My Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Birth

I rarely talk about the birth of my third child. I did, however, include it in the book that was never published. And after Lana raised the issue of birth this week, I decided to haul it out and share it with the world. Be warned. It's traumatic.

 

My caesarean section was bizarre. There was no labour, no pushing, no transition, no process. One moment I was pregnant, and then, within a few minutes, I wasn’t. And there was my daughter, beautiful and healthy, emerging from the other side of the screen.

The baby was cleaned up, and shortly afterwards we both returned to my room. After twenty minutes or so my mum brought my big kids in to the hospital to meet their baby sister. Photos were taken and phone calls were made. I was light headed, but calm, and glad to have my daughter safe in my arms.

Then they left, and it was just my (then) husband, me and the baby. And suddenly, I wasn’t feeling so great. My stomach hurt, and it was grossly distended. And when the nurse came in to check my pad she noticed that my legs and my gown were soaked with blood.

 

“We’ll need to keep an eye on this,” she said, and I felt a tinge of alarm.

“Is everything okay?” 

“I’m just going to give your stomach a massage to help move some of these clots,” she told me.

“So I’ll be okay after that?”

The nurse just smiled. She massaged my stomach, but it was agonisingly painful.

“Stop!” I cried. “It hurts!”

“I’ll get you another shot of morphine,” she said, and left the room. My husband looked worried, and he never looked worried.

I counted the minutes until the nurse returned. By the time she gave me my shot, my pad was drenched again.

“I think we need to call the doctor,” my husband said.

“I’ll call the registrar,” the nurse told him.

“Call Kerri’s specialist,” my husband shouted after her, but she had already left the room.

Around twenty minutes later, an unfamiliar doctor pushed his way through the curtains. He looked about fifteen. I felt woozy, and my stomach was still sore.

“I’m Dr Amira, the registrar,” he announced briskly. “I’m just going to check your stomach.”

He felt around my stomach and I winced. Then he checked my pad. More bright blood.

The doctor chewed his lip, furrowed his brow and made some notes in my file.

“I want you to call Dr H,” my husband said.

Dr Amira paused. “We don’t disturb the specialists unless there is an emergency.”

“It is an emergency. My wife is bleeding.”

The young registrar looked profoundly uneasy. “Let’s give it another hour and see how she is, shall we?”

“Call him right now or I will go downstairs and page him myself,” my husband hissed at him.

Just then, my mobile phone rang. It was my son, calling me from my mother’s house.

“Hi Mum. How’s the baby?” asked my beautiful son.

“She’s good darling,” I said. “How are you?”

He answered, but I kept losing track of his words. I tried very hard to focus, but I felt like I was floating away. It’s the morphine, I thought. The drugs are making me fuzzy.

My son was saying something about homework and bedtime, but I couldn’t understand him. And I felt strange. Very strange. I was staring down a narrow tunnel, and I was being sucked into its vortex.

I was fading. I felt it. I was fading.

“I have to go now darling,” I said, and I let the phone slide from my hand.

Suddenly there was a commotion. People gathering around. Loud voices, needles being stuck into my arm, thermometers in my ear. I floated in and out of the scene, trying to stay awake. And yet, even though I was losing consciousness – even though my eyes kept drifting closed – I was panicked in every fibre of my being.

I was haemorrhaging both internally and externally and I could do nothing to save my own life. I was completely in the hands of the medical team, and they had not inspired me with confidence. I could feel myself dying. It was my worst nightmare coming true. I was dying. I was going to die.

I didn’t think of the new baby, who wasn’t even real to me at that stage. And I didn’t think of my husband, although he was standing there next to me. I thought of my parents, who had just lost their only other child. And I thought of my older two children, and how lost they would be without me.

“You don’t understand!” I screamed to the registrar. “You can’t let me die! YOU CAN’T LET ME DIE!”

The registrar spoke firmly, but I could hear the unease in his voice. “Please try to stay calm, Kerri. We’ve called Dr H. He should be here any moment. Just hang on.”

Hang on? HANG ON? What was I supposed to hang on to???

And then I saw the most wonderful vision appear before me. My white haired obstetrician materialised in my room. He was already in his scrubs.

“We’re taking you straight back to theatre,” he said briskly, and laid a reassuring hand on my arm as the staff began wheeling my bed out the door.

“Am I going to die?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “Absolutely not. I won’t let you.”
 

 Here is the discussion with Lana that triggered this post. More to come.

  

A Mood Alert Dog? Now THIS is what I need

Yesterday I stumbled across an amazing short film about a 15 year old girl and her Diabetic Alert Dog. Jackie the dog alerts Grace to fluctuations in her blood sugar that Grace cannot feel, and protects her charge from diabetic seizures, coma and, possibly, death.

As a Cat Person, I have never been privvy to animals with special skills. Penny the Feline can recognise the words 'treat', 'food' and, well, 'Penny', but that's about it. She was useless at learning to use the human toilet (Litter Kwitter is bullshit, people, it is bullshit) and has still not quite comprehended that we do not enjoy gifts of lizards, mice and rats.

Furthermore, my late rabbits Spunky, Pretzel and Hot Cross Bun Bun didn't even recognise their own names. If they had special skills we were unaware of them (and they most certainly didn't extend to avoiding foxes). So I was incredibly impressed by the powers of dogs to assist humans with disabilities.

Not only can Diabetic Alert Dogs recognise blood sugar changes, but Seizure Alert Dogs can, astonishingly, predict seizures in their epileptic owners up to 20 minutes ahead of time. And this got me thinking. What other issues could dogs be trained to recognise? Could I have my own Alert Dog to help me in my life?

"You have PMS, Human"

For example:

• A Mood Alert Dog, who would predict a rapid plummet in mood up to 15 minutes before it occured, then alert my loved ones with special barks so that they can get away from me quickly before becoming a casualty.
• A Bad Man Alert Dog, who would assess potential suitors via their pheromones and warn me not to get emotionally involved.
• A Hormone Alert Dog, good for sniffing out PMS, ovulation, early pregnancy, oncoming periods and menopause. No more urine tests or doctors visits required!
• A Conflict Alert Dog, especially for the family, who would recognise upcoming tensions and arguments and separate warring parties before the trouble began.
• A Binge Alert Dog, who would bark and nip and attack when I overeat/ drink too much/ attempt to drunk text/ basically do anything wrong at all.

Watch Grace's story here. Jackie the dog first appears at about 3:15. Amazing.

And just like that.... I was gone.

Last week I disappeared. I had a general anesthetic on Tuesday morning, was home by Tuesday afternoon, and was completely stoned on Endone until Thursday evening. I lay in bed for forty eight hours, dozing and staring at the ceiling and doing absolutely nothing else.

Endone is a morphine derivative and even the tiny doses I took had a profound effect on me. I couldn't think. I didn't want to think. I didn't want to do anything but stare at the ceiling. I had no interest in watching TV or reading a magazine or eating or chatting to a loved one. I was perfectly content to lay on my back and just BE. It was probably the first time in my life I have experienced that kind of serenity, and - if I stay healthy - hopefully the last.

It is a weird thing, not thinking. Can you imagine not thinking? I don't stop thinking for a moment. Even now, writing this post, I have worried about the article I just wrote and whether my editor will like it, the piece of toast I just ate and how I'd really like another, how the makeup I'm still wearing after my TV appearance  is making my skin crawl and I need to take it off, and that I can't keep on procrastinating with my taxes. I hate doing my taxes. I was thinking that, too.

Since finishing that sentence I thought of the party I was at last night, and how I told one of my close friends that his daughter used to be 'funny looking'. I was a little drunk at the time, but it's really no excuse and I am quite mortified by my behaviour. I am thinking about a chart on introverts I saw this morning, and how it was a revelation because I am not at all introverted. I am thinking about my best friend and why she hasn't returned my message. I am thinking about the mess in my apartment and how I plan to clean it soon. And I am really thinking about that second piece of toast.

"We become what we think about all day long," wrote Emerson, and he has to be right, because really, what else could we be? We are not our bodies, we are not our jobs, we are not our status; we are our thoughts, and our thoughts dictate who we are. I am me because I worry about the things I worry about, because I care about the things I care about, and because I contemplate the things I contemplate. No-one else has my thoughts, hence, I am unique in this world.

Last week I was nothing. I had no thoughts, so I wasn't me. I was a generic body, lying in a bed, staring at the ceiling. I occasionally rallied enough strength to be a simulacrum of me. When my children came in to kiss me goodnight I said the things I knew Real Kerri would have said. But I didn't feel it. I felt nothing. Just air and ceiling and a deep, deep peace.

Now I'm back to me. And with all the worries and petty concerns and ruminations, I wouldn't go back to the serenity. Without my thoughts I am nothing. Without your thoughts, neither are you.

I Am Truly Disgusting. Laugh It Up, People. Laugh It Up.

It appears I am falling apart. Not only do I have some sort of a low grade sickness that irritatingly has not manifested in a fever (for which I could take to my bed, like some 19th Century maiden who has received bad news), but just hangs around, dripping out of my nose and tickling my chest... I also have something disgusting on my tongue.

I was eating my dinner the other night and felt something hard and abnormal in my mouth. It wasn't a tooth (teeth are hard, but quite normal), and it wasn't a piece of food (I had swallowed all of those, though there is always room for dessert). It was stuck to my tongue, like a ganglion, or a cyst.

I assumed it was a pimple, because what else would one have on one's tongue if not a zit? I get zits in all sorts of places - or at least, I used to, when I was 13. And I still do, occasionally, at 45, though really not on my tongue. Quite frankly, I have no idea what I was thinking.

When I looked in the mirror I saw that I had a very strange sort of white rash on my tongue. Which clearly meant that I had tongue cancer, and was going to die soon, probably by the next morning. I was sad, but resigned. If anyone was going to die an ignominious death from tongue cancer, it would totally be me, because of absolutely no reason at all.

But when I went to the chemist (because they know more than doctors, and are free, even if they don't really know more than doctors), he told me solemnly that I had tongue thrush. I was horrified. Who the hell gets tongue thrush? I immediately assumed it was passed on to me by a sexual partner, but was informed that a) it was not transmissable, and b) I did not have a sexual partner. (Okay, so the chemist didn't know b), but I figured that one out for myself.)

So now I have to put pink drops on my tongue four times a day, in between wiping my snotty nose and surviving coughing fits and rocking in the corner in deep shame for having tongue thrush in the first place.

And in other news, the pink drops are delicious. So this hideous illness has an upside after all. Life is, indeed, fulfilling to the extreme.

My Trip To The, Er, 'Day Spa'

Yesterday I had a sensationally relaxing afternoon. I had a lovely sleep at about 2pm, woke at about 3.15, was served tea, juice and sandwiches in bed, then spent the next couple of hours lying blissfully in bed as a lovely young woman attended to my every need. All I needed was a mani-pedi and a hot stone massage and it would have been the perfect day spa.

There were three other women in the room with me, and all were equally delighted. Okay, so we'd all had surgery earlier on in the day, but it was such a treat to be in bed for the entire afternoon, sans kids, sans work, sans responsibilities, that we all declared it to be one of the most enjoyable few hours we'd spent in a long time.

Oh, and did I mentioned I was stoned to the eyeballs on pain killers? Because that probably helped too.

Kerri's Impression of her Hospital Stay

Now, I'm not saying that surgery is a fun thing. And I'm not saying my life is so desperately busy that I have to escape to hospital just to get a break. Far from it. Sometimes I escape to the supermarket, or the dentist, or my mother's house, or to space. (Ooops! Sorry. I don't think the drugs have quite left my system yet...) But even when I do escape, there is always something I should be doing. Even when I relax in front of the TV, I know I should be mopping the floor, or making lunches, or tidying the linen closet, or writing another article, or ironing the shirts. (Ha! There are those drugs talking again. I don't iron!!!)

But yesterday was remarkably fun. The surgery was minor (just some women's stuff I needed to get sorted out), there was no pain afterwards (just a few fuzzy elephants and the best cup of tea I've ever tasted in my life), and then I got to do nothing. Absolutely nothing. And I didn't feel guilty about doing nothing because I had no choice. I was in hospital. There was a cannula in my hand. I was wearing a gown. I was not wearing underpants. And there were elephants dancing around my bed.

Today I am back to business as usual, just with a certain fuzziness of head (and a pet elephant who is following me everywhere). I'm glad it's all over and I'd so grateful it went smoothly.

And girlies, have your regular pap smear. Get onto it. Okay?

10 (New) Plagues

Here's a rare Biblical reference for you:

In Exodus, Pharoah refused to let the Israelites out of Egypt. So God came down on him really hard, with a series of 10 plagues intended to change his mind.

They were pretty awful. Blood, frogs, lice, flies, diseased livestock, boils, hail, locusts, darkness... and then, when all that failed, death of the firstborn.

Of course it's a parable. It has to be. I mean, if God was omnipotent, he'd just let the Israelites out of Egypt himself. Or, you know, kill Pharoah.

But it's a good story. However, it's one that needs updating. Frogs, lice and boils? Come on. These are hardly disasters in this day and age.

No, I think we need new plagues, ones that would devastate Pharoahs of the modern era.

The Sixth Plague - EARWORM

And I have some suggestions:

1. Bad hair day EVERYDAY. What Pharoah could cope with having crap hair every single day of his life? It would destroy his confidence and hence his leadership.
2. Paper cut. Small but devastating.
3. Itchy bum. More maddening than lice, itchy bum also causes embarrassing public displays of bottom touching, which would completely undermine Pharoah's authority.
4. No coffee. All God would have to do is destroy coffee supplies around the world and Pharoah would collapse in a pathetic heap of despair.
5. Insomnia. The absolute worst. No elaboration required.
6. Earworm. Just get Gangnum Style stuck in Pharoah's head for days at a time. He'll cave. No question about it.
7. No Mobile Reception. A Pharoah can't lead if he can't communicate. He's going DOWN.
8. Advertorials. No TV programs, just endless loops of AbToneFit promos and offers of saucepan sets with free steak knives!
9. No Wifi. Pharoah will die of despair on the spot.
10. Zombie invasion. Just because.

The Adventures of Ear, Queen of Cellulitis (or, 'If Only My Doctor Looked Like Him')

I am sitting at my desk in my lovely apartment, in which I have been happily ensconced for the better part of a year.

In the last few weeks, however, I have also taken up part-time residence in other digs, not nearly as salubrious as these.

Yes, I have become a semi-permanent fixture in my local doctor's office, making at seven visits in the past 21 days.

It started with a bad bout of tonsillitis. A bunch of razorblades found their way into my throat, and did some vigorous twerking until I was feverish and sore. Eventually the party spread to my left ear, which become infected as well, as it doesn't like to be left out.

It took two courses of anti-biotics to get the fun under control, and a good couple of visits to the doctor.

Next up, just days later, was some, er, 'women's business'. I will not burden you with the details, but it did require an initial visit, a second visit for a pap smear, and then a follow up visit to the GP to discuss the results, so that was another three visits right there.

This is not my doctor. If it was, I would be delighted to experience regular bouts of cellulitis.

Following that was the case of the cellulitic ear. And no, to the friend who knows who she is, I do not have cellulite in my ear (and no, it was not that funny). My left ear, having recovered from the infection, decided that it needed more attention, and developed a strange lump on the back. I went to the doctor again, and she decided that it was an infection in the internal stitch left over from my, um, minor surgery over a year ago. She advised me to make an appointment with the (um, plastic) surgeon to get it removed. I saw the plastic surgeon and he scheduled me in for another month's time. In the meantime, the lump got infected, turned bright red and swollen, my entire jaw started to ache, and I rushed back to the GP to be diagnosed with cellulitis and put on yet another course of anti-biotics. Yep. Two more visits within a week. And with that, we hit the magic seven. I know, right? My favourite number!

Happily, the cellulitis has now eased somewhat. Unhappily, I am going in this afternoon to have the stitch removed in the chair. Happily, the surgeon has given me some Emla cream to smear on my ear to dull the pain of a needle going into my sore ear. Unhappily, Emla cream does fuck all and you will hear the screams all around Australia.

And when I get home, I am officially renting out a room in my doctor's surgery. They have a nice bathroom and old magazines and jelly beans, and I'm there every three days anyway so it will save a lot of time.

When was the last time you went to the doctor?

Keep Away From The Internet When Cranky (Or Not)

Normally I subscribe to the 'Keep Away From The Internet When Cranky' rule. Okay, there have been some notable exceptions (during which I have got involved in ridiculous arguments with anonymous morons on Twitter), but for the most part I stick to my guns. Nothing good can come of posting when you're shitty. Your defenses are down, your emotions are heightened, and it is very, very easy to say things you will later regret.

Well, today I am hideously cranky, and I am throwing caution to the wind. I am on my third day of tonsillitis/ear infection, and am OVER IT with a capital everything. I am taking anti-biotics for my disease, pro-biotics for the anti-biotics, and Roses Chocolates for the depression that descended late last night after two days in bed.

On top of it all, I am pre-menstrual, which would be wonderful if I planned to have any more children and needed my stupid ovaries, but I don't, so perhaps they could just dry the hell up already? (And yes, for all those menopausal women out there, I'm aware menopause is no walk in the park either, but I'm cranky, so just ignore me and trust that when my time comes I'm sure I'll be complaining about that, too.)

So what else? Well, my inbox keeps filling up at the most ridiculous rate. No sooner do I delete all the junk and see to all the vital correspondence than I have another 30 emails waiting for me. About 10% are important, another 20% are important if you want to read about minute changes to the school canteen menu and what the kindergarten kids did at Assembly today (and seeing as my kids are in years one, seven and nine quite frankly I don't, not even slightly), and the other 70% are rubbish. I get emails about penis enlargements (and I don't have a penis - the still functioning ovaries would be a testament to that), vampire facials (because who the hell wouldn't want to take blood out of themselves just to inject it back in again), offers of large amounts of money in exchange for my bank account details (which I'm sure are, like, totally valid, but who has the time to write back?), and requests to link with people on LinkedIn for no reason whatsoever because LinkedIn has never done anything for me but generate emails (having said that, all requests will be accepted, because if I'm going to be on LinkedIn, I'd rather have heaps and heaps of connections than none).

Also I have bills to pay, laundry to do, a book to write, fleas to kill (yes, the cat has fleas and has spread them all over the house and the kids keep complaining [which seems completely unreasonable, I mean, when I was their age I walked to school barefeet in the snow....]), dinner to prepare, paperwork to fill out.... and I should probably also shower at some stage, too.

So that's it. I'm cranky. And if you're cranky too, now is your time to share it. I am declaring this Day of the Crankypants, and all cranky submissions will be accepted.

And if you're not cranky, well, you can comment too, but don't expect sympathy. And YES. I know you won't need sympathy if you're not actually cranky. You don't have to point it out! Bloody hell. Everyone's giving me a hard time today....

#MyFirst... Time Drunk

Each Monday I will be writing about a First. I will choose the First (first kiss? first drink? first fight? first phobia?)I will post the topic here and write my own little piece about it. And I will invite YOU to write about your own First on your blog anytime during the week. If you have never experienced that particular first, write about why not. And how you feel about that.Then add your blog post via the linky below, and/or tweet it under the hashtag #MyFirst.
Today's topic is My First... Time Drunk

Some firsts happen organically: first kiss, first heartbreak, first moment of fear, first time you taste a double dark chocolate Cherry Ripe and know you want to commit to it for life.

Some firsts need a bit of a push. You want to dive in, so you make it happen for yourself.

And so it was with my first time drunk. I was dying to experience the joys of intoxication, and my best friend Libby* was ready too. I was at her place for a sleepover, her parents were out, and we decided to hit the liquor cabinet and give it a go.

I was fifteen years old.

I was terribly excited.

I wasn't familiar with the Joy of Alcohol, and so started with something close to home. Libby and I poured ourselves shots of Sacramental Grape - the sweet, port-like wine that is drunk on the Sabbath. On the Sabbath it is drunk in thimble sized portions. We drank a tumbler-full each. And then moved straight ahead.



It is Holy, you know

What next? Well, Scotch seemed to be the obvious answer. Libby's father had several bottles of the stuff so we took a little bit from each and drank another full glass.

I don't know how people drink this stuff

The Scotch tasted horrible, and I was starting to feel a bit off. I needed something sweet again. The Tia Maria beckoned.

Not intended to be consumed by the tumbler

We drank a full glass of that each, too.

And well, that was it. I was out for the count. The room spun around me. Thick gauze descended on my brain and the world went hideously fuzzy. I felt dire. I thought maybe I'd die. Nausea clutched me in it's grip and swirled me around. I needed to get to bed. I needed to get to bed now.

"Ah needa gedda bed," I slurred to Libby.

"Me ooh," she muttered. She was a strange shade of puce.

I couldn't stand. Libby couldn't stand. I don't like this, I thought. I want this to be over.

Bed. I needed bed. We crawled to the stairs.

And just that minute, Libby's parents came home. I regarded them from my position on all fours on the stairs.

"Hugumph," I said.

"What's going on," Libby's dad asked in bewilderment. I think he genuinely didn't know. His daughter was a very good girl.

Or had been.

"Weh gogga bed," Libby said. And then she collapsed on the stairs. On top of me. I couldn't move, but I didn't care. Moving equalled death. I was better on the stairs.

I don't remember how I got to Libby's bed. I believe her dad carried me. I do remember waking up in the middle of the night needing to go to the toilet. This was problematic, as the bedroom door was next door to a cupboard, and I kept getting out of bed, walking into the cupboard, and falling back onto the bed again. Three times. By the end I was really quite desperate to wee.

The next day I experienced some of the worst pain in my life. Happily, my parents did not contribute to said pain with punishments or lectures. They knew that the Worst Hangover of All Time was punishment enough.

I didn't get drunk again for years and years. (Okay, the very next year. And the year after that.) But in general, I am not keen on getting drunk. And I have never been able to stomach Scotch or Tia Maria since.

Funnily enough, I do still love my Sacramental Grape. I guess the spirit of the Sabbath shines through the darkest hangover day.

*not her real name.

#MyFirst Blogging Challenge will be on holidays till the end of January. But it WILL BE BACK.

Ridiculous Situation 79032

So this morning I woke up with an infected eye. I have no idea how it got infected, although I suspect it may have to do with the fact that:

1. I am useless at applying mascara, and spend more time jabbing myself in the eyeball with the wand than applying it to my actual lashes; or
2. I haven't washed my makeup brushes in about three years; or
3. The cat tends to eat my eyelashes when I am sleeping; or
4. I am just generally disgusting.

Either way, I had to cancel today's modelling job* and tonight's hot date** because I look so hideously unsightly.

I did, however, venture out to the chemist at my local Westfield, where of course I bumped into 75 people I knew, all of whom looked at me strangely, but none of whom worked up the courage to ask me what the hell was wrong with my face.

I went to the pharmacy and asked for help and they advised me to bathe my eye with saline. And then they sold me a packet of ten saline solutions, and ten little sterile eye-baths.

And because I couldn't wait to commence the process of becoming less hideous (and, also, to be able to see) I went straight to the public toilets to perform the procedure***.

I took out one of the eye-baths and a tube of saline, broke the top of the saline and filled the bath. It is a small, oval shaped container that fits over your eye. You bend down, place your eye over it, tip your head back and the water sloshes around in your eye-ball.

Or so the theory goes.

I didn't hold the bath firmly enough against my eye, and so the solution ran down my cheeks and on to my top. It was a little embarrassing, as I came up gasping for air with water dripping down my nose and into my mouth. But the other toilet patrons studiously ignored me, and I patted my face dry with a paper towel and pretended that it had all gone to plan.

There was still half a tube of saline left, so I tipped the rest into the cup and decided to try again. This time, I pressed my eye more firmly against the bath, until I felt the pull of suction against my skin. I tipped my head back and the water rolled beautifully around my sore eye. I felt triumphant and delighted. I knew that the infection would soon be gone.

And then I tipped my head back down and realised there was a problem.

The eye-bath was still suctioned to my face.

I tugged and I tugged but I couldn't break the hold. Women came, looked at me curiously, and hurried out again. I smiled and shrugged my hands in helpless despair and wondered if I could make it home with a cup on my eye. In the end, I decided I couldn't, as my sunglasses wouldn't fit over the cup, and so, with one final, determined tug, I yanked the fucker free.

My eye is now even sorer than ever, but I have decided to leave the healing to time. It is a week till my next modelling job and hot date**** and I can't risk having to go to either with a cup on my face.

*Disclaimer 1: I don't have any modelling jobs

**Disclaimer 2: I don't have any hot dates

***I mean the eye-bath. No other 'procedure' requiring a bathroom. Just to clarify....

****Disclaimer 3: I have neither

More Sh**t I Could Not Make Up

This is part two of my ridiculous, stupid, you can't make this s**t up day from hell. Part one is HERE.

So the cat escaped again. From my multiple-punctured, bleeding arms.

"NOOOOOOOO!" I cried. "PENELOPE NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"

But it was too late. She had disappeared over the fence.

This time, she had jumped into the other neighbour's backyard. Yes, you read that right. The OTHER neighbour.

So there I went, knocking on a different door, where a different lady answered, and this different lady was also in her nightie. I kid you not. This was starting to become a pattern.

And so I was shown into a different house, to a different backyard, where I rescued the same bloody cat, again cowering in a corner. And I carried her back through this house - thankfully sans-dog - where she proceeded to go equally demented and made further, significant puncture wounds in the region of my arms and shoulder.

But this time, this time, I got her home.


Picasso showed stunning foresight when painting this pic of me

And then I rang my GP, who checked my records, and told me I hadn't had a tetanus shot in 15 years. Which was delightful news, because there is nothing I enjoy more than running into the doctor's of a Monday afternoon and having a jab in my arm that will leave me sore for two days.

But I did it. Because it sounded marginally better than dying of tetanus. (Though as I was still without a coffee machine, death sounded faintly appealing.)

I got my jab. And then I made my sorry way home, broken and horribly wounded and with spirit crushed beyond recognition.

Penny the cat was waiting for me, purring. I noticed that her litter needed emptying and so I donned the gloves and began shovelling the clumps into the toilet. I buy special litter that is flushable, which is highly convenient, except when it isn't.

Because the litter didn't flush. Oh no. It clogged up the toilet which began overflowing onto the bathroom floor. And there I was, ankle deep in grossness, weeping into my plunger and bemoaning the tragedy of my life.

And that, my friends, is where the story ends. I told you. I couldn't make this s**t up.


I Could Not Make This S**t Up

I am currently dealing with a fascinating array of challenges in my personal life. Every day something new comes up and I bat it away with the keen eye and practiced wrist of a tennis player (if, that is, the tennis player was playing with small nuclear firearms and not balls).

But today. Today was different.

Because today, people, I hit the trifecta.

It started with coffee this morning. Or lack of coffee this morning. Yes, I crawled out of bed (after battling flu all weekend) bleary eyed and incoherent, reached for the Nespresso machine, flicked the switch, and...

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

I flicked it again. And a third time. Nothing. It was dead. I tried to cry, but without coffee, my body was unable to produce enough fluid for a tear. I just hovered in the kitchen, a wretched, broken shadow of my usual self, parched and confused and desperately alone.

For without coffee, I have no friend.

Somehow I managed to get the kids to school, and stopped at my local café for a fix. Miraculously cognisant again, I trudged home again, ready to put my five deadlines aside to take my machine to be fixed.

But first, I opened the balcony door to bring in the laundry. And within thirty seconds, the cat had sprinted out onto the balcony, across the neighbour's balcony, and into the neighbour's neighbour's backyard. I could hear her there, meowing pitifully, desperate but unable to make her way home.

I sprang into action. I ran to the neighbour's neighbour's, pounded on their door, and disturbed a lovely old lady in her nightie.

"Let me in!" I yelled. "I must get my cat!"

She looked confused, and slightly fearful, but I was frantic to retrieve my kitty.

"I need to get into your backyard! You have my cat!"

The poor dear acquiesced as she could see I was quite clearly mad with despair. She let me in through her house, past about a dozen yapping dogs, and into the garden. There I found Penny, cowering in a corner, covered in leaves.

She leaped into my arms and I carried her through the (dog infused) house, where she proceed to go UTTERLY INSANE. Yes, she bit me and tore my top and dug her nails deep into my flesh and howled like a banshee and inflicted at least 16 puncture wounds (I checked) upon my person.

And I yelled in agony but held my grip firm and got her out the front door and to my apartment building... where she bit deep into my neck and I screamed and let her go.

And she escaped again. And for the rest of the story, you'll have to tune in tomorrow.

Cat of a Neurotic

Call me crazy (no, don't really, that was just a turn of phrase) but when Penelope the cat woke up with a big white scab on her nose, I could only draw one conclusion.

Cat melanoma.

My name is Penny, and I'm a Cat of a Neurotic

Now, it didn't matter that Penelope is only 12 weeks old. Melanoma can develop in the very young. It didn't matter that I didn't know if cat melanoma could develop in the very young. It didn't matter that I didn't even know if cat melanoma was a thing.

Lack of knowledge has certainly never stopped me from worrying before.

It did, however, matter that Penelope has never been outside. Once I realised this I was forced to revise my diagnosis. Even I know that melanoma is caused by the sun.

And so there was only one other conclusion to draw.

Ringworm. My cat had ringworm. And ringworm was very, very bad.

Now, Penny's nose didn't look a lot like the noses of ringworm cats. I know this because I Googled ringworm, and found some revolting pictures. Clearly, Penny had an atypical case of the Ringworm Nose. And obviously, atypical cases are going to be far, far harder to treat.

The really worrying thing was that the kids and I were going to get ringworm too. Google said it could happen, and if it could happen then it's totally going to. And ringworm in humans is absolutely gross. It can cover your whole body, like a plague of, well, worms, which is not a good look when you go to school pickup. I had visions of the kids and I, stuck at home for weeks like lepers, with ringworm ravaging us from head to toe.

I knew I had to bite the bullet and go to the vet, who could seal my fate before the horror set in.

So off we trudged, the kids and Penny and I. I braced for the bad news. I was ready. I was primed.

And guess what? The cat has the flu. The garden variety flu, of the feline kind. No melanoma. No ringworm. No leper colony. No disaster.

Either Google knows nothing, or I was searching the wrong term.

'Cat of a Neurotic' might have been a better place to start.

Top Eight Times I Feel Eight Years Old

Yesterday I had the pleasure of being chastised by the nice dude at Bob Jane T-Mart. I came in to get my tyre repaired, and he examined it and shook his head.

"You drove on that when it was flat, didn't you?"

Yes, I did, it's true, but in my defence I didn't realise it was flat. I just heard a funny grinding sound, and felt my car pull to the left. And a grinding sound and a pulling sensation could have been anything at all (which is what I kept telling myself as I drove home on a flat tyre).

So the man told me off, and I felt like I was about eight years old. And it made me think of all the other times I feel about eight years old (as distinct from the times I feel about 88, which is a different list altogether).

Top Eight Times I Feel Eight Years Old

1. When buying a car, getting my car serviced, dealing with the NRMA, getting car insurance, or indeed having any discussion that involves the words 'car', 'tyre', 'engine', 'brake pads' or 'alignment'. Hell, even the word 'petrol' makes me anxious.
2. Being at the hairdressers. Something about the absolute powerlessness of sitting in a chair whilst someone wields a pair of scissors reduces me to virtually a fetal state. Particularly after they take the first snip.
3.  Being at the dentist. Except substitute 'whirring machinery pointed at your mouth' for 'scissors', and multiply the fetal state by about a thousand.
4. Going to the doctor and presenting with symptoms and being told there is absolutely nothing wrong with you. There is nothing quite so infantalising as discovering you are a hypochondriac. Except for...
5. Going to the doctor and presenting with symptoms and being told there is something wrong with you. And then it doesn't matter how old you are; you become eight years old again and want your Mummy!
6. Being pulled over by the police for any kind of traffic violation. (I say this purely hypothetically, of course.)
7. Anytime anyone talks to me about the sharemarket, particularly futures trading. It is stupid and doesn't make sense and I will stick my fingers in my ears if you bring it up again.
8. When my parents are cross at me. That is the WORST.

When do you feel eight years old?

Me In A Turban, Or "Hurtie Ears"

It is rather unseemly to complain about pain that one inflicts upon oneself. It's probably not reasonable to expect sympathy when one has undergone a purely elective procedure for something as minor as an ear.

But I am not complaining about my pain, nor am I asking for sympathy. I am simply outlining, for those of you interested, what it feels like to become a character from Star Wars.

As many of you know, I underwent surgery on Monday to correct my one-and-a-half sticky-out ears. (Obviously, I have two ears, and both were operated on, but only one was very sticky-out. The other was moderately sticky-out, but it's easier to achieve symmetry if they do both.)

I suffered from an affliction known colloquially as 'bat ear', or, in medical terms, as 'bat ear'. (Yep, sometimes Latin just doesn't cut it.). The ridge of my ear was lacking a crease, causing it to stick out at a 90 degree angle instead of lying flat against my head.

The operation, known as 'otoplasty', involved creating a crease. The surgeon made an incision in the back of each ear, scored the ridge of each ear with a special instrument (as opposed to, say, a spoon), inserted permanent stiches to hold the ears in place, and then dissolving stiches to re-connect the skin.

He then slapped a massive piece of gauze on each ear, wrapped a bandage the size of a turban around my head, fastened it with approximately twelve metres of surgical tape, and sent me on my way.

In the long term, the result will be two beautiful flat ears.

In the short term, the result is two hurtie ears, a new taste for pain medication, and a rather startling resemblance to Princess Leia.

I have never before noticed the similarity

The surgeon reassured me that the pain wouldn't be too bad, and that I could probably make do with just paracetamol. And I totally could, provided that I washed it down with a couple of Digesics, a nice strong sleeping pill, and a slug or two of gin.

The sensations themselves have varied from day to day. The first night it felt as though my earlobes had been sliced off, and two red-hot pokers inserted in my earholes. The second day my entire ears ached, and it pained me to open my mouth. The third day, the pain localised to the site of the incision, and the bandage began to feel very heavy. The fourth day, the ache began to subside, bar the occasional shooting pain in various locations throughout my aural region. Today, day five, I am frantically itchy, and quite desperate to remove the massive turban.

Last night I felt a mild panic attack arise, as the claustrophobia of the bandage began to overwhelm me. I had wild fantasies of attacking the turban with a pair of (safety) scissors, ripping it off dramatically, and scratching my new ears. Perhaps, I began wondering in fear, there weren't even ears under there at all, but two transplanted fingers attached to each side of my head. Perhaps the surgeon had removed my ears and put them back on backwards, as a joke. Or perhaps he'd tattooed them with purple spots and bejazzled them with sequins, just to lift my spirits.

I still don't know. The bandages come off on Monday and all will be revealed. Until then, I am trying desperately not to scratch, and to breathe through the crazed desire to return from planet Star Wars.

Thank you all for your support, and my ears and I will see you soon. Or at least hear you soon.

From a much flatter distance.

Hooray!

Fire in the Belly (okay, TOE)

I always look forward to visiting my parents on the Central Coast. For one thing, it is a beautiful part of the world. For another, it is wonderfully liberating to hand over my three kids to their Nana and Papa. I am able to kick back, relax, and pretend that I am, once again, a childless young woman (albeit a childless young woman who lives with her parents and their three young children).

Sadly, this particular trip did not start off auspiciously. Oh, it wasn't as bad as a recent trip to the Central Coast, in which I packed up the car and the kids, put (the wrong) petrol in the fuel tank, and had to abort the whole expedition when my engine nearly blew up.

Still, it wasn't great.

I spent the morning packing, which is not easy with two kids determined to make mess, and a third determined not to let go of my leg. I then packed up the car, packed up the kids, and drove to the petrol station, where I spent an anxious ten minutes checking obsessively that I was putting the right fuel in the tank.

After another brief stop to buy essential supplies for the journey (including chips, Coke Zero, and a four-pronged Push Pop), we embarked on the long, treacherous drive to the Coast (long because it's 90 minutes, and treacherous because... well... I was at the wheel). By the time we pulled up in my parents' driveway I was exhausted and starving, and very much looking forward to a tuna sandwich and a nice lie down.

The kids ran ahead to the front door, but I stayed behind to lug the bags inside. This is because a) I am responsible and considerate, and b) my father hadn't come out to help me, despite c) me calling me plaintively.

So I climbed out of the car, grabbed a bag, and stepped onto a nest of Fire Ants.

The pain was excruciating. I ran into the house screaming, much to the befuddlement of my parents, who are used to me being very calm and composed*. I rocked on the couch in agony, my toe blazing with (ant) fire, bullets of pain shooting up my foot. And there I remained, pitifully, for the first two hours of my stay in heaven, an ice cube clutched to my toe, and several dozen painkillers sloshing around my belly.

Happily, the rest of the day was quite uneventful. But it's only been 24 hours and in this family, really, anything can happen....

*that may be a lie

The Reprieve

It was a dark day for us all. The Architect had been sneezing for weeks, and had decided that Hot Cross Bun Bun had to go. One of two rabbits who had replaced dear departed Spunky, Bun Bun is a lop-eared rabbit, who, apparently, is more allergenic than her normal-eared friend Pretzel.

Bun Bun was going back to the store.

My elder daughter wept. My son railed. My youngest daughter danced (she always dances, good or bad news). I seriously considered the prospect of getting rid of The Architect and keeping the bunny. But the bunny has limited earning potential, and so, with heavy heart, I said goodbye.

Bun Bun nervously awaits her fate

I took the girls out as it was too distressing for them to bid farewell to their beloved pet. The Architect and my son took out a box, lined it with straw, and left it out for Bun Bun to jump into.

In a touching moment of selflessness, Pretzel jumped in instead.

He was removed. Bun Bun was placed in the box and hauled off to the pet store.

According to my son, about halfway through the car journey my husband frowned. Apparently, he noticed that he was not sneezing, which was odd, as he was in a confined space with the highly allergenic Bun Bun. In the middle of a main road, he grabbed the bunny and sniffed deeply*.

He did not sneeze.

Clearly, my husband realised, it was the other bunny - the normal-eared bunny - who was the problem.

He turned the car around.

They returned home, swapped Bun Bun for Pretzel, and began driving again to the store.

Again, The Architect did not sneeze. Odd. Very odd.

Again, he grabbed the bunny and sniffed him in the middle of a road. He pulled out bits of fluff and sniffed them. Then, in desperation, he grabbed chunks of bunny straw and sniffed that.

Nothing.

So they drove home again. At this point, my son gave up in disgust and went inside to play computer. Occasionally, he would look out the window to see his father, with a puzzled expression, picking up each bunny in turn and sniffing deeply.

Eventually, The Architect conceded that he is not allergic to either bunny** and that he just has hay fever. So Bun Bun was saved, and Pretzel has her friend back.

And I did a happy dance of I Told You So. Yes, it was a good day indeed.

*Please note that there is currently no law prohibiting a driver of a motor vehicle holding a bunny

**As I have been suggesting for weeks

A Sign

A friend of mine has had a serious accident. His wife is one of my dearest friends, he too is a very close friend, and my heart is breaking for them and their children.

I wanted to write a blog post but nothing funny would come. And it felt wrong to be writing funny stories when my friends are in such terrible crisis.

I talked to my friend L. about it. L. is part of our close group of friends, and equally as affected by the situation.

"I can't write," I told her. "I can't be funny."

"You have to write," she said. "A. would tell you to keep writing. He would tell you to get on with your normal life."

And then it occurred to me exactly what A. would say. "No, you're wrong," I told her. "A. would tell me that I must stop writing for at least a year, if not two, and then demand that I put a massive sign on my blog telling him to get well soon."

There was a pause, and then L. laughed. "Yep," she said. "That's exactly what he'd say."

My thoughts are with my amazing friends J. and A. And here is a sign. It's not massive, but it is heartfelt.

Coreless

It is official.

I have no core.

You know how some people are inexplicably missing a finger? Or have only one kidney? Or no cartilage in one ear*? Well, I was born with no core. It's true. I have tried to find it and it is not there. I am core-less. If I was an apple you'd be able to eat all of me with no wastage. If I was an argument I wouldn't be very effective. If I was the earth we'd all be floating into space. If I was a nuclear reactor then the engineers would be in considerable trouble, because I have no core.

I tried to find my core years ago when I was having serious back problems and my doctor referred me to Pilates. After a series of private lessons, in which the instructor and I got increasingly frustrated, I decided that I was devoid of a core. As I wrote at  the time, being asked to move my core muscles was like being asked to move my sixth toe - bloody impossible, because I have no sixth toe.

I DON'T HAVE ONE OF THESE

In despair, I gave up Pilates for a while ever, and decided I would just have to live without some phantom muscle thingy that everyone probably lies about having anyway. Until just last week, when I was forced back into physio after I was unable to manouver my body into that very complex position known as 'standing'.

Well, Matt the Physio was very charming, but kept insisting on trying to find my core. He wouldn't listen when I told him I didn't have one, nor was he impressed by my clever apple metaphor. He stood there, hovering over me, as I lay on the floor with a hopeful expression, squeezing everything from my pelvic floor muscles to my tummy muscles to my thighs to my fists**, but unable to squeeze The One.

Matt gave me a series of exercises to help me find my core. I was crap at the first one, but gradually got better as the session went on. Except that I DIDN'T, at all. I got WORSE as the session went on. I thought I maybe glimpsed a shadow of my core.... and then it slipped away, never to be seen again. It was woeful. Poor Matt. And poor me.

And yet I plod on, lying on my back, bracing this and pulling that, in pursuit of the corporeal goal that hovers - for me to be whole, at one, to have my very own core.

Or, if that fails, perhaps I could borrow yours. Do YOU have a core? Do you know where I can find one?

*okay, that last one would be me
**in frustration

On Victimhood

On Sunday I went to a funeral. The deceased was the elderly mother of a very close friend, a lovely woman whom I'd known most of my life. She was very ill, and her death was not at all shocking; although sad, it also came as a bit of a relief.

Somehow, though, it triggered something in me, and I've been an absolute mess since that day.

My friend's mother was buried in the same cemetary as my sister, and as I stood watching her be lowered into the ground, I had vivid flashbacks to my sister's funeral four and a half years ago. And standing there, at the burial of a very elderly person, I began sobbing uncontrollably, so much so that, absolutely mortified, I had to walk away.

It's funny what sends you back in your healing process - if indeed there is such thing as a healing process. Generally I don't think of myself as a victim of a trauma, but since Sunday, I have felt like a victim of my sister's tragic death. I have also felt like a victim of my anxiety disorder, because I've been triggered right back into a state of constant, low-level panic.

What's more, a couple of medical conditions I have are giving me grief, and so I feel like a victim of them, too.

I got on Twitter this morning and picked a fight with the delightful Helen Razer, who had taken offence to a journo's tweet referring to a 'victim' of Thalidomide.

It's only a tweet, I wrote to Helen, thinking, what's the big deal? And if I was limbless from in utero Thalidomide poisoning, I'd feel like a victim too.

Defining oneself in relation to ability and/or victimhood for one's entire life is, at best, pointless, Helen responded, and after about half a second of outrage, I knew she was absolutely right.

Defining oneself as a victim is, at best, pointless, and is, at worst, completely destructive. The thing is, it takes huge strength not to do so - whether you're a 'victim' of trauma, illness, assault, or grief. It is far easier to blame circumstances and label yourself as a victim than to take responsibility for your own happiness and identify yourself as a survivor.

Usually I find that strength in myself, however, the last couple of days, I have lost it entirely. My survivor mode has gone out the window and I've totally felt like a victim again. I've wanted to lie in bed all day, pulling the doona over my head, taking naps, and just hiding from the big, scary world. I still want to do that. I wish I was in bed right now.

Still, despite wishing I was in bed, I didn't let it seduce me. Instead, I went to Westfield Bondi Junction, where I did everything I could to make myself feel better. I got a cappucino from my favourite organic cafe. I got my nails done. I window shopped. And I bought some stationery from Typo, which will help me get uncluttered, and clear my mind.

And now I'm home again, for a blog, and a nice cup of tea. And soon it will be tonight, and I will have survived an especially challenging day.

And if I can survive that, then I can survive another day, and after that, another. Until eventually - tomorrow, or next week, or the week after - I won't feel like a victim anymore.