How to Suss Out a Decent Specialist...

I have known quite a few medical specialists during my life. Along with my frequent experiences with GPs, dentists, nurses and other medical, dental and allied health staff, I have had more than my fair share of the Good, the Bad and the Ugly.

I have had some pretty unforgettable encounters with the bad and the ugly. One of my earliest memories was being hit across my face by the dentist's open hand. Fast forward to the complete communication failure by most of the staff during my harrowing miscarriage. An insensitive shrink who told me my life wasn't as bad as I had nervously disclosed to him. An anaesthetist who discarded my suggestions, which resulted in my daughter's post operative distress and the anaesthetist unavailable to treat her. A doctor sticking a needle into my thirteen month old son in my absence. The arrogance and failure of a ward round of doctors to attend to their patients' needs by insisting parents vacated the premises. That created a rebellion by families on a paediatric cardiac unit. We won.

I think I had quite a reasonable run for many years. We had compassionate, knowledgeable and available GPS. Alex's specialists were, on the whole, good guys. Callum was so rarely unwell that I ceased to worry about his physical health. An exceptional psychologist picked up the pieces of him in primary school and counselled him so he could survive the horror of school bullying. Later, the same psych was responsible for diagnosing Vanessa with autism and supporting her through the early days. We also were lucky enough to have two outstanding speech pathologists, who became part of  Alex's life right up until he finished high school.

Those who read my blog would remember my open hostility to a nasty, arrogant, respiratory specialist when Michael was very sick in April 2014. I am sure the feelings were mutual. We ended up under the "care"  (I used that term loosely) of that man as Michael's original specialist was on leave. Unbeknown to us at that time, we could have been looked after by Scott's team at Joondalup, but neither us nor our GP was aware of that option.

Five days, three changes of IV antibiotics, a specialist "missing in action" as I pleaded for him to attend to Michael, lax nursing and unrecorded observations added to the nightmare. I became convinced on that final day that Michael was going to die. He was hallucinating, had stopped urinating, was too weak to sit up and was spiking horrendous fevers that the staff appeared unable to stabilise. My final plead became an ultimatum - that the specialist should come or I was removing Michael from that particular hospital.

He waltzed in with his entourage at half past five in the evening. Whilst I was protesting about leaving Michael on a drug that was damaging his liver, the specialist turned his back on me. And I saw red.

An hour later, we were in Emergency at Joondalup Hospital. After being treated in the waiting room, a bed became available for Michael in emergency ninety minutes later. Within another hour, he was stabilised, admitted under Scott and asleep in the respiratory ward. And Michael didn't die.

Since that last very Bad and very Ugly episode, I have become somewhat wary about new doctors in both of our lives. Our York GPs - check. Michael's gastroenterologist - check. Our shrink - check. Northam dentist - check.

Now we have to find a vascular surgeon for Michael. Our GP suggested we phone around to find out details such as - location, bulk billing (or not) and ancillary staff. I just wanted to find one who hadn't attended Arrogant Doctor School.

Last Thursday, at the Artists' Group, this quest was made easier. Mitch mentioned a vascular surgeon who had looked after her husband, bulk billed, was cordial and approachable and had done the job efficiently and well. And as Mitch is a no nonsense girl, I can't imagine her mincing words or exchanging pleasantries with any type of fool.

So, we are waiting with bated breath. We have the appointment. Now we will see if he is one of the Good Guys. For all our sakes, I certainly hope so.

How to recognise the bad and the ugly...

Then there are the good -

Mark Flynn

Luigi D'Orsogna

Scott Claxton

and Susie Stevenson.

What an Event! What an Afternoon! The East End Gallery Rocked!

We have just had another wonderful day in the Gallery. We were fortunate to be the host venue for the Agricultural Ambassador of the Central Wheatbelt judging. Preparations for this exciting opportunity began as I stepped out of the car a few weeks ago, resplendent in my best trackie daks and ugg boots, to buy the newspaper. Enter Sarah Aynsley and Sue Martin, stage left, outside the bakery, looking very professional with a laptop, notebooks, pens and business-like expressions on their faces. As members of the Beverley Agricultural Society, they were reviewing their options to locate a venue for an Exceedingly Important Occasion.

Says I, stating the rather obvious..."are you two planning an event?". At which point, they swung first to look at each other and then straight at me. Searching for a suitable environment had not been easy. The event called for three separate areas. One for the judges to prepare, consult, question and listen to the three candidates. Another for the candidates to wait with supporters. And the third area for all to converge - the candidates, their family and friends, the organisers and the judges. Their mission was accomplished. The Agricultural Society had found their venue. The East End Gallery.

The Day arrived. The Gallery was a flurry of activity from opening. Tables and chairs materialised from the back of a ute. The local Playgroup had been charged with the task of catering. They produced enough food to feed the Fifth Battalion. Cups, plates, coffee, tea and even a coffee pod machine were added to the mix. And in the midst of the excitement, Ruby the Beagle sat placidly on her lead, accepting pats and rubs from the assembled populace. Having been banished from home for appalling behaviour, she decided the alternative digs were not unpleasant at all.

The judges arrived. Then candidates, families, friends and mentors began spilling into the Gallery. The noise level rose. All manner of beverages and nibbles were sampled. The wonderful Lynn Isaacs dropped in with sausage rolls for our breakfast.

The candidates began their interviews with the panel. The excitement kept building as each potential ambassador returned after finishing their time with the judges. The next part of the process was the judges' deliberations, followed by the candidates repeating their speeches to the audience.

One of the young ladies was overcome by nerves and retired behind a wall to compose herself. I took Ruby with me to see if she was alright. I have discovered, that during particularly stressful times, stroking a dog helps restore calm and control. Unfortunately, Ruby's nose distracted her entirely from being a Useful Dog as she made a beeline for the loaded tables and scoffed half a plate of goodies before I noticed. Other witnesses were highly amused.

Our nervous young lady settled and gave her speech. Thunderous applause for her courage. Then the verdict was announced. Jess Fleay, our candidate from Beverley, was named the winner. More applause with proud parents, family and supporters all revelling in Jess's achievement. She now attends the State judging for Agricultural Ambassador of all rural areas.

And so, we commenced with packing up, washing dishes and general tidying. The Agricultural Society and Play Group all participated in bringing the Gallery back to order. We were delighted that they stayed so long and helped so much.

Returning home with aching feet and my voice croaky, I relaxed in the pleasant glow of having provided the space for such an important event. We received many compliments and enthusiastic comments regarding the East End Gallery and Michael's workshop and his drawings of his latest sculpture proved very popular as well.

We would like to extend our thanks to all those who attended, with a special mention to all the candidates and congratulations to Jess Fleay.

Chairs arriving and paintings moving...

the beginnings of The Feast...

Beagle about town...

Supporters and friends...

Sue from the Beverley Agricultural Society and Samantha from the CRC enjoying the ambiance....

I just need a Bex, a lie-down and a cup of tea!

And the winner is...

wait for it, wait for it...

Jessica Fleay of Beverley with her slightly proud mum, Tracey.

Winter Wonderland @ the East End Gallery

A Southern Showcase has been our standout exhibition in the shortish history of our Gallery. I have been so proud to be a part of this. We will continue to enjoy the art of Narrogin artist, Christine Davis, for the next week or so. Then will come the time to regroup, reshuffle and reorganise the main Gallery. There are currently eight paintings waiting for wall space, bronze pieces to display and more artworks on the horizon. How lucky are we!

Thankfully the Giftshop is set for the next three months. Winter has certainly arrived in Heavenly Beverley, although I must admit the weather is not quite as cold as the rest of Australia is currently experiencing. We have not seen any snow. Yet.

The Gallery is quite snug. We have the open fire, the pot belly if needed and I have my own oil heater under my desk. More wood has been sourced to keep the fires well stoked.

Tomorrow, a new crowd of guests will be visiting. The East End Gallery is hosting the judging of the Agricultural Ambassador for our part of the Wheatbelt. With three available areas to house the candidates and their supporters and the judging panel, we will be able to share A Southern Showcase and the Giftshop's Winter Wonderland with them all.

The Giftshop is bulging at the seams. And that's after selling two of our paintings in the past week. The multi-talented Margaret Gabrielle-Harding has added beautiful soaps and bath bombs, with selections for adults and children, now available for sale in the Giftshop. We have her stunning art quilts and three of her paintings already in the Giftshop for your viewing pleasure.

Margaret has also hinted at her availability to be part of our holiday programme for kids. I am hoping we will be able to offer at least one day (maybe two) with our "budding artists" over the break. Stay tuned for more details.

For those who are unaware of the variety and scope of the Giftshop, we have slumped glass pieces, woodwork, jewelry, ceramics, bespoke cards and art journals, paintings, prints, photographs, pastels and of course Michael's famous spiders and other metal artworks.  All available from $2 right through to $500 and beyond.

Colouring in and drawing are FREE.

Tea, coffee, and hot chocolate are available for a gold coin donation. So do yourselves a favour and head to Beverley this weekend and toast yourselves by our fire, whilst enjoying a hot drink and loving our artworks.

Giftshop - May 2016

a magnitude of Magdas

giddy-up horsie

budding artists painting plaster plaques

and again

Artists' Group

the marvelous Margaret Gabrielle-Harding

and her painting in progress

relaxing afterwards

new positioning of jewelry and glassware

an internal view

soaps for adults

and soaps for kids!

The Quiet Man

"The Quiet Man" remains one of my favourite movies. Featuring John Wayne and Maureen O'Hara (what a great combination), way back in 1952, the story is of "the quiet man", who returns to his birthplace after he has accidentally killed a man during a boxing match. The movie is billed as a romantic comedy, but it is so much more than that.

The protagonist is Sean Thornton, who gradually learns the ways of the Irish life he has never known. During this process, he makes a number of mistakes, particularly with Mary Kate Danaher, who becomes his wife. These blunders are caused by his lack of local knowledge and as the movie progresses, he wises up and begins concentrating on what is really important. Thus, he is able to placate the fiery Mary Kate, win her back, use his fists only to silence her stubborn brother and alls well that ends well.

So what does "the quiet man" have to do with the reality of now? We have a federal election in ten days. There are those who have made up their minds, those who would rather cast a donkey vote rather than change their vote, those who will cast a donkey vote because they either have no idea or are "protesting" with their vote and those, who like "the quiet man" are listening, learning, asking questions, drawing conclusions based on knowledge rather than an open chequebook and really thinking about their votes.

I have been a swinging voter all my life. I come from a blue-blood Liberal background, which I discarded in contempt as a young adult to bring Bob Hawke in as Prime Minister back in 1983. But that action did not cast me into a Labor supporter-for-life either.

A long time ago, I had a very good relationship with my local state member, a Ms. Katie Hodgson-Thomas. She was a Liberal, but she cared about her constituents. She went in to bat for me against the Education Minister in order to lobby for appropriate aide-time for my son at school. She was compassionate, interested and involved. I voted for her at the following election. Some time later, I know she vanished from the state party and I assumed she lost her candidacy. Couldn't possibly have a parliamentarian who actually assisted a constituent.

Mr. Turnball has not demonstrated leadership. The mantra "jobs and growth", along with a decided lack of detail, perceived manipulation of the media and his government's failure to lift the economy for all Australians, has left me cold.

I am not entirely impressed with the Shorten alternative. Mr. Shorten has, in my opinion, performed far better than Mr, Turnball and his cronies, but I can't help wondering if he will uncross his fingers after election night. As many in the two main parties appear to do.

So, I am still swinging. I think I have more or less made up my mind, but I am receptive to further suggestion. And open chequebooks aren't going to cut it with me. I want to hear about actual plans, rather than political gobbledegook. I want to see integrity and compassion. I want Australia's politicians to change their attitudes towards us all. They are in government, not power. They are there to serve us, not visa versa. They need to look after the poor, the vulnerable, the unwell, the aged and the disabled. And for pity's sake, stop spouting the myth of full employment and introduce a living wage so that volunteering is recognised as legitimate work.

I am trying to be "a quiet man". Listen, learn, question, base my decision on knowledge rather than gimmicks.

If we all do that, we take back the power and politicians will no longer be our masters.

Oh, and I can't wait for this interminable election campaign to just be over!

Oh goody...

the two main players who want us all to vote for one of them...

how I feel as a voter...

how the two main contenders would like us to view them...

and who I'd actually like to vote in as PM.

Seeing Red.

This post is not going to be bursting with joy. Normally I love the colour red. Normally red signifies happiness, laughter, excitement and positivity to me. Normally red lifts me up. My favourite phrase would have to be "red goes faster".

But not today. I am absolutely consumed with the bitterness of rage. I am actually seeing red. And the last time I saw red was when I swore at a nasty, arrogant, dangerous specialist who tried to kill Michael back in 2014. Well, the world has turned red again for me.

And all because of a death. A death that was terrible, hopeless, preventable. The aftermath of this death will cause ongoing and profound trauma to those left behind. Another suicide that should not have happened.

My friend Ruth has had a tough life. Mother to a daughter named Meg, whose smile could light up the universe. A quirky, magical young woman who died as the end result of her disabilities. Then Ruth's faithful little dog died of old age. Bereavement on top of bereavement.

I woke up this morning feeling really out of sorts. Waiting for the Bank to get back to us about our loan. Having seen our pensions come in and out of our accounts in twelve hours. An aching lower back. My get up and go seemed to have got up and left.

Then I opened Facebook. A post from Ruth. She and her mother had found her brother dead in his house. He was forty-nine and had been grappling with his depressive demons. And they had overwhelmed him.

Ruth commented on the kindness of the police and coroner in attendance. They have to wait for the autopsy, but they already know the result. Ruth's brother had committed suicide. Topped himself. Ended his life. Killed himself. And why?

We are all aware of the answer. The mental health services, like disability and aged care, are in chaos. Successive governments have savaged these services to the point of extinction. Staff have been cut, programmes have disappeared or been severely reduced, and overstuffed policy means that the people who are supposed to be helped aren't being helped.

The messages to Ruth on Facebook have extended sadness, disbelief and sympathy to her and her family. "So sorry for your loss". And time will move forward and people will forget or at least park this distress in a compartment away from their hearts. Not because of lack of compassion. We are all relieved that suicide didn't target us.

Instead, we should all be angry, disgusted, appalled with white hot fury. When are the vulnerable going to be valued enough to care for them? The elderly, the disabled, the chronically unwell, the mentally ill and the disadvantaged are treated with utter contempt. As long as these dreaded circumstances don't affect us, we can be sad, we can be sorry and we can thank God it isn't us.

But it is us. People's lives can change in a blink of an eye. Michael had an income of $80 000 when he worked in the mining industry. When his health broke down, there was no redundancy for him. His income just stopped.

Another friend, Linda, developed psychotic depression and was admitted to the psychiatric unit at Royal Perth Hospital. I visited her there. She was off her face with drugs and the place was a dungeon.

I published a piece the other day by a Sydney doctor, Arthur Chesterfield-Evans. He was describing the confusion, complications and insanity of dealing with Centrelink, on-line, over the phone, and in person on behalf of one of his patients. He was pointed in his thankfulness at his ability to leave the Centrelink office. Unlike so many of us.

Back in March, we won an eight-month battle with Centrelink to keep Vanessa's Disability Support Pension intact. How did we achieve this unlikely victory? Because Vanessa had a complete emotional collapse in her - private- psychiatrist's office. And because he wasn't trying to juggle multiple mental health patients all at once, he had the time to phone the Centrelink psychologist who had made the appalling judgement about Vanessa and give her a very direct serve. And because of her private health insurance, she was admitted into Perth Clinic for ten days, rather than a public unit.

Back to the haves and the have-nots. We are creating two tiers of Australians. Ruth's brother died because he had no hope. He could see no other way out. How dare we let that happen to him, to Ruth, to their family?

Ladies and gentlemen, there is a federal election in two weeks. We can make a difference to people like Ruth's brother. Please think about your vote.

Surely every life is precious. Surely we should be championing everybody's right to a decent life. Rather than a lonely death.

Michael's expression of his own anxiety -

"The Black Dog is Back"

The Agony and the Ecstasy of Changing Hairdressers

Michael and I have always been somewhat nervous of haircuts. Preparing for the appointment, walking into the salon full of beautiful people, seating ourselves in front of those unflattering mirrors, chatting nervously about mohawks with the stylist and taking off our glasses, so that if the cut turns out to be a total disaster, we can't see the result instantly.

We both have a surfeit of crowns on our heads, I have been blessed with a witch's peak and we have very strong hair that may rebel without any warning. Particularly in the morning. How many times have I gazed absently at our mirror and thought "Ye Gods, how did that woman get into my bedroom and why did she stick her finger in a powerpoint?"

Previously, we have enjoyed the services of an experienced hairdresser coming to us and cutting our hair in the privacy of our living room. However, she has been forced to take a lengthy absence, due to health reasons. Effective immediately. Bollocks.

So, with great trepidation, we considered experimenting with a New Hairdresser today, whilst in the Big Smoke. We were only going as far as Midland. We were on a limited time frame. We couldn't afford a hip or upmarket establishment. But as Michael was resembling Grandpa Munster and I looked like I'd been dragged through a fence backwards, we did need to act.

I did remember Vanessa's favourable reviews of one of the Salon Express franchises. There was a branch in Midland. Prices were reasonable. They accepted walk-in appointments. Parking was available. And in the worst case scenario, if I did exit looking like Tim Minchin, my hair would grow again.

We took the plunge and confidently strolled in the front door of Salon Express in Midland. The receptionist was pleasant looking, cheerful and welcoming. Yes, the salon could accommodate us. Would we care to take a seat? With every fibre of my being shrieking RUN, I sat anxiously with Michael in the waiting chairs. We were in the sun which helped lull me into feeling more comfortable.

Michael was called first and was escorted over to the blokes' side of the salon by his hairdresser, Hannah. I was left on my own...to contemplate what I actually wanted. Same old, same old? Or try a new style that may suit me? Or not? Whilst considering these profoundly important questions, my eyes were drawn to the two hairdressers in front of me working with their current clients.

I sat bolt upright. One of these young women was a stunning lass with a very short haircut flipped up at the front. I looked at my own head in the mirror. Lots of hair at my forehead with a stiff curl, but overgrown sides that made me look like ten tonne Tessie and a scraggly, untidy back. Not to mention the hair sticking out at all angles fighting with my crowns. My decision was made in a flash. I wanted her hair.

Now I was excited. She introduced herself as Gronia. Irish and had been in Australia with her family for four years. She quipped that as she had been born on St Patrick's Day, she was given the most Irish of names that her parents could pick. Her Mum and sister were both hairdressers as well and her father cut his own hair. Which I found pretty funny when he was living in a house full of hairdressers.

Onto discussing My Hair. We talked about how to thin my round face (cut the sides short) and using my curl to my advantage at the front. She suggested that I stop trying to fight my crown and use it instead. She roared with laughter when I admitted I needed a more updated style as I was pretending to be a curator in our art gallery.

Michael reappeared from the Other Side. He looked fabulous. Hannah had cut his hair very well. Meanwhile, Gronia was snipping away left, right and centre around my head. Then, the haircut was finished. And I gasped.

I looked good. I felt good. She showed me the back of my head.  True to her word, my hair was curling around and with my crown, rather than rebelling against it. The lesson didn't end there. She gave me Styling Tips for Idiots 101, even demonstrating how to use the wax with my fingers rather than in a blob on the palm of my hand.

I left, floating on air. The rest of the day passed in a blur of shopping and appointments. I didn't care. I had a new me.

Now if I can replicate it tomorrow after I wash my hair, I will be as happy as a pig in mud. Wish me luck.

How I looked this morning...

How Michael looked this morning...

How I was concerned I'd look after a haircut...

 

How Michael looked both TODAY and on that day (with those two other handsome young men)

How my new haircut makes me feel!

Who in their Right Mind would be an ARTIST?!

This morning I read a very interesting article by an American writer named Monica Byrne, titled "How Do Artists Make a Living? An ongoing, almost impossible quest". Although she is not a visual artist, her observations are pretty much universal for all artists. 

Arts funding is being cut. Galleries are closing. Artists are having to work at other professions in order to keep their financial heads above water. Monica's final paragraph was particularly startling in its slap in the face relevance -

"Art isn’t some incidental decoration on culture. It is culture. But there is no art without artists, and there are no artists without compensation. Quid pro quo. It’s as simple as that."

But where can artists source this mythical compensation? Who is going to provide such compensation? Without some sort of living wage, the majority of artists are not in their ideal position - having their art support them financially.

Of the artists whom the East End Gallery represents, they have the alternative, varied professions such as teaching, nursing, law, agriculture, administrative, education, and hospitality as their "day jobs". Michael's two previous wives were not encouraging of his artistic endeavours, forever steering him back into "real" jobs with stable incomes. We now support ourselves primarily through Michael's disability pension, my carer payment and rent on our two vacant shops, if and when they are leased.

Due to the stagnation of our economy (and the most boring election campaign in history), even that income is precarious. We have one empty shop to lease with another becoming untenanted as of this week. There are no new lessees on the horizon at present. Our house has been up for sale for eight months now without a single nibble. 

And, naturally, although our income has dropped, our expenses remain the same. For health and financial reasons, we have both stopped drinking and Michael has finally, thankfully quit the fags (most of the time). We are looking to cut costs wherever we can. We have just sourced some free firewood for heating. I am using cheap cuts of meat and buying in bulk (when we can afford to do so) and the slow cooker and casseroles are in full swing. Leftovers are being carefully frozen for other days.

And this week we suffered an unforeseen tragedy. Whilst eating dinner, one of Michael's fillings shattered. We have to go to the dentist before the broken tooth becomes a catastrophe. More unexpected outgoings. My car is well past its service date. As for nice bras, I am currently wearing cotton crop tops, hoping the sagging boobs aren't too noticeable.

Tonight we are looking forward to a treat. We are off to a friend's home for dinner. A lamb roast! And no dishes! And another guest to the Gallery gave us a bottle of vino, so we are cutting loose. We shall eat and drink like royalty.

This week, I need to contact the Bank. We had hoped our house would have sold by now and we could have paid off our credit cards, which we have used, extensively, for the Forbes Building's renovation. No such luck and the interest on these cards is killing us. We need to move this debt to our housing loan, which is at a far lower interest rate. If we can remove that ball and chain from around our necks, we will be able to breathe a little easier until we eventually sell the House that Rocks.

In the meantime, all this uncomfortable gnashing of teeth makes not the slightest difference. We are in this vocation or vision for the long haul. One of our prime ministers memorably noted that "life wasn't meant to be easy".  and our lives are not easy. That reality changes nothing. I am a writer. Michael is a metal sculptor. We run the East End Gallery. We ARE artists.