy. Yes, she is 32. But she is determined. She is prepared and organised. And there are two people waiting for her at home.

I eventually mentioned during Sunday that behavioural changes were becoming evident with Ally: not settling to sleep, spitting and throwing food, clinging (to her father, and to me). This was all true. But I had not mentioned it before - deliberately. Now, I thought it might 'do her good' in someone to know that as best this can be measured, Ally was starting to fret.

Maybe it was the blood transfusions during the Sunday that sped the 'healing' up. Maybe it was the removal of the tracheostomy tubings. Maybe it was beginning of active eating (albeit through a syringe or a straw). Maybe it was all these things. Or maybe it was the need for more than 1.5 hours of continuous sleep. Or the need to get away from the hourly observations all day and all night.

The doctors from all specialties gave her the all-clear to return home. The oral surgeon. The reconstructive surgeon. The general registrar. It struck me that there is no mental health team that visits patients who have undergone traumatic surgery like this. I find that a connundrum. Healing is not just a physical thing. Psyches carry scars as much as flesh does.

She doesn't sound like mummy. Nor look like mummy. Nor smell like mummy. Yet.

But mummy was the one who rocked her to sleep this afternoon when she would not settle for Ma. Ally's mental image of her mummy is undergoing a metamorphosis. She is learning the difference between books and their covers. That mummy is mummy by dint of who she is, rather than what she looks like. Ally will no sooner have adjusted her mental image of mummy to the new manifestation, than that same manifestation will be morphing back into the form of the mummy of two weeks ago. Quite confusing for the toddler.

There are appointments with the two main surgeons over the next 5 days. A community nurse is attending upon Kirsten for an hour per day for the next week. To change dressings and teach her how to shower safely. Ally has three days of day-care for the next 13 weeks courtesy of the federal government. As Kirsten is not able to physically care for Alannah for the next few weeks, we have rostered maternal grandparents to take a day each, with Darren covering the weekends and evenings. That evens out the load a bit.

Tomorrow, we engage with the stairs again. She made it up both flights by herself today, using crutches. Tomorrow, I think we will manage a short 'walk' down to Double Bay village nominally for a coffee. But really just there and back to see how far it is. I think Kirsten will still require buckets of sleep. I shall sit on the sofa catching up with my French, with any luck. I think rain is forecast for the next few days.

Now don't do a double take if you think your eyes are deceiving you. I have, indeed, adjusted all the numbering of days for this series of posts. They now accord with Kirsten's own numbering where the day of surgery is actually Day Zero, not Day 1 as I had it. So, after the little contretemps with M. Yeats of yesterday which, being generally well-disposed toward him, I am inclined to put down to the era in which he lived, let's jump into Verse 9 which is more pleasant to mine ears:

Considering that, all hatred driven hence,
The soul recovers radical innocence
And learns at last that it is self-delighting,
Self-appeasing, self-affrighting,
And that its own sweet will is Heaven's will;
She can, though every face should scowl
And every windy quarter howl
Or every bellows burst, be happy still.

Day 8 (Tuesday) - Taking the world by the scruff of the neck!

2011-08-09T21:21:00.007+10:00

Got an email this morning pleading for some tracky-daks because learning crutches, whilst wearing a hospital gown, left nothing to the imagination! After a quick whiz around Rebel Sport in the new Mid-City-Centre, I got stuff plain enough to suit me. BUT ... I forgot that the hospital was hot. Why are places like this so over-heated. Normal people have to strip down to t-shirt and shorts. The daks weren't too bad but she was better off with a t-shirt than the tracky-top.

Arriving just before 3pm, Kirsten was all ready for the physio for a stair-climbing session. Earlier her caste had been removed, and one of those swanky castes that resemble ski-boots was ready. To me, $100 for one of those seemed reasonable. Eager to show off her skills, she was off up the corridor whence Ally had scooted the day before. I went back for the camera, to find on my return, her in a wheel-chair under the guidance of the physio. A short lift-ride away and we entered the rehab room. The hospital is well-equipped. Kirsten was shown how to go up steps with crutches. How to up using one crutch and a railing. How to go up and down steps on her bum It is going to be tiring. Their apartment is on the second floor. Each set of steps has maybe a dozen steps, an interim landing, another dozen steps, to the next floor. Two lots of that.

The dietitian had been and gone. There was a screed about how to liquify and how to combine ingredients for a balanced meal. So much to take it. I think Kirsten will spend most of her day, preparing and eating meals. Her mouth is wired shut probably until early into September, although everything seems to have been happening early. Kirsten thinks this is because she is fit, and only 32. Yes, she is going home, but this is based on where she is on the recovery chart. She is where many people are on Day 21.

The Nurse Manager was setting up home help for Kirsten for the first week - user pays. The nurse will come in each day for an hour; change the dressing on the trachy and on the leg; and, supervise Kirsten in the shower. They are having a shower board put in over the bath, and installing on of those European shower-heads on hose.

It was this Nurse Manage, much to her severe embarrassment, who let the cat out of the bag, that home day is Wednesday and not Thursday. How sweet, and terribly affecting. Kirsten has arranged to be home for my birthday. I never want material things for my celebrations: just rather do things with people. I got the shock of my life, and rolled upside down on her bed. Luckily, she was ensconced in the chair at the time!! Really noice.

So, home help is organised. The dietitian is organised. The physio is organised. And, I left Kirsten talking with the Speechie, whom I really liked. There will be a lot of work getting the production of air for speaking back to how it had been At the moment there is a fair bit of pain in the area of the trachy hole. Not much to do with the incision, I gather, but everthing to do with the elastoplast for the dressing around the small wound. It has been taken on and off so often, in a really senitive part of the skin.

Kirsten has a cornucopia of drugs to take home with her. She mentioned to a nurse (in my hearing) that the jawbone pain was up to 7/10 again. She will have some endone and some panadeine to take home with her.

Kirsten is craving a good night's sleep and is desperate to repair her relationship with her daughter. Tomorrow, I go over early (7:30am) to play with Ally whilst Darren goes out to a client's business very close to MUH. I muck around with my grand-daughter whilst Darren does a smidge of work, then bowles into the hospital, picks up his wife and brings her home to Double Bay. Hip Hip hip ...

I need to get me a census number because the silly buggers have me locked out. Nobody knocked upon my door bearibg registration numbers.

So, we come to the 9th and for mine, most perplexing verse of Yeat'S 'Prayer for my daughter'. He sounds like a whistled, old curmudgeon. Without further, Yeats Verse 8:

An intellectual hatred is the worst,
So let her think opinions are accursed,
Have I not seen the loveliest woman born
Out of the mouth of Plenty's HOrn,
Because of her opinionated mind
Barter that horn and every good
By quiet natures understood
For an old fellow full of angry wind?

For what it's worth, that is a load of misogynistic claptrap. But ... what would I know.

Day 7 (Monday) - Zing, zing, zing went my heartstrings

2011-08-09T10:33:00.013+10:00

What a day it turned out to be! I had no idea what to expect. When I left MUH on Sunday afternoon to return to Double Bay to play with Ally, Kirsten was not well. She was hooked up to a blood transfusion, she was hacking through her throat hole. But, she was on the up, no matter. Just that I have no experiences of transfusions. Yes, she was drinking from the syringe. Yes, I had heard a few words. But but but ... motherhood saps rational thought.

Just before 8am I hoofed it over to Edgecliff to train down to Hurstville to help my step-mother apply to Legacy to become my father's 'war widow'. Did I tell you that Dad died on Monday 9th May and 3 hours later (3 hours!!) Kirsten was informed of the tumour! I digress. On Monday, at least the trains were working; they had been out all weekend on the North Shore line, and I did not have the patience or the headspace for busing it. I must remember to give all the taxi receipts to someone who can make 'use' of them! As I hoofed it, Kirsten sms'd that she'd had brekkie through a straw. Bugger me!

Then half way through the Legacy man's interminable form-filling-out session, a call came into my phone from guess-who? My heart was in my mouth to hear her voice on the line. And her voice it was. Yes a little like through a megaphone, but still her sound, with her vocal mannerisms. AND ... she said that Darren was taking Ally over after her morning sleep. Well, this made the Legacy man go even s-l-o-w-e-r!

Whoosh! Onto the train at Hurstville and 30 minutes later into Town Hall where I found an interminable wait of 25 minutes for the next train to Macquarie Uni. All up, I left Hurstville at 11:33 and into MQU just after 1pm. I cocked my head around the ward door, to have a 'talktothehand' come up, for Kirsten to swing her legs off the bed, between the shafts of her walker, and hop over to me. I regard myself as a tough old biddie, but that was too much. The flood-gates opened for only the second time! In relief and love though, not pain and loss.

She knew they (THEY) would be here any moment, and that she would hear HER before she saw her. Kirsten shaped to jump up and run over to them, and Darren was beside himself. I was concerned that Kirsten would feel emotionally scarred (not scared) if Ally rebuffed her. But K had thought it through. Really? Fancy her doing that!

Ally cried and made like a mountain goat on Darren. He sat down on the window seat. And she took a few peeks. Darren left them on the seat, and sat opposite. Gradually, minute by minute Kirsten brought her around. Sans cuddles. Sans intimacy. But much bonding. She called her 'Alannah-bear', she said familiar phrases, and tapped her on the nose. High-fived her. At one stage, a little smile played around Ally's mouth. Pretty much fronm there on out, Ally became a mad thing, charging around the patient time-out room. Much noise, much pumpling of little legs, and flapping of little arms. Much chorkling, as her mad-as father made like a tiger in the jungle.

Then a return to the room for Kirsten who was totally zonked. In between all this emotionality (huh?), the dressing on her throat was changed, and there was a lengthy conversation with an overwhelmed speechie. The progress was manifest. Absolutely manifest. And, the respect from the speechie could be cut with a knife. I like that. I like it when, confronted by intelligence and enquiry, some medicos are able to rise to the occasion and treat patients as sentient beings. Especially my daughter!

But still ... it scared the shit out of me when Kirsten emailed at 5:30 yesterday to say that, in all likelihood, Thursday (Day 11) would be discharge day. But but but ... I spluttered ... but what if this ... what if that ... what if another ... Phut! Mere triffles. Details to be sorted. Get a grip, Mother.

So, what does Mr Yeats have for us today? Hah! Just realised that "A Prayer for my Daughter' only has 10 verses. Remembering that I only started posting on Day 2, maybe I knew something! WHATever ... here be Verse 7:

My mind, because the minds that I have loved,
The sort of beauty that I have approved,
Prosper but little, has dried up of late,
Yet knows that to be choked with hate
May well be of all evil chances chief.
If there's no hatred in a mind
Assault and battery of the wind
Can never tear the linnet from the leaf.

Note: A Linnet is a small member of the Finch family. It eats flax seed from which Linen is made. The Linnet's song is pleasing to the ear and contains fast trills and twitters.

Day 6 (Sunday) - Here we go, swingin' low

2011-08-07T20:18:00.006+10:00

Once again, a logistically complex day, made moreso by the first blood transfusion which commenced at about 2pm. The second transfusion is occuring as I write this post, which surprises me, as I thought they did not embark upon transfusions during nights.

I visited Kirsten from midday until 230. Tony and Pam then visited whilst I shot back to care for Alannah whilst Darren visited. She was pretty tired by then, but here's hoping she will get some sleep during this night. Last night she reckoned she had little more than about 2.5 hours worth.

As I walked in just on midday, she was having one of the hacking coughs that Darren described this afternoon, but squeezed out a grin for me. The trachy had just been removed and now ALL the saliva was streaming down her throat. Kirsten noted that we produce, and swallow about 1 litre of saliva a day, and that as we swallow it we use our throat, tongue and lips to control its passage. This is what she has to retrain: the controlled swallowing of saliva. I think, but I stand to be corrected, that there were a couple of stitches at the base of her tongue. At this early stage, the trachy hole has not closed over obviously, making the process just that much harder.

However, Kirsten is a good one for practice if she knows the usefulness of it. Beside her was some Bicarb of Soda to rise her mouth with (and then spit), plus some weak tea to drink. She is still hooked up to the 'restaurant'. After watching just a few mouthfuls of tea go down, the swallowing effort was already greatly diminished. The liquid was inserted into her mouth by the smallest syringe you have ever seen: 1 ml. When lunch (ordered by the speech therapist) arrived it also required the use of the same syringe. Kirsten started with the apple juice, with warm broth as the main. She had quite a few squirts of each of these, before declaring it onerous and tiring. But progress was made.

Prior to lunch, a doctor from the ICU (who drew the short straw) came around to obtain Kirsten's consent for a blood transfusion. He had to explain the risks to her, she had to explain her phobia to him, and then we discussed the progress in the Hb rate over the last few days, and maybe that trajectory would be maintained. I think on Wed Kirsten had been 67, on Thursday 77, on Saturday 85. However, both Dr P and Dr L had agreed that neither the 95 nor the 100 would be achieved by natural processes. Eventually, Kirsten cut all this short by saying she would do it. He gave her the consent form, and I told him to hang about because she would read every word. He swung to me with a bit of a gaping mouth: 'Why? Is she a lawyer?'

We had agreed with the nurse that it would be called the 'afternoon process' and that the bag of blood would be covered. They would cross identify the patient and the bag of blood, confirm Kirsten's blood type to her. And nothing more. In the meantime, Kirsten had asked me to continue on with the reading of "Pastures of the Blue Crane'. We got up to Chapter 8, BTW.

She kept her eyes shut and concentrated on my droning voice for about 30 minutes until Tony and Pam arrived. Tony then had to continue on with the reading. Not sure how long he kept this up: but he sms'd me later to say that she was in good spirits but that his 'read aloud' skills had deteriorated over the last twenty years! Hopefully, this first process made the second process easier for her to endure. Each bag of blood to be transfused was about 300 ml.

I nipped back to Double Bay to look after Ally and to enable Darren to drive out to spend some time with Kirsten. She was incredibly tired by this time, and Darren was back in Double Bay just before 5pm.

A looming issue is the reunion of mother and daughter. There is a difference now in Alannah's behaviour. She is not eating as well (or with good manners) and she is not settling to sleep as well. She is clinging to Darren when he has to go, and then clinging to me when I have to go. I will cut back my visits and their duration once Kirsten is fit and well again, but this might not be immediately she returns home. I need Ally to stop clinging to me, and to refocus upon her mother. Yet, I must not abandon her either. Must handle this all with the utmost sensitivity.

I have included this third image because there was a 13 page screed about the importance of the thoat, swallowing and speaking. Kirsten spoke a number of times this afternoon. She had to state her full name and date of birth to verify the packet of blood, for starters. But she spoke on a number of occasions during my time with her today. It is a visible effort, and the sound seems to me as though it is coming out of the trachy 'hole'. Perhaps that will close over during tomorrow. Her voice occasionally sounded like Kirsten, but was very breathy. But knowing her, she will have worked on this by the time I see her tomorrow.

Tomorrow, I have to be at Legacy House in Hurstville by 9:45am to meet my stepmother, Peggy, and fill in all the forms to enable her to become a 'war widow' with the extra benefits that implies (her own gold card, and about an extra $200 per fortnight). I have read the rules and their definitions and don't think Peggy will have any trouble qualifying. At the same time, my father's will is progressing towards Probate, so all that will soon be complete. After doing this chore, I will train up to Maquarie University Hospital and keep Kirsten company for the first half of the afternoon, before going over to DB to enable Darren to go out to the hospital, too.

No need to explain the images for this post, so straight on to our Yeats' verse for the day, Verse 6:

May she become a flourishing hidden tree
That all her thoughts may like the linnet be,
And have no business but dispensing round
Their magnaminities of sound,
Nor but in merriment begin a chase,
Nor but in merriment a quarrel.
O may she live like some green laurel
Rooted in one dear perpetual place.

Day 5 (Saturday) - Yeats also had a gyre

2011-08-07T07:38:00.007+10:00

Yesterday was a challenge. There were good things that happened, and there were challenging things, too. For starters, Kirsten is now able to text us occasionally. She is totally on top of what is happening (which is different from liking it!) and writes questions for the medical staff and reminds them of what they said last time, how it differs and what they have yet to do. Still our Kirsten!

I spent the day with Alannah. I pushed her around Double Bay in her birthday trike while Darren has his back crunched by the physio. Then we had brekkie at their usual cafe. That was good. I like that Ally is learning how to eat in 'society'. Then Darren visited Kirsten and Ally and I played. She claimed 'play rights' with my phone most of the day. At one stage, when she woke up, I said I wanted to brush her hair, but where was the hair brush? Ally went over, retrieved it from on top of the bench and brought it over to me. Pretty good for 12.5 months, but I would think that wouldn't I. Darren went to soccer and returned sans skin, but (he grinned) they won so it was worth it. No comment said a wise mother-in-law.

Darren's assessment of Kirsten was that she was good but the LHS of her face had blown up more. As I left Double Bay, to walk home (about 4:15), I received a call from Tony (Kirsten's father), suggesting that I not visit just then. He and Pam had visited and Kirsten was very tired trying to cope with the extra saliva going down her throat as they had released the cuff on the trachy in preparation for its removal on Sunday. I will stick this thought here. Yes the LHS of her face is now the most puffed out it has been (like an Aussie rules football), but it is mainly along and out from the jaw line. Both eyes are good in their sockets now, with the left eye open as much as the right, and sans the yellow bruising.

Just as I was about to walk into my place, I got a call from Darren saying that Kirsten's haemoglobin levels were way low (75??) and they should be 100, meaning that the blood was not replacing itself well enough from the operation. Now he understood what Dr L. said was a blood 'infusion', whereas later (twice) I heard the word blood 'transfusion'. Darren will sort that out this morning. One of the Registrars was making the declaration of risk to Kirsten about 'transfusions'. I could not sign the indemnity form. Nor can Darren. It must be explained to Kirsten. The elephant in the room, of course, is her needle and blood phobia. I held her hand through an injection in her leg.

All this treatment is very demeaning. There is not a lot of dignity. And Kirsten is a very dignified woman. I want more dignity for her!! It was very tough to watch her mount a comode to be pushed into the toilet. It was very tough to see the distress (effort, pain, discomfort) as they put a sucker down through the trachy into her gullet and suck out the accumulated saliva. She is so strong. So focussed. No tears. No obvious fear. Just resigned acceptance as to her plight. You know she sent me a text over night, telling me to try not to worry. She is quite special.

Another text overnight said her Hb is now measured at 85 with the aim being 100. They just might be able to do this by altering what her 'restaurant' serves. I had also fussed around trying to get her more comfortable when sleeping. Her head flops to the side and she wakes up. Did they have winged pillows? No. Could I get another softer pillow? Possibly. Could I roll up towels to simulate wings? Oh, alright. *swear word* *swear word* *swear word*. So one of the things that I have to do this morning, very early, is nip into Soul Pattinson's in Pitt Street Mall and buy a winged pillow.

Did I tell you that trains are not runnning on the North Shore line this weekend? Grrr ... I think it is drizzling a bit outside. Think Darren should go up this morning to sort out the Hb/transfusion/infusion issues. I will give him the pillow and care for Ally 'til he returns. I will go this afternoon. Like yesterday, I will ignore the nominal visiting hours!

Image 1: taken on Wednesday (Day 3) and judiciously cropped.
Image 2: The print on the wall directly in front of Kirsten. Now normally I like corrugated iron, especially corroded. But this one is entitled 'Breaking Down'. I want to replace it with Frederick McCubbin's 'Little Girl Lost'.
Image 3: Macquarie University campus in its winter garments.

Although my title for this paen alludes to Yeat's 'Second Coming', I will press on with his 'A Prayer for my Daughter". Today Verse 5:

In courtesy I'd have her chiefly learned;
Hearts are not had as a gift but hearts are earned
By those who are not entirely beautiful;
Yet many, that have played the fool
For beauty's very self, has charm made wise,
And many a poor man that has roved.
Loved and thought himself beloved,
From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

Day 4 (Friday) - Ramping it up a notch or three

2011-08-05T21:55:00.008+10:00

After yesterday's trough, I think we worked hard at being more 'up' today. We are working as a team fairly well at this stage,. There are generational differences. Or more likely, it is just the way I go about things compared with the way K&D approach issues. They are continually on top of things, asking questions, following up issues, demanding value for money, that people offer a good service, and perform a good job. I am not so much laid back, but it would be more accurately described as being hesitant. Yes, I may be outspoken, but I am not personally demanding. I guess this little outburst relates to whether Kirsten will get as good care in the ward as she has in the ICU. I will make it my business over the weekend to meet the ward manager each day. I met her today, but forget her name. I would recognise her again, though.

Enough of that. How was Kirsten today? The swelling from the forehead has gone down. The left eye is now surrounded (enveloped) in puffy bruising. The entire left of her head is a bit blocky. Her lips are very swollen, but none moreso than the day before. she smiled a couple of times today. Firstly, at the lovely card that Day-Care sent along to her that Alannah had 'made'. She grimaced when the nurses were surprised that the photo on the cupboard was of Kirsten. Yep, you would not recognise her unless you knew her.

Her right eye was open a lot today - open and focussed and following. Her writing was not as well formed but she might have been lower in the bed, I think. Her gesticulating is very clear. The drooling irritates her, which is not surprising. We all assist her, but she is also now empowered to 'irriate' her own mouth. Using a suction pipe stashed under her pillow, she sucks out the drool and flushes the wiring. I gather that on Monday they are going to release the trache a bit and allow some saliva down the back of her throat.

The half hard caste went on the back of her left leg today, and the bandaging was unwound partly for the physiotherapist to check her ankle and the condition of ... what is that bone called ... ankle bone ... the puffiness and the yellow is in retreat.

Over the weekend, the urine catheter might be removed and they will use a comode. The two physios on duty over the weekend, will introduce Kirsten to a high and a low walker and she will be taught how to 'hop'. The leg is not to bear any weight for a while.

So a big day. Always is when you go from a chrysalis to a butterfly. A couple of weeks ago I told Kirsten the story of when I had my heart operation at St Vincents in Melbourne in 1972. The day after I was released I insisted that Tony (Kirsten's father) return me to hospital because my chest wall was going to spring open and my heart flop on the lino. The hospital was very good. They showed me to the bed that I had occupied and allowed me to lie on it. After two hours I asked if I could go home.

And, by the way, Kirsten and I had chatted for half an hour, when she wrote on her pad 'Chapter 2'? We read Chapter 2 and were half-way through Chapter 3 when Tony arrived.

Tomorrow, I am going to care for Alannah from 7:45 'til close to 5pm to allow Darren to visit Kirsten and then play soccer. It has been a long, tough week. But we are making progress. Kirsten is making progress.The enforced solitude is very hard to take. Kirsten used a word for it today, but my brain is a bit of a sieve. The days are long and boring. She is not able to read yet, nor focus on the television. As you may know, she has a 'cockpit' of TV and internet beside her bed from when she is ready. I suspect you might hear directly from her over the weekend.

Image 1: Taken today. Her hands look very close to normal.
Image 2: Taken Wednesday down in ICU.
Image 3: The view from her Ward bed.

"A Prayer for my Daughter', Verse 4:
Helen being chosen found life flat and dull
And later had much trouble from a fool,
While that great Queen, that rose out of the spray,
Being fatherless could have her way
Yet choose a bandy-legged smith for man.
It's certain that fine women eat
A crazy salad with their meat
Whereby the Horn of Plenty is undone.

Hah, not sure what to make of that verse. For Yeats, I think it had much to do with Helen of Troy and Zeus. I'd love to know more about the 'bandy legged smith' especially if it might refer to WBY himself. I really like the concept of eating crazy salad with one's meat!

Day 3 (Thursday) - Doing the side-step shuffle

2011-08-04T22:00:00.005+10:00

I guess it had to happen that I would feel down eventually. Not depressed, as such. But I know this is just playing with language. Just that at the moment, I live every moment. I am aware of the passage of every minute. Usually, when I stuff things into my life, time simply whizzes by. At the moment, I am rushing somewhere all the time. I have to write it down each morning, to ensure I meet the times and the commitments I make. But still time drags. It's okay. By the morning I will have kicked byself up the arse, and given myself a lecture that this is not about me. I want her better. I want it fixed. But to achieve this, what she requires is TIME. Give her time. See, the arse-kicking is underway already.

Today, I spent time with Kirsten immediately AFTER they had moved her to the chair. And she had no energy left. She communicated very little, and mostly her eyes were shut. Her heart rate hovered around the 70 mark, which is Darren's ball park for nearly asleep. I guess this is the best scenario for healing. She knows we are there, and yet she is also 'sleeping'. I showed her the book, and asked her if she would like me to read it to her. I think I said I did not mind if she slept. Which I didn't. When I showed her the book, I got some body language that meant, to me, 'get on with it'. So I did.

I read her the first chapter of "Pastures of the Blue Crane' where Ryl meets her grandfather, Dusty, and learn they have inherited the old Masterton place up at Bundoora. Tomorrow (Friday) I will visit from 3pm for maybe 60 - 90 minutes. If she is up to it, I will try to read Chapters 2 and 3. This is a story Kirsten knows backwards.

Today Kirsten's face was the worst I have seen it. But (kick, kick) I knew the swelling and the bruising would come out with time. I knew that. I knew that her left eye would shut. That her left socket would appear to sink back, but only in comparison with the swollen tissue around it. I did not realise that the skin on her forehead would swell.

Her lips are swollen and dry and require pawpaw ointment. But her hands and fingers look good. They are good colour (she is fair-skinned). They are not bloated. They are not parched. When I see her tomorrow, some of the tubing should be gone. Maybe the three drains in the neck. Maybe the drain in the leg.

I will go for a long walk early tomorrow morning, and gee myself up. Promise.

Where did I get up to with WBY? Ahha, my favourite - Verse 3:

May she be granted beauty and yet not
Beauty to make a stranger's eye distraught,
Or hers before a looking-glass, for such,
Being made beautiful overmuch,
Consider beauty a sufficient end,
Lose natural kindness and maybe
The heart-revealing intimacy
That chooses right, and never find a friend.

Day 2 (Wednesday) - The hard slog settles in

2011-08-04T07:36:00.012+10:00

There is film I saw a few years ago about a chap who suffered maybe a stroke which left him paralysed except that he was fully conscious but unable to communicate. The conceit of the film was to show us his hospital room through the eyes of someone akin to a deep-sea diver. There are similarities here with Kirsten's situation. Bear with me. Keep seeing visions through Kirsten's eyes. I guess this is what prompted me to take some of the photographs that I have. Her world view is sooo totally constrained. She is in an out of sleep and pain. The swelling on her face is increasing, which we expected. As the medication is decreased, the level of pain she endures increases. Getting the balance right, over time, is a challenge, both for the medical staff and for Kirsten. She has that little green button that she presses.

And from now, they are asking her to be an active participant in her own recovery: get out of bed, take a few tentative steps. Press the green button less. She is keen to do all this. She has a certain young lady whose company she has forgone for a while. Darren and Kirsten made a pact that Alannah would not see Kirsten (nor Kirsten Alannah) until the tubing was gone, and until Kirsten was recognisable as her mummy. Neither of those will be the case until next week sometime.

But, good news! I found her old copy of 'Pastures of the Blue Crane'. Granted it was at the top of the bookshelf, and on the second layer back, which involved judicious balancing on the arm of the sofa on my part. But shhhh ... don't tell her. If the stars are aligned, I shall start reading to her today. She can slip in and out of sleep whilst I drone on. She will know that I am there, and that I care.

Yesterday, I visited Kirsten from 11am for an hour and then got back to play with Ally from 1pm 'til about 630pm. Today, all three of us are juggling visiting Kirsten, with playing and caring for Alannah. It is important that Alannah feel comfortable and cherished and confident in her daily routine. If we cope well with that, and convey that to Kirsten, she will be released to power on with her own recovery.

Some more carefully framed images today. The brown liquid up high is her 'restaurant'. The two bags down low are draining her leg and her urine. The leg is looking really good. I have another one of her body from the neck down which I have offered to Darren for Marsupial Mum. If he feels he cannot use it for issues of delicacy, then I will show it here. He has hundreds of readers, whereas I have about 5 on this blog.

Now for William Butler Yeats and Verse 2 of 'A Prayer for my Daughter'. in times of trouble and turbulence, I always dip back into his Collected Works for succour and sustenance. He never fails me.

I have walked and prayed for this young child an hour
And heard the sea-wind scream upon the tower,
And under the arches of the bridge, and scream
In the elms above the flooded stream;
Imagining in excited reverie
That the future years had come,
Dancing to a frenzied drum,
Out of the murderous innocence of the sea.

Day 1 (Tuesday) - On books, covers, and judging

2011-08-03T08:24:00.006+10:00

We are less what we appear to be on the outside, and more what we make ourselves to be on the inside. These shots were taken from Kirsten's perspective. Her physical perspective. I know you would love to see her; to see what she looks like. I think it normal human curiosity. However, think of it as learning about someone over the internet, through blogging. We don't necessarily know what people look like, and often we realise that we have no need to know the cover, because we have come to value the book. So photos will come later. Probably, once Kirsten is out of ICU.

I was astounded by her condition/progress yesterday. She is conscious, alert even. She is weary, and drugged to the hilt. But, hey! Her legs work, her arms work, her brain works. Her sardonic attitude is intact. And we were Day 2. I am in touch with other people (nearly wrote patients, but would not want you to think Kirsten only patient, so neither are these others). I realise there are hurdles. Good days; shite days.

I was without courage, and had to ask to go along with Kirsten's father for support. And maybe that helped her, too. As I stroked her forehead, human brains being wierd, I flashed back to that Monday morning at Royal North Shore just over 32 years ago. A 4 hour old girl lay in the 'cot' across the room, I rang the buzzer, and asked the nurse what to do next. Aren't I supposed to feed her, or something. How do I do that?

I had always thought that Kirsten communicated a lot with one eyebrow, that cocks, and one corner of her mouth, that kinks. It wasn't until yesterday that I realised that these were simply outward manifestations. No no, I am not going all religious on you. But, she actually communicates via her eyes, the doorway to the soul. The eyes cocked and kinked yesterday.

She said at one stage that she had overheard a conversation between the nurses, and that her BP was low. They hadn't said it was low, they had simply vocalised the numbers. That machine is on Kirsten's right and that side is a bit fuzzy; and, anyway it is just slightly behind her. So we asked Nurse M who told us chapter and verse, I won't go into details, that is covered on 'Marsupial Mum". This is an opinion piece. I'm not a journalist, I'm a broadcaster.

I will nip over to MUH again in half an hour, then back to Double Bay to play with AJ whilst Darren nips over. I want to read to Kirsten from 'Pastures of the Blue Crane' by Hesba Brinsmead, but it is on her shelf at DB. So, tomorrow for that one. Kirsten's nom-de-plume is 'blue crane' which you can see on her Flikr account of photos via the images of AJ at the bottom of Marsupial Mum. The copy is very tatty and worn. I bet there is a date inside the cover; it was important to her teenage-self. For mine, however, let me close with the first verse of Yeats' 'A Prayer for my Daughter'. I have always treasured verse three: it speaks directly to the title of this post. However, come on this Yeatsian journey with me beginning at the very beginning:

Once more the storm is howling, and half hid
Under this cradle-hood and coverlid
My child sleeps on. There is no obstacle
But Gregory's wood and one bare hill
Whereby the haystack - and roof-levelling wind,
Bred on the Atlantic, can be stayed;
And for an hour I have walked and prayed
Because of the great gloom that is in my mind.

Decisions! Decisions!

2011-07-30T21:54:00.004+10:00

I am really keen to continue with my learning of the French language, and my travels to Paris. Two dominant reasons: firstly, I like France, things French, and I like Paris; secondly, learning is good for my brain, and travel is good for my body.

I had completed 6 terms of learning (9 weeks per term) with my tutor, Guy, before he reduced his tutoring due to medical issues. I like his style of teaching, so I followed him to his 'other' institute, across the harbour on the other side of town, earlier in the morning AND on a Saturday to boot. Now I hear from three sources at my previous institute, that there is a bit of a kerfuffle about the new teaching style. The dreaded 'working in pairs' has raised its ugly head. I do not like that style. I do not thrive on that style.

I was going to do a class at both the institutes. However, I like the new institute across the harbour. The class is revision but of a very high order. There are only 5 of us in the class, in comparison with 20 previously. The two hours went so quickly as there was Soooo much participation.

I am endeavouring to set up an email essay writing critique among those disaffected. Hope I get some nibbles.

Yoo-hoo!!

2011-07-27T21:12:00.002+10:00

I thought you might enjoy seeing more of this sequence. It is very cute.

My how time flies

2011-07-22T20:27:00.008+10:00

Need to demure: none of these photographs were taken by yours truly. Mostly they were taken by Kirsten, with a couple by Darren.

To each her own

2011-07-20T21:12:00.007+10:00

Around this time in 1979 I was confronted by myself. I gave birth to a baby girl. What was confronting about this was that I am not a feminine woman: I neither flounce nor flirt; wear the minimum of makeup; am not into shopping; don't gossip, nor read romance novels. What the hell did I have to offer to a female baby?

As it turned out, that particular female baby is small, delicate and feminine, knows exactly what she likes, thinks, and wants. Somehow she learnt this by osmosis. She did not get it from her mother, the reverse in fact.

So, now she has a daughter of her own. And that is just dandy by me: her mother can do the feminine things; and her grandmother can continue what she was doing thirty years ago.

When I was eight, my family moved from suburban Sydney to a small farm in the Hunter Valley. I am the middle child of three, with a brother either side. In Sydney, we played with our Matchbox cars, our Meccano, and our Hornby train set. In the country, we did the same. We had a long driveway that ended in a round-about. In the centre of this circle, our mother tried to grow flowering bushes, but all I remember is an uprooted tree-trunk. Which suited us fine. We built our city and our farms in, around, through, and under it. Out came the Meccano and the cars. We had entire farming neighbourhoods, and my imagination blossomed.

So, what does this have to do with my grand-daughter Alannah? Just this week, I have job-lot purchased from a cousin, a whole swag of Duplo, and a shopping basket full of Thomas Tank Engine paraphenalia. I am haunting eBay bidding on old Matchbox Lesney models like police cars, fire engines, garbage trucks, tow trucks and the like. Things that show her how her city operates. Toys that she will be able to see on the roads around her suburb. I am, gradually, building up a collection of model farm animals for her to incorporate into her play, learning their names and their sounds. I mix and match. Take some things over to play with her; bring other things back. Hold back some items that are too advanced for next year, or the year after. I have a large wooden trunk, you see: 'Ma's Chest'. It is filling rapidly.

Shhh ... not a word!

Keeping busy

2011-07-10T07:12:00.005+10:00

To paraphrase Austen: It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single ageing woman in possession of turbulence, must be in want of good friends. I packed my small bag mid-week and flew to Ballina on the north coast of NSW. A good friend of over a decade now, has recently retired to a small holding, up here where the weather is warmer and the crowds fewer.

Lesley is a Librarian by training, and brought out piles of children's picture books for me to read through. I am a member of a writing guild that meets around a table each month, to provide amateur critiques to each other. There are now 20 of us, and the feed-back is invaluable. I now have 5 manuscripts gestating in my 'drawers'. And Lesley has two ... Yesterday, we had our July round-table where 7 of us provided feedback on 5 stories. Over this weekend, we have our email-table where 5 of us provide feedback on 3 m/s each. Such a good (and cheap) way of getting a story ready for the travails of submission to competitions or publishers.

I now know that I can develop a first draft of a story in about 4 hours: the first half stomping around the house talking out loud; the second half, writing at this keyboard. I still try to have my stories involve a narrative (characters, problem, resolution). And find that the topics which appeal to me are too sombre for the under 3's. Hell, they are too sombre for this writer! However, my story on 'dementia' is lightening up wonderfully. It is astounding to read back through the various drafts. I think yesterday's was Draft 11. Rather than being totally descriptive, it now involves a 'quest'.

Lesley has invited me back to Jiggi on a regular basis as a 'writing camp'. She will have a studio soon for her painting, and I will write in the study looking down the valley. What bliss! And the valley has many birds. I already have shots of: egrets, straw-necked ibis, grey fantails, superb wrens, and spotted pardalotes. And then there are the wallabies, with joey in pouch.

Skinning cats

2011-07-04T16:20:00.006+10:00

At the end of our class today, Guy dropped a bombshell. He will not be taking our course next term. You could have heard a pin drop. Instead, he was going to gallivant off to Royal North Shore and have either 3 stents implanted or a coronary bypass performed. The jury is still out, I gather.

I think he is in his mid-60s, yes slim and active. He found he was running out of puff hoofing it up Bathurst Street from the WEA to catch the train back over the bridge after classes. So he got himself checked out. Good for him!

He will continue to take classes at Mosman Community Centre, however. Up until now, he has taken a significant class load at both adult education centres. His wife, Kathleen, also takes classes at Mosman, and, hence, continuing that is easier for him. He did say he had hopes of returning to the WEA in Term 4 and that another instructor had been organised to replace him for Term 3.

Our equivalent class over at Mosman is on a Saturday from 11:15 until 1:15. There ia another class that Guy takes at Mosman, which would be revision for me, from 9am until 11am. I have already enrolled for the WEA class for Term 3. I will email Guy and check out the revision class, and might go with that as a continuing pump-up.

I do hope he flies through this. He is a lovely man, and a wonderful ambassador for his native language.

'Bouncing vision' made manifest

2011-07-03T21:00:00.008+10:00

'Bouncing vision' is an attempt to explain the term oscillopsia. Because of an irregularity within the vestibular system, the eyes of people with 'bouncing vision' do not keep track of targets well, lose them, and have to hunt around to lock onto them again.

When I walk, my head bounces on my shoulders - so does yours! This is called the 'doll's head reflex'. You know those little Elvis dolls on the dashboard. Bounce. Bounce. Bounce. Your eyes follow the bounce of your head so close to instantaneously it is imperceptible. My eyes don't. There is a delay. The target is lost, I can't find it, I look for it, all the time walking forward. The ground (or the gutter, or the approaching bus) rears up in front of me and I, understandably, lurch.

In hunting around trying to explain all this in an understandable way, I found some videos that might help. Serendipitously, the videos were made by the chaps at RPA, and use the technique that they use on me. Disease of the vestibular system is 'vestibulopathy'. This can be unilateral or bilateral - because there is a system behind each ear! I have bilateral vestibulopathy.

This first video shows a chap with unilateral vestibulopathy. I will use the term right meaning to the right of the screen - NOT his right. And similarly for left. Okay? When his head is jerked to the right, you can see his eye have to adjust. When his head is jerked to the left, his eye is there nearly instantaneously.

This second video shows a chap with bilateral vestibulopathy. His problem was caused by exposure to a drug called 'gentamicin' which mine wasn't. But you can see the hassle here in both eyes. They have to adjust, they have to find the target.

Remember, there are four issues feeding into my hassles. Issue 4, I will discount first. Well, not so much discount, as simply not go into, because I don't know where it fits in except that there is a correlation between people with Issues 1 -3 and Issue 4, which is a raised paraprotein in the blood. This was first uncovered by a routine blood test in 1996, and revealed to the Balance Team at RPA when they got my history from the Balance Centre at St Vincents, where I had been attending to have my toes and fingers 'electrocuted' in 2002 - 2005 whereupon I got jack of it all and simply went AWOL. The biggest problem I had at that time was the peripheral neuropathy. In summary:

Issue 1 is the peripheral neuropathy (PN)
Issue 2 is the Bilateral Vestibulopathy (BV)
Issue 3 is the Cerebral Ataxia (CA), and
Issue 4 is the raised paraprotein, also known as MGUS (Monoclonal Gammopathy of Unknown Significance).

And the pattern here?

The PN affects my walking because I lose track of where my legs are because they are sending my brain less information. I still have good 'proprioception'. I know where my legs should be. Like a phantom pain in an arm that has been amputated.

The BV affects my walking because of the ocillopsia and the bouncing vision.

The CA affects my walking because that is what ataxia is - disturbed gait. The cells are being lost from the vermis between the two halves (how many other halves are there?) of my cerebellum. My step is not smooth, and my feet when they come down can cross over the hypothetical centre line of the forward progress.

Yet to come, so they tell me, is the affect on my speech known as dysarthria and the affect on my memory known as dementia.

Repeat after me - O S C I L L O P S I A

2011-07-01T23:46:00.004+10:00

Tuesday really was one of those days where one is in a bell-jar, looking at life through a distortion, and with ever decreasing air to fill one's lungs. But the human spirit is largely insurmountable.

As I shuffled over to Royal Prince Alfred Hospital (RPA) to meet with the mythologic Professor M. and his acolytes, I caught a glimpse of my own self in glass-plated display windows - a caricature of an old woman, head bowed, eyes fixed on the path ahead, stick to keep her upright, grey coat tightly clasped around her, backpack bowing her shoulders lower. I allowed a wry smile to play at the corners of my mouth, less in bitterness, than simple recognition.

Professor M. was not his thorough, mindful self; something was preoccupying his mind. There were a number of subjects in the Balance Centre at the same time. However, both Luke and David were their usual chatty selves. Professor M. did not give me the lecture about the value of the hiking pole vis-a-vie the walking stick. The need to have an adjunct to proprioception rather than merely walking in a straight line. He accepted that I had a need to not walk into walls or onto roadways, if I could avoid it. He mentioned that I should not walk barefooted, but ensure that I had, at the least, sandals covering the soles of my feet. Twelve months ago I endured a lecture about the need to dispose of all my sandals and invest in flat, canvas shoes, with laces which come up past my ankles, Converse and their ilk. So ... Professor M. was out of sorts.

David went over each leg with two amateur devices: a deliberately broken spatula with a long jagged slither; an unwound paper clip in the form of a horse-shoe with each end about 2.5 cms apart. To me, it seems random, but then again, I do not know where the nerves are closest to the surface – and, besides, my eyes are shut. I know he must be poking the things into me somewhere because there are seconds of silence. He writes it into the open book on the desk. I have no ability anywhere to discern that there are two points to the paper clip. Whereas David contends that he (he catches himself before he says ‘normal people’) can discern the points where about 3 mm apart.

Then, I throw them into disarray with my coup-de-grace. I have a new experiment for them, and whip the hair dryer from its hiding place in my back-pack! Da-hah!! They stare dumbfounded. I am, at the least, worth the admission price.

I set about telling them of the morning that I could not figure out if my toes were dry, got down the hair-dryer to complete the job, only to realise that it was neither blowing heat, nor air, which was daft, because the orange mat on which I was tottering was being blown every-which-way. Major disconnect: my brain could not comprehend what my eyes were telling it. Neither foot could feel the heat. Neither foot could feel the wind. From the tip of my big toe to just below my knee. Except. Except for a narrow vertical band on the inside of my left calf. So I did the full motza. Crotch, belly, shoulders, face, upper and lower arms. All much better. I no longer know what ‘normal’ is. The palms of my hands were less, the backs of my hands less again, but both still better than my legs. However, neither buttock was much good. Probably not as bad as my legs, but a good deal worse than my hands. This could explain how sometimes it feels as though I am sitting on the bones of my pelvis.

The three gentlemen doctor researchers were entranced and tried it on themselves, realising how hot it became I bore the brunt of another lecture about being careful; a lecture I had already given to myself.

Having then remained seated for over 30 minutes, I was wobbly in the extreme when they asked me to shuffle over to the examining table and hoist myself up for the obligatory eye-tracking exercise. ‘Twas here that I first heard our word of the day – oscillopsia. Two tests involved here. First a tracking device connected wirelessly to Luke’s hand-held, which shines a red light on the far wall which I have to track with my eyes and his computer records the trajectory. Secondly, Professor M. jerks my head to one side and then the other, and both he and David peer into my eyes watching the nystagmus settle down.

Oscillopsia can be defined as ‘bouncing vision’. Say you are walking down the street. With every step you take, your head will jiggle, and your eyes will adjust to where your head is now pointing, in a split second manner bordering on the instantaneous. My eyes do not make this adjustment seamlessly (or even seemlessly!). They have to hunt around to determine where to look in a desperate search known as ‘saccades’, think of the print-out generated by an earthquake. Hence, the term ‘bouncing vision’. Everything appears to be moving, to be rearing up to meet me. I am not certain where to put my foot down. You saw the liquefaction of the earth’s surface in Christchurch. Bingo.

Now, there are complications to this – there are always complications to everything! It is not my eyes causing this. My eyesight is okay. I have it checked annually and really only get new frames for the same old lenses. The hassles are within my brain and within my vestibular system. These hassles within my brain cause my peripheral neuropathy, my bilateral vestibulopathy, and my cerebral ataxia. And there is a scientifically significant statistical correlation between subjects with these three ‘hassles’ and a spike in paraprotein.

More on oscillopsia and where it fits in, or otherwise, tomorrow.

We had everything before us, we had nothing before us

2011-06-28T23:00:00.000+10:00

Dickens, I suspect, was close to being right, although it has been more a tale of parallel universes than of two cities, that has swirled around us for the last fifty days. A sliding door into the not so good universe, is being documented by Kirsten, made more affecting by its clear-sightedness, and passionate intensity.

Let me share with you some of the 'best of times'.

Since that fateful morning of my father's passing, and Kirsten first hearing the solid reality of ameloblastoma, Alannah has, inexorably, glided through 10 months of age, and 11 months of age, and is now bearing down upon her first birthday. It is this young lady who has been the backbone to Kirsten's spine, the laughter to Kirsten's tears, the pathway to Kirsten's future.

Some activities have been shelved, but not out of reach; mainly activities that involve driving, and a passionate intensity. Pain and mental exhaustion, meant sleeps during the early afternoon for both of them! Swimming on Mondays continued where Papa was in his element. Here is a little girl, a girly girl, who loves 'rough house', the wind in her hair, the swing at its zenith. A powerhouse who is hard to pin down on the change table, but able to pull herself from the pool and up the steps to safety. 'Movement to Music' with other near-toddlers, is exhausting at the best of times, that alone when Ally is finding her own voice, and her own legs.

But then, Kirsten devised this wonderful reuse of their apartment: re-engineering, in the parlance. Who needs a dining-room? Out, out, out dreaded spot. Let's eat on our laps. Better still, let's eat out, and convert the space to a play room. So she did! And it works! And what a difference it makes.

In the process, the adults are able to reclaim the living room as their own. The flow is better, the feeling of space is ... spacious.

And so, all the books came out. All the tried and noted books, studded here and there around the apartment, are now down within easy reach. There is still the reading armchair in the nursery, but out here, books are incorporated into the warp'n'weft of play. They are chosen, pulled out, and pages turned. They are 'read'. They are listened to. They are sung. Old books. New books. Good books. Crook books. They are part of Ally's play, just as they were for her mother thirty one years ago.

Now, where did that go?

2011-06-19T21:36:00.004+10:00

This morning, after receiving a call from Darren, I hoofed it over to Double Bay in just a shade over 30 minutes, to sit with Ally whilst Darren went out to Macquaroe University Hospital (MUH) to pick up Kirsten who was ready to be discharged. I guess Ally awoke a bit after 10:30. I changed a pooed nappy, retrieved her when she escaped, and wrestled her into some clothes for the day, before enjoining her with the main plan for the morning. Some serious play!

She loves to take things (blocks, animals) out of one container, give them the old taste test, then hoik them into another container, preferably one that makes a noise! In between I read/sang her nursery rhymes out of a book dated (in my hand-writing) sometime in 1980. After a round or two of farm-yard sounds (especially today, cow and pig), she clambered over to the dolls-house for her new party-trick. Take something from inside the d-h, hoik it over the top, then hoist herself up to see where it ended up. Sorry she is headless, but I did have to move quickly and I was flat on my back under the dining-room table with a 50mm prime lens!

Toddler birthday

2011-06-18T18:28:00.006+10:00

This post is directed toward one person: my daughter, Kirsten, who underwent her second biopsy today. In so doing, she missed out on the birthday celebrations for her 'Mothers' Group'. This is a group of women who met through the NSW Baby Health Centre system and who each has a child turning one within the next 6 weeks. I think there might be about 10 babies.

Today they gathered together, sang each other happy birthday, and had a Kris-Kringle round of gifts. It was quite overwhelming to be invited to be part of it.

Alannah gave KK to Mila - a doll. Alannah received a KK of a zebra and a pop-up-book with pull-out tabs.

Kirsten, this is for you. Enjoy my lovely ...

Have found a recording of the sound of a zebra. Go to the bottom of the page on the LH side. Now THIS is going to be a challenge to add to my lexicon of animal sounds: cow, pig, rooster, donkey, horse, sheep.

Picture that!

2011-06-11T21:33:00.004+10:00

Having been a member of the NSW Writers' Centre for a couple of years now, this year I joined one of the two self-help groups for writers of Picture Books for Children: 'Picture this!' and 'Picture that!'. As I have to go by public transport, and the centre is out at Rozelle, it is only feasible that I go to the monthly Saturday arvo session. Turns out I am now the moderator of this group. This weekend we had a f2f critique session out at the centre involving 5 of our members, and another 5 members are involved in an email critiques session.

It is a really hard ask, to read a manuscript for a PB for 5 minutes and then talk about its good and not-so-good points. Hard, but sooo valuable for the writer. I have one story that I have been working on since February, and another story that I cobbled together just this week. 'Cobbled' in the sense that I had it on the last and spent hours trimming the leather and tapping in fine brass tacks!

By the time we meet again on the 2nd Saturday in July, I want to have a 3rd story on the last. I gather the consensus today was that my 'story' was not a PB but rather a chapter story, albeit with a line-drawing every-so-often.

It was a fiction story about marbles, in rhyming couplets. Yes, I have to tighten up the scansion. Yes, the word 'watching' does not rhyme with 'hatching'. But it has strong characters, is firmly set in a landscape, and has a narrative. Of concern to my readers was the amount of marbles 'lingo' I used. That the story was from an adult rather than a child's point-of-view. And, that the heroine's team did not win in the end, so how could they be happy.

I have lots of notes, to consult, make a decision, and then attempt a rewrite.

Je parle une langue deuxieme ... peut être

2011-06-07T08:51:00.004+10:00

Yesterday, in class, I had to deliver my first talk in French. I quite enjoyed trying to get the accent right, and to deliver in an interesting manner for my listeners. Here is what I wrote (and spoke):

Qui est?

Je suis Australienne. J‘étais née à Australie. J’ai un diplôme en économie de l’université de Melbourne. J’ai un frère aîné, et une sœur cadette. J’étais dix ans quand mon père est mort. Bien que j’ai haute avec cheveux blonde, je ne suis pas belle. Pourtant, peut être mon caractère attire les gens à moi. Les gens pensent j’ai le charisme.

Je travail dur du métier, tous les deux ici et outre-mer. Les heures sont longes, mais le revenu est généreux. Je paye mes impôts. Je contribue à ma communauté, souvent pro-bono. Je mariiais pendant treize ans et j’ai trois fils.

Je ne suis pas une hypocrite. Je fais comme je dis. Et néanmoins, je suis tourné en ridicule sans pité parce que je me défends ce que je crois.

Any ideas?

Yesterday, also, I enrolled for the next term of lessons through the WEA in Bathurst Street. The lecturer is just superbe, and my fellow students, come and go, but the core group are stayers. This will be my 7th Term, meaning that I will have about 100 hours under my belt.

The next aim is to sus out a course in Paris for the northern autumn of 2012. I already have 5 possibilities from assorted peoples. I want something that is 3 or 4 weeks long, is either 3 or 4 hours each morning. I am not fussed about there being group activities in the afternoons. I am sufficiently resourceful that way myself. And besides, I will need the rest and the headspace.

Patience and strength

2011-06-01T21:51:00.005+10:00

I shall probably get yelled at for that top image.

Some of you will already have a heads-up for this, and this be but an update. For others, I apologise for the blunt manner.

On Monday, my daughter had day surgery at Westmead to investigate a lump on her jaw and to do a biopsy. The results of the biopsy will be given to her next Tuesday at her next appointment, if not earlier. Mostly they call this a tumour or a cyst. It sits like an octopus draped over her left mandible, chewing through her jaw and her teeth. The jaw is paper thin and, in parts, non-existent. The surgeon remains confident it is not malignant. But is unable to identify it until the biopsy results are in.

Today I asked Kirsten if I might put this post up, and direct you to her own blog which she started yesterday. She is a stickler for objectivity and plain speaking. She could not find this anywhere on the web about what her 'condition' was, so decided that she would assist those who come after her.

Her blog is called Marsupial Mum. She explains why. You are welcome to leave her a comment, which she will try to respond to.

These photos were taken last Sunday arvo at the Union St playground in Paddo. Kirsten was trying to convince Alannah that she could come down the slippery-dip without holding her mother's hands. Needless to say, the child breezed down with flying colours.

Girl on the slippery-dip

2011-05-27T20:46:00.003+10:00

These photographs are technically poor, and I have hesitated all week to post them. However, there is a joy and an emotion to them which surmounts mere quality.

Pig in poo ...

2011-05-20T21:12:00.004+10:00

I would not want you to think that this kid is growing into some Double-Bay-princess or anything. So here she is down and dirty in the local park, muckin' with the guinea pigs at the zoo (no no anything but guinea pigs!), and bouncing on a core-muscle-ball.

Hangin' out together ...

2011-05-15T08:34:00.004+10:00

Yeah, yeah, I know ... I am biased ... but they are such good parents.

Genetic inheritance

2011-05-05T11:12:00.009+10:00

L to R: Darren (1975), Kirsten (1980), Alannah (2011), Tony (1948), Julie (1949)

Alannah's parents in the first row, then Alannah in the middle row, with Alannah's maternal grandparents in the final row.

Speechless

2011-05-04T00:48:00.003+10:00

An astounding portrait, I hope you agree. My daughter is advancing her skills in leaps and bounds.

Now to the expressions. I was away for a month, and I think this is the biggest change I have noticed. Alannah is increasingly able to show her thoughts and reactions with a facial expression. Here she was clambering around the rug in my living room, experiencing the collection of goodies in 'Ma's Chest'. She was particularly taken with the model cow and horse, and also with things with wheels.

Have I told you how much I love them both?

April flowering

2011-05-02T07:51:00.006+10:00

A variety of shots taken during April 2011, while I was in Paris. Some taken during their cycle around the SE of Tasmania during Easter. The main growth that is apparent to a grandparent, is that now Alannah eats just about anything her parents eat, eg avocado on multigrain, mandarins and dates. Also, there is a wider range of facial expressions, eg reactions to sweet/sour, hesitancy to go to someone new which shows in apprehension.

In short, she is growing up. She is a most even tempered and sweet natured person. I guess I take the Mandy Rice-Davies defence on that charge.

Old and grey and full of sleep, nodding by the fire

2011-05-01T08:20:00.003+10:00

I wasn't ready. I had been warned, but it didn't sink in. A picture IS worth quite a few words. Upon occasion.

He fell within the first week of my being in Paris. My daughter did not just act in my stead. She thought more widely, and deeply. Not dispassionately, but with a firm sense of process. This is the new normal.

He does not know who I am. There is no cognition. Very little, or none. Tomorrow he will undergo an ACAT assessment with the view to be classified High Care. If he were to be assessed on the Mini-Mental scale, he would struggle to register. At all. Less than 10 shows significant dementia. The great bulk of the population scores between 20 and 30.

On Wednesday possibly, he will return to his nursing home, but to the dreaded Second Floor - God's waiting room. Not that he will know. He still has a taste for chocolate.

At the market for old books

2011-04-25T07:07:00.004+10:00

As noted elsewhere, I returned to the book market and haggled for three books: all children's books, one 1924, the next 1931, and finally 1953. This is the 1931 book which is illustrated by Marie Madeleine Franc-Nohain, born in 1879 and died in 1942. Buried beside her husband - who was a writer - in Pere LaChaise Cemetery. There are a range of her books available over the internet. There are over 20 books listed there. This was her fourth. Each page is an illustration with a short story. The page I have chosen here is a story about Robert taking his sister for a walk along with their dog, Mouton. Mouton is mocked by a bird on a high branch for being slow. Yet his masters only have feet. How fast would they be with wings.

G'day. You'd be Mark from Grafton

2011-04-23T18:48:00.002+10:00

I met up with Clarence Valley blogger, Mark Bellamy, one day last week. We weren't sure how this was going to work, seeing that Mark is a History teacher escorting a group of 31 students around the battlefields of the Western Front for ANZAC Day.

However, he twigged me that that morning they were scheduled to be at Les Invalides from 10am. Just two streets over. Here's a go. Piece of cake, thinks I. But there were sooo many busloads of 'touristas'. I meandered discretely listening for accents. Bingo.

Then I saw the rugby jumper with 'Grafton High" and thought I might be close. I followed them into one of the side exhibitions. Was a good meeting, but short. Blogger is a fascinating past-time for the connections it affords.

So, will have to organise another Blogger-Meetup for later in the year.

Sign language

2011-04-22T09:44:00.010+10:00

Knowing what signs say is often fairly useful when in a foreign country that uses a language other than one's own. It can save a lot of frustration, and maybe even your life! So from the get-go I collected signs on my excursions all over Paris. Here are just a few of them.

The first sign was attached to the boundary fence of Jardin du Luxembourg and says 'The puppets of the gardens amuse the young and the old (actually the little and the big) with their artistic spectacles.' Most people could have decoded that one. The second sign was down at the Parc Floral de Paris at Chateau Vincennes. I encountered similar signs in nearly all the parks I entered. It says 'These grasses are planted of (with) bulbs. Respect them. Thankyou'.

Ah, now this next sign saved me from being skittled - once I worked out what it meant. Firstly, I thought it was saying that I had two minutes to cross. But I knew that minutes in French is the same as in English. The sign actually says 'Attention pedestrians! Cross in two times (goes)'. Meaning that the pedestrian crossing was controlled by two signs that operated independently. Cross this lane, then wait, then cross the other lane. Phew! Glad I read that one carefully. The second sign is actually three signs and is down toward rue Cler in the 7eme. The first sign is a standard street sign and they are all of this design. The second sign says 'I like my neighbourhood. I pick up. The sanitary department rules provide for fines for infractions possibly up to E450'. The third sign in this little group says I think 'It is an offence to take down these orders under pain of a fine'. The Sanitary Department reckons it is serious about dog turds on the footpath.

No idea about this first one. It is over on rue vieux Colombier beside the theatre. The words say "Column of dry descending - Column of dry rising'. Any ideas? The second sign is a bit of bureacratic sillyness. It says 'Attention pedestrians. This sign has moved'. It is next to the repositioned pedestrian crossing in front of Eglise Saint Sulpice over in the 6eme.

So for the final two. The first sign was on the railing around the flower park down at Chateau Vincennes yesterday and says "Fixing your bike to this railing is banned under pain of being impounded'. There were no bikes anywhere. The final sign was a little beauty that I espied with my little eye in Montmatre Cemetery. It was at the base of a tomb that was in considerable disrepair and says 'This concession has been abandoned. To make application to start again address yourself to the curator.' Many plots are granted in perpetuity, but not this one, I gather.

Hope you enjoyed these!!

A Parisian evening

2011-04-18T16:14:00.004+10:00

Here is a memory from our little soiree the other evening, courtesy of Genie.

Front row (L to R): Julie, Marie, and Aude.
Back row (L to R): Peter, Cynthia, Genie, Mary Ann, Janeen (our concierge), and Eric Tenin.

Eric Tenin was the originator/instigator of the City Daily Photo Blogs, of which Sydney Eye is a member. Janeen is an artist from NYC who moved to Paris a couple of years ago, and now rents this apartment out to friends. Genie has stayed there a couple of times now. It is close to Les Tuileries in Rue de Saint Roche. Such an easy 15 minute walk from my studio.

Being bedded in Paris

2011-04-17T07:32:00.006+10:00

Spring-time in Paris is just sublime. They manage such artistry in the planting of massed annuals. As you will know from 'Sydney Eye', there seems to be two themes emerging from this longer stay in Paris: parks and gardens, and cemeteries.

I have visited four cemeteries now: Passy, Montparness, Pere LaChaise, and Montmatre. Although I have shown a little of their story, there is still so much left to gossamer out to you over the coming months.

There are sooo many parks to add to those already seen: Tuileries, Jardin des Plantes, Jardins de Luxembourg, Parc du Laboure, and Parc Monceau. The Champs de Mars is not so much a park, as a parking lot - for coaches! Still to visit are: Buttes Chaumont, Vincentennes (and its floral parc), and Parc de Bagatelle which is part of the Bois de Bologne. All three are long metro journeys, but the metro is sooo smoothe and frequent!

Now, to what I have here to delight you. The top photograph was taken in Jardins de Luxembourg as were photos 5 and 6. It is truly a most handsome park. I have yet to return there on a quest to find the original Statue of Liberty. Might manage that on the way home today.

Photograps 2 and 3 and 4 were taken in Jardins de Plantes down in the 5eme. This is not really a 'botanic' gardens; well, not a patch on our botanic gardens in Austraia. There is not sufficient labelling and attention to botanic detail to inform the masses. Don't get me wrong. It is a delight! I loved the landscaping and the jumble. But I went there to learn - which was misguided of me. The garden beds were down the 'guts' of the Jardin, but the day was 25C and I was sans chapeau. So I wandered the avenues of Plane trees (the same tree that lines roadways down in the south of France).

Now, you will ask me detail of the gorgeous pink flower. To aid my memory, I photograph signs, too. So the pink flower is a variety of Peony (the label says 'Paeonia (Shin tohen) from the family paeoniaceae). I have not encountered the bush form before this. The flowers are massive and abundant. There is a grove of them along the Seine edge of the Jardins des Plantes. Red, mauve, pink, apricot, white. Overwhelming.

This final image is from the Montparnesse Cemetery, which is probably the most 'beautiful' of the cemeteries which I have visited. However, it did not have an abundance of bedded flowers. These were near the main entrance. The beauty of this cemetery was in the arrangement of flowering cherry and plum trees. I have shown you some of this on 'A pied'.

Springtime in Paris is a joy. But so is autumn. Soon I will take the bit between my teeth and visit during the depth of winter. I suspect I will never visit during the height of summer.

My building (mon immeuble)

2011-04-11T18:39:00.007+10:00

Rue de Bourgogne runs parallet to Des Invalides (one street back) down to La Seine. It is one-way going away from the river. This is the main entry-way. Most buildings of this era in Paris have an inner court-yard, some with lovely gardens. I have shown you my court-yard earlier on Face-Book.

I am renting a small studio on the 4th floor. The ground floor in Paris is 0. There is the tiniest of lifts, but it works a treat thus far, with nary a creak.

As there is just me in the apartment, I leave the sofa made up as a bed all the time. The outlook from the window is a delight, with lots of fresh air which I need. The only thing missing is something to play music. I do have a zillion tv channels, but SKY (UK) is abyssmal. I quite like Aljazeera (from DOHA) and find it very even-handed staffed by proper journalists from around the world. How I have solved the music problem is to listen to Classic-FM via the ABC online.

That is me up there on the 4th floor (0, 1, 2, 3, 4)- right there under the eaves with the window open.

In my absence, growth continues

2011-04-09T18:32:00.008+10:00

We skype, we email, we text. Modern communications make distance 'shorter'.
Kirsten is doing a great job, sorting out grandpa who has been hospitalised after a fall. Now we have agreed (she and I) that we want him out, and back into his own bed. She is determined that I stay here as planned. Coming to terms with this is good for my soul, I think. I did say 'goodbye' to him ten days ago. And he really has no idea who any of us is.

Neighbourhood watching

2011-04-06T03:31:00.005+10:00

Today was a 'red-letter' day. Not sure where that expression comes from, other than Nathaniel Hawthorne's "The Scarlet Letter" where his heroine had to wear a screaming red A on her chest. A for adultery. Anyway, it was just a day for taking note in my book.

Today, I found a cafe that I am pleased with. Now that is picky I know, because I am in Paris and cafes are a franc-a-dozen, one would think. But I want one that doesn't serve frothee-coffee. That doesn't pile a plate high with limp-lettuce and fatty-frites! So in my wander of the 7th (between Invalides and La Tour it is known as 7th-sud) I turned a few corners and blow-me-down was in rue St-Dominique, outside this most un-French looking pastry shop.

It is very much a woman's shop - no wine,no fries. But lots of sugar. I had the sandwich de jour, which was a gorgeously crunchy roll. Plus a grand creme, but really did not need THAT much milk so a Petit creme will suffice tomorrow. I rounded it off with a very lip-smacking tarte citron. And all that cost 13 euros - at an exchange rate of 69c, you do the math, as they say.

Prior to that though, I did myself proud. I posted some letters and bought more stamps. I went into three shops looking for a non-slip mat for the shower-over-bath. Found one for E10.95. Found a plug for the kitchen sink for E4.95 AND an old ladies; shopping trolley for E34.90 which was a rip-off.

Now does all that scream out that I am living here!! Add to that, that today is the end of the first week and the longest continuous stay in Paris for me. AND AND AND ... I am doing a load of washing.

Wuhoo ... I'm living here ... I'm living here, doing ordinary things.

Sur la rue où je habite

2011-04-05T01:46:00.002+10:00

See the columned portico right down t'other end of the night shot? That is the National Assembly building, the front of which faces The Seine over which the Pont de la Concorde stretches to that bit of turf where Madame de Farge k-nitted. I am standing in front of the NA building looking back up this way to take the day shot.

This is Rue de Bourgogne in the 7th. To tell you the truth, I did not know much about the 7th when I booked the 4th floor studio for a month. I have previously stayed in two separate apartments in the 4th. Although both on the Left Bank, they are quite different. In Sydney terms, the 4th is Surry Hills whereas the 7th is Woollahra.

I discovered during Bridge-Walk (part the first) today, that Boulevard Saint-Germain commences at the National Assembly. So, I can see me starting there and walking until I am too tired to go any further. Need a new map first. A bloody gypsy took my old map today. They try to sell them back to you.

Paris in Springtime

2011-04-02T15:28:00.006+11:00

At Easter 2002, I journeyed to Paris for the first time, and was sucked into the tourist-vortex never to see the real Paris. This time is so totally different. Yes, I am tourist, but one trying not to think like a tourist. I am trying not to do anything that I have to pay to enter. And I spend half my day either at home or within 100m.

Top left, cunningly disguised, Tour Eiffel lurks behind that central tree. This next image is right at the foot of Tour Eiffel, beside a concrete wasteland. I love the eye with which they create their massed plantings - must use a bristle rather than a trowel.

Flower shops flood out onto the footpath, such is the spring growth. I think one could assess the socio-economic standing of a city block by peeking at the number and verdancy of its flower shotps. If I want to smell the metaphorical roses, I sit down and sniff 'til my heart's content. The lucky thing is that, as I don't have a garden, the potted colour loses its temptation.

I took these shots on the way down Rue de Grenelles, through Champs de Mar, up Jardins de Trocadero and into Passy Cimitere yesterday. The statue of Benjamin Franklin, with which I complete this post, is just outside the cemetery.

I have just skyped with my girls ... so everything is coming up roses!

C'est moi

2011-03-24T10:15:00.003+11:00

On Sydney Eye I wrote a post about John and his coming to terms with living in a wheel-chair. John and I had been part of a workshop of 30 oldies learning photography under the auspices of both the MCA and the ACP. As well as me taking shots of John, he took shots of moi.

Mad about the boy

2011-03-21T23:39:00.004+11:00

Thirty five years ago I was mad about Cleo Lane. I wallowed in a performance she gave with the Dankworth Quintet in the Hamer Hall when it was in diapers! She sang a song called 'Mad about the boy' written by Noel Coward - which puts it in a slightly different hue ...

Anyway, my boy played the role of 'handyman' on Saturday arvo: trimmed the olive trees because I can't climb ladders any more; changed light bulbs (ditto reason); moved a fountain from inside and hung it on a hook in the garden; unscrewed the end of a tap and put a filter device on it; and, finally, sat down and got this computer in order.

For all of which, I thank him from the bottom of my heart.

Daddy and daughter

2011-03-17T21:05:00.005+11:00

Taken and processed by Mummy

FFF - De Vrais Mensonges

2011-03-14T12:58:00.004+11:00

This has been given the English title 'Beautiful Lies' rather than the more nuanced 'true lies. It is excellent if eventually flawed. At about the 3/4 mark, the screen-writers lost control of the lightness, and it drifted tortuously onto the rocks of introspection, and they brought it quickly to its close. Until then, it was a vehicle for the ever-plastic Tautou as a 'beauticienne' in Sete, which is on the Mediterranean, between Montpellier and Narbonne. It is a lovely film in its early stages, lots of laughter and most engaging characters. Also has a good soundtrack making the CD of the festival more attractive to the ear.

FFF- Crime D'armour

2011-03-11T23:19:00.003+11:00

"Love Crimes' is a delightful film which I suspect will receive a commercial release after the festival. It stars Kristen Scott-Thomas and Ludivine Sagnier, both of whom are excellent - bitchy, strong and focussed.

When I say 'delightful', I don't mean light and fluffy. I mean strong and intelligent. The narrative arc does not waver. Alain Corneau knew what he wanted and had the nerve to be true to his material. He died just before its French release.

The script is very tightly controlled, clues are dropped and then, one by one, hauled back in. There is not one, but two twists, and these flow over you with a wave of appreciation for their cleverness.

This is Scott-Thomas as I have never seen her before.

FFF - Les Arrivants

2011-03-11T23:09:00.002+11:00

This was a challenging film to see first-up in this year's French Film Festival. "The Arrivals' is a documentary made in 2008, set in gritty Paris. It tells the story of asylum seekers and how the French bureaucracy does (or does not) cope. Very quickly our sights are narrowed down to two bureaucrats - both female - one older and sympathetic, one younger and more confrontational.

The refugees are from Sri Lanka, Mongolia, and two from Africa. They are more or less assertive and demanding, and one young mother is unaware of her real circumstances.

This is an important film for an Australian to see, as we have an ongoing public concern about asylum seekers. It puts our concerns into a strong perspective. It was engrossing to hear about refugees flying in, or driving in a lorry. To hear the story of refugees from such a massive range of countries other than Sri Lanka and Afghanistan.

A challenging film with a small audience, some of whom left early.

FFF 2011

2011-03-10T10:01:00.003+11:00

This festival got underway this week and my first choice screens this evening at my beloved Verona. I have 6 films on my schedule this year:

The Arrivals
Love Crime
Beautiful Lies
Round-up
Just a beginning, and
Fair is fair.

My first review later this evening.

A happy little Vegemite

2011-03-07T23:53:00.005+11:00

Photos all taken by Kirsten

We're happy little Vegemites
As bright as bright can be.
We all enjoy our Vegemite
For breakfast, lunch, and tea.
Our mummies say we're growing stronger
Every single week,
Because we love our Vegemite
We all adore our Vegemite
It puts a rose in every cheek.

Tea for two

2011-03-04T17:22:00.003+11:00

Both images taken and processed by Kirsten

Picture you upon my knee
Just tea for two
And two for tea
Just me for you
And you for me... . umm ... plus mummy and daddy
We will all be family
Can't you see
how happy we will be.
(with apologies to Vincent Youmans.

On being inclusive ...

2011-02-17T17:44:00.008+11:00

My memory is not always reliable nowadays, but a vision swims through the frontal lobes of Kirsten and I striding along Elizabeth Street from Waterloo to a theatre, I think. Seemingly out of the blue, she asked, 'You will be a hands-on grandparent, won't you?'

I think what she meant by this was to be involved, to be around sufficiently and in an 'alive' enough way, to ensure that the grand-child sees me as a real person, rather than just an extension of its parents. This is, as with many things, a two-way street. To be hands-on, one needs to be included. I am sooo thrilled at being included in the way that I am.

So ... what do we have here. Yesterday, was Grandmothers' Day and we had lunch at Centennial Park. Unfortunately, I was shooting into the sun for the first shot of mother and daughter. However, Kirsten took the other two on the first row. The first one shows Alannah Jane sitting in a high-chair equal with the rest of us. Quite a thrill. The final shot, was using the 'light-scoop' that Kirsten ordered online last week.

Maybe she is teething a bit more on the bottom gum. Poor old Sophie took a hammering, and the rusks don't stand a chance. I shot both these ... I think.

All the shots of the cardboard box were taken by moi. The box had arrived the previous day filled with fruit & veg, and when i saw it I knew it was a toy from the gods. Makes a good car, too.

Brag book

2011-02-11T21:23:00.007+11:00

Each of these images was captured by Kirsten. Not bad, is she?
But then again, she IS working with the most perfect of subjects!

Strider

2011-02-01T14:12:00.004+11:00

Six months seems to be the lift-off stage. Alannah is sooo close to crawling. I expect she will be next time I see her. She is starting to vocalise using throat, mouth and lips. And she has had her first of ten Monday swimming lessons.

Is this what Huxley meant?

2011-01-23T22:11:00.005+11:00

An X-Box came bundled with their new mega-television. I am led to understand that she will have mastered an i-phone by the time she is three. Mummy is teaching herself how to set-up and take family portraits by remote. She had to hurry though: the fish'n'chips was getting cold.

The joy of being a grandmother

2011-01-19T22:05:00.003+11:00

Each month we arrange a Grandmothers' Day. Alannah's paternal grandmother comes up by train from Nowra (3 hours each way), and I mosey over by shanks'-pony (35 minutes each way). We often go to a beach or a park, but today was a little indeterminate weather-wise so we played at home and then went to a cafe for lunch.

I am blessed to be as included as I am. Thank you, my lovely.

The world is not a scarey place, trust us ...

2011-01-15T09:50:00.005+11:00

Alannah taking the wheel at 'Babies by the Bay'
Photo taken by Kirsten.

Between all the mayhem and distress that has occurred over the last few weeks, Kirsten has been preparing Alannah for her big step into the world without her mother's presence. Child care is not easy to come by, and quality care even less so. When Kirsten found one she liked, she grabbed a day a week even though not due to return to work until July.

She has spent this tumultuous time preparing my grand-daughter and ensuring that she understood that the world is not a scarey place, and that her mother will always come back. Alannah has been taken for half-days by Grandad and by Ma. She has been to Playgroup. She meets other children at Mothers' Group. She meets them at Rhyme Time in the library.

So yesterday was her first Friday. Mother was excited/anxious/happy/proud. All those things. As was Ma. Alannah is a contemplative child. She spends a lot of time absorbng. However, she also has a voice that she uses when splashing ducky in the bath. She was fine. But when she got home she slept for 2 1/2 hours and was still rubbing her eyes.

No matter what we have seen or experienced over the last few weeks, the world is a good place to enter into and to explore.

Alannah tuckered out
Photo taken by Kirsten

Eleanor Abernathy - The crazy cat lady

2011-01-12T21:09:00.003+11:00

Pretty soon I will be screaming gibberish and throwing cats at passersby. My son warned me. He said 'Mum, stop at two. It is a well-known fact that women over 60 with more than two cats, are in want of sanity.' He is like that, my son. Straight to the point. He also knows many episodes of The Simpsons by heart. Which is a worry. And ripe for riposte. However, he is faster than I. And to be truthful, Maude, I really don't give a damn!

Needless to say, I am now hosting three cats in my courtyard apartment, having taken over the care of my daughter's cat, Cooper, on Sunday. I knew it was coming. Russian Blues are fairly highly-strung and do not take easily to playing second fiddle. When the baby came along, my daughter was around much more, but paid even less attention to him. He took it out on her, lying in wait and biting her legs. Kirsten was terrified that he would do something similar to Alannah. It could not continue.

I have him inside for a week to imprint the apartment and our routine on him, if possible. I am also handling him as much as possible and making sure I know what riles him and avoid that. I want him to get used to my style which is very hands on, with much 'chucking' around the head.

The hassle with keeping him in, of course, is the impact it has on the other two. They are not allowed their usual freedom to come and go at will at all hours of the day and night. They have to ask to be let out - and in. They are coping. Just.

A time for Family

2011-01-05T22:56:00.003+11:00

Before Christmas, I spent three days with my two brothers in Newcastle. The obligatory game of Scrabble was enjoined, with one brother consulting a really really old Oxford, and the other receiving unwanted advice from his progeny. Good fun, all round.

On Boxing Day, I visited my uncle (my father's older brother) in Royal North Shore. He was 91 last September and is aiming for his century. He goes out to a rehab hospital tomorrow prior to returning to his own home.

And here is my darling grand-daughter, Alannah, taken today where I got to feed her and read to her, and play with her.

Christmas for non-believers

2010-12-25T14:56:00.007+11:00

I don't think there is a practicising Christian in my immediate family. There are quite a few in my extended family, However, I don't cut myself out from the Christmas season totally. Possibly, Christmas has gone generic. The father of my children, and his partner, hosted a family dinner last night. This morning I was around opening presents with my grand-daughter. I have spoken with one brother, the other is in-ommunicado. I had Christmas lunch in the garden with my father. Tomorrow, I have Boxing Day lunch with a squillion cousins.

It is very hot here today - feels about 28C. The sky is blue, there is a light breeze wafting. You can't get much better than this.

Mother love

2010-12-24T03:17:00.008+11:00

Upper photos taken by Julie, lower photos taken by Kirsten

There are two mother-loves illustrated here.

Developing new skills

2010-12-11T10:26:00.006+11:00

Photographs by Kirsten

Both my daughter and my grand-daughter are learning new skills.

Kirsten is teaching herself photography with this subject of all subjects. She is learning by following her favourite baby photographers of the moment, and is addicted to her prime F1.8 lens.

Alannah is learning the fun of play both in the cot by herself and with her mummy at the playground in Rushcutters Bay park.

These three cropped images by Julie

Unbridled pleasure!

2010-12-07T06:27:00.006+11:00

This is was a Kensington Pride mango. He could not smell it, but he could taste it. He was astounded that I would pay $3.98 for it at Woolies.

Next time, I will take a tea-towel with me as well.

Walford Manifold's WW1 Diary

2010-12-04T11:34:00.015+11:00

View Larger Map

I happened, by chance, to fluke upon the unfolding of an account of life on the Western Front during WW1 through the eyes of an Australian, who enlisted with a British artillery squadron (?).

Here is my attempt to anchor my following of his diary and letters home to his father and mother. Mentioned in his diary thus far are

Beuvry (A)
Bethune (B)
Cambrin (C), and
La Basse Road (D).

I will update this map whenever a new location is mentioned in either the diary or the letters. If you were to click where it says 'View larger map', you will be taken out of my Plumbing blog and into Google maps. Then if you were to click on the + end of the sliding bar that is down the LHS of the map, you can zoom into the map and take a closer look at the terrain.

Walford's blog emanates from Canberra, and can be found at Diary of E.W. Manifold.

Hard yakka

2010-11-28T10:12:00.007+11:00

Once again, all photographs taken by my daughter, Kirsten

All this scrambling and slithering, and rolling and getting my arm pinned is darned hard work!
If a foal can stand, and stumble within an hour of birth, why oh why is this crawling lark such hard yakka?

Antidote to struggle street

2010-11-27T07:10:00.006+11:00

My grand-daughter, Alannah, taken by her mother, Kirsten.