Coronavirus has certainly changed the direction of our lives, albeit with temporary restrictions and announcements. Some of these alterations have been remarkably positive. Social media has come to the party and has provided a platform for staying connected with our family, friends and neighbours, all whilst in the throes of social distancing. Different groups have sprung out of nowhere, random acts of kindness have become commonplace, fun quizzes are being promoted and enjoyed and even this cyberspace Luddite is considering the benefits of Zoom and embracing Messenger.
Yesterday was Anzac Day, which is both an Australian public holiday and the remembrance and recognition of a military disaster that occurred during the First World War. Anzac Day is designed to encourage reflection and honour those men and women of the armed forces who perished throughout all those wars that were supposed to end all wars. Lest we forget.
Except, all this goodwill and hope we embrace on every Anzac Day hasn't translated into the cessation of warfare. We have just witnessed the extraordinary spectacle of ordinary people standing in their driveways before dawn on Saturday morning to remember all those who have fallen in battle. Yes, there was a genuine groundswell of creating this unique occasion - how to connect with each other whilst being apart on a day of mourning for lost lives.
And tomorrow is a public holiday as well, due to Anzac Day falling on a Saturday this year. Why? And why in 2020, during the COVID 19 pandemic? The soldiers who were massacred at that hellhole called Gallipoli didn't get a break. They never should have been there, but a landing error put all those poor bastards at the bottom of the Turkish coastal cliffs. They were lambs to the slaughter.
And what about the horror of Fromelles in July 1916. Australia had a population of about four million during the Great War and nearly forty percent of all men between eighteen and forty enlisted in the armed forces. At that battle, nearly two thousand Australians were thought to have died in a single day. Another three and a half thousand were wounded. If news of this utterly predictable tragedy had been released and received in Real-Time, would Australians have protested in the futility of this war and demanded the immediate repatriation of troops?
Coronavirus has illustrated the dangers of information overload. The daily and hourly reports have the ability to suck any positivity out of us and replace that with fear and foreboding. However, as time has moved along during this global crisis, the news, and particularly the "flattening of the curve" scenario has been heartening and this new normal has become less terrifying.
In Australia, at least. Except this whole notion of "we're all in this together" has masked other unpleasant realities. Domestic violence has risen with the lockdown. There are still not enough refuges. Domestic violence victims are continuing to die. The homeless still have few alternatives. Some lucky ones have found temporary accommodation in hotels. What happens to them when this emergency is deemed over? And the new "Jobseeker" payment which has replaced Newstart with a higher benefit, due to the numbers of newly unemployed. Will those who remain jobless at the end of Coronavirus be reviled once more as "dole bludgers" and their financial safety net reduced below the poverty line once more?
And at the edge of the Australian territory, a family is being held whilst lawyers fight for either their release or deportation. Two Sri Lankan parents and their Australian born little girls are the only inhabitants of the Christmas Island Detention Centre. Having settled in the small central Queensland town of Biloela, they had fully integrated into local life. Anecdotally, their initial seizure from their home had been facilitated by an administrative delay in their visa documents, which had been reported to Border Force and either ignored or disregarded.
What do these instances say about us as Australians? What has happened to a fair go for all? Why did the vast majority of the electorate feel, before Coronavirus, very little connection with business, industry and government? What about those in fire-affected communities who are still waiting for assistance? They haven't fallen off the edge of the world but the powers that be appear to have forgotten their plight. And will these welcomed changes to welfare remain or quietly be reversed once more? Scott Morrison, the Australian Prime Minister has certainly lifted his game, but his refusal to include the Opposition leader in the National Cabinet could be viewed as narrow and partisan in nature.
Bernard Salt, in his weekly column, discussed the end of narcissism in Australian society and the creation of a more compassionate"we" than "me" community. I would like to think this is possible. We are, by nature, rather selfish beings. If we were not, there would be enough shelters for those abused, enough housing for all, a determined effort to stay out of other nations' wars and the compassionate release of refugees who have risked life and limb to leave their former homes.
Phillip Adams, another of my favourite social commentators, recorded the grim tally of wars, most of which we have followed the United States or the United Kingdom into battle. Plus allowing Britain to explode nuclear warheads on various parts of our country and buying armaments from all over the world instead of making them here. If Coronavirus has taught us anything, we need to re-establish a manufacturing base within this country.
And please, let's not blindly be like the United States of America. Remember 9/11 and the outpouring of grief and rage and retaliation against the presumed enemy. In this new age of the pandemic, who in the United States is mourning this outrageous loss of life due to COVID 19, apart from the families of victims. Nearly three thousand died on 11 September. That figure was surpassed in a single day recently of COVID 19 casualties. Where is the collective sadness, the pulling together, a country united in a focus to beat the virus? Where is the leadership, the steadier of the ship? Instead, the Americans have a bizarre buffoon more worried about television ratings, lunatic claims of cures, encouraging his supporters to break laws and attempting to keep the American economy going instead of hunkering down and saving lives. In the Land of the Free, with no social safety nets, the undeniable mood is "all about me" There is no us.
Watching the chaos descending within the United States, for God's sake, get out if you are able. Unless there is a monumental shift in thinking, many Americans will continue to deliberately and systemically devalue others. If this wasn't the case, there would be health care, education and welfare for all. The United States is at a crossroads but I fear they will follow the same route.
Sunday, 26 April 2020
Friday, 24 April 2020
Kate's Coronavirus Chronicles - When Does Hairy Become Hirsute?
The Coronavirus pandemic is revealing more (novel) first world problems. Take standard visits to the dentist, the cafe, the podiatrist, my favourite fruit and veg emporium or the hairdresser.
The good news about Vincent our dentist is that although he cancelled my appointment for the beginning of May, he is now allowed to do some procedures. That means my scale and clean should happen in the Fullness of Time. The bad news is that Michael's latest additional crown (hasn't His Majesty enough already?) is not on the horizon at present. Oh, and we can't afford a crown at this point anyway...
After a long and much-anticipated renovation, the Dome cafe in Northam finally opened earlier in 2020. We were amongst the first of the cafe's most enthusiastic visitors. Alas, like so many other enjoyable coffee houses, Dome has shut its doors until further notice. We live in hope.
Having had appointments with Laura, our podiatrist cancelled at the end of March, we have struggled to maintain care of our feet and toenails. This has been particularly problematic for Michael, who has weirdly shaped sucker toes, a butchered big toenail (courtesy of an axe) and needs to watch his feet on a daily basis due to his diabetes. An additional challenge for him is bending over, often most unpleasant due to his problematic reflux. We have rebooked with Laura at the beginning of May. A distinct side effect of aging is being in love with our podiatrist.
Hills Fresh has been part of my agenda since I discovered its existence. The shop resembles a crowded farmers' market with quality fruit and vegetables, speciality gourmet items and a plethora of other wonderful ingredients. The aisles are narrow at the best of times and negotiating tight spaces and practising social distancing is a challenge. Until yesterday, I have been unable to frequent Hills Fresh for weeks. Now armed with my G2G pass in order to travel between the Wheatbelt and Perth, I was delightedly able to enter my favourite foodie establishment to restock the fridge.
Hairdresser to the Stars, Beverley's own Kerryanne, was completely stymied by the edicts in the early days. At least, she can now resume hairdressing in all its forms. She is scrupulously careful, wearing a facemask when she is conducting a cut. She has had to juggle clients so that only one person is in her salon at any time. She is facing a backlog of appointments from six weeks ago and is so grateful to all of us who have stuck with her.
On Wednesday, she removed the best part of a sheep's fleece from my head, reducing the weight of my hair to almost non-existent. Next week, I am going to have a Magical Mystical Tour of a New Colour with Kerryanne. I am bored with red, however, I am not ready for the whole pepper and salt look, which in my opinion, looks like rusty barbed wire. So she and I will be exploring my options and coming up with a reasonable alternative. And if I hate the results, home insolation may just have to be extended. Stay tuned...
Michael has also been suffering from excessive hairiness but mostly on his face. He has long complained about the unfairness of the receding hairline and thinning patches. Almost in defiance of losing hair in one area, he has gained spectacular growth elsewhere, including his ears and eyebrows. He had long past the facade of Eccentric Artist and had morphed into the Wild Man from Borneo, Cousin It and Scooby-doo all at once.
In the absence of anybody else, I took to Michael's face in great trepidation. The beard trimming went quite smoothly with only a few minor hiccups. Once I'd started on trimming his moustache, I screamed to a halt due to a totally unexpected sight. I'd uncovered his top lip. Wisely deciding not to proceed further, I left the remainder of his moustache to him. He completed this task admirably and then shaved to finish the process.
I was suddenly in the orbit of a Gorgeously Groomed New Man. All resemblance to a travelling hobo had been erased. Now I just have to persuade him to continue with this regime...
We shall see.
The good news about Vincent our dentist is that although he cancelled my appointment for the beginning of May, he is now allowed to do some procedures. That means my scale and clean should happen in the Fullness of Time. The bad news is that Michael's latest additional crown (hasn't His Majesty enough already?) is not on the horizon at present. Oh, and we can't afford a crown at this point anyway...
After a long and much-anticipated renovation, the Dome cafe in Northam finally opened earlier in 2020. We were amongst the first of the cafe's most enthusiastic visitors. Alas, like so many other enjoyable coffee houses, Dome has shut its doors until further notice. We live in hope.
Having had appointments with Laura, our podiatrist cancelled at the end of March, we have struggled to maintain care of our feet and toenails. This has been particularly problematic for Michael, who has weirdly shaped sucker toes, a butchered big toenail (courtesy of an axe) and needs to watch his feet on a daily basis due to his diabetes. An additional challenge for him is bending over, often most unpleasant due to his problematic reflux. We have rebooked with Laura at the beginning of May. A distinct side effect of aging is being in love with our podiatrist.
Hills Fresh has been part of my agenda since I discovered its existence. The shop resembles a crowded farmers' market with quality fruit and vegetables, speciality gourmet items and a plethora of other wonderful ingredients. The aisles are narrow at the best of times and negotiating tight spaces and practising social distancing is a challenge. Until yesterday, I have been unable to frequent Hills Fresh for weeks. Now armed with my G2G pass in order to travel between the Wheatbelt and Perth, I was delightedly able to enter my favourite foodie establishment to restock the fridge.
Hairdresser to the Stars, Beverley's own Kerryanne, was completely stymied by the edicts in the early days. At least, she can now resume hairdressing in all its forms. She is scrupulously careful, wearing a facemask when she is conducting a cut. She has had to juggle clients so that only one person is in her salon at any time. She is facing a backlog of appointments from six weeks ago and is so grateful to all of us who have stuck with her.
On Wednesday, she removed the best part of a sheep's fleece from my head, reducing the weight of my hair to almost non-existent. Next week, I am going to have a Magical Mystical Tour of a New Colour with Kerryanne. I am bored with red, however, I am not ready for the whole pepper and salt look, which in my opinion, looks like rusty barbed wire. So she and I will be exploring my options and coming up with a reasonable alternative. And if I hate the results, home insolation may just have to be extended. Stay tuned...
Michael has also been suffering from excessive hairiness but mostly on his face. He has long complained about the unfairness of the receding hairline and thinning patches. Almost in defiance of losing hair in one area, he has gained spectacular growth elsewhere, including his ears and eyebrows. He had long past the facade of Eccentric Artist and had morphed into the Wild Man from Borneo, Cousin It and Scooby-doo all at once.
In the absence of anybody else, I took to Michael's face in great trepidation. The beard trimming went quite smoothly with only a few minor hiccups. Once I'd started on trimming his moustache, I screamed to a halt due to a totally unexpected sight. I'd uncovered his top lip. Wisely deciding not to proceed further, I left the remainder of his moustache to him. He completed this task admirably and then shaved to finish the process.
I was suddenly in the orbit of a Gorgeously Groomed New Man. All resemblance to a travelling hobo had been erased. Now I just have to persuade him to continue with this regime...
We shall see.
The premises of our gentlest dentist...
Dome Cafe, Northam...
Laura's Foot Studio Emblem...
Note the weird little toe...Michael broke his, with similar results...
The Alladin's Cave of Hills Fresh...
A distinct similarity to Michael's ear (including the piercing!)...
Before my haircut...
Before Michael's makeover...
TA DA!
Friday, 17 April 2020
Kate's Coronavirus Chronicles - Win! Win! Win!
I continue to be both perplexed and amused by my changing reactions to certain situations. Life Before Coronavirus was busier, noisier and far more predictable. Supermarket shelves would rarely be missing groceries. If I needed a particular item, such as Hills Fresh's divine Morrocan couscous, I would just pop in the car and travel to Mundaring. There wasn't any worry if we didn't see the kids for weeks; they were inevitably riding the wave at a rate of knots in their action-packed lives and we knew that we would catch up for a break with them. For a while, all three of my offspring were working, earning money, going out and snatching brief periods of relaxation at home. Immy's birth at the beginning of December heightened a Nanny Kate need for an Imogen fix every now and again. I was planning on spending the summer break driving up and down the hill, happily competing with Ma Michelle for possession of our grandbaby.
Alas, all the plans of mice and men were tossed out the proverbial window. Whispered tales of a weird pneumonia wreaking havoc in central China were initially treated with minor and haphazard attention during January. We were far too busy glued to the news of the dreadful bushfire crisis, followed by flooding rains in some areas in February. Just as we thought we could breathe a collective sigh of relief and that no disasters threatened, Coronavirus broke through the Chinese borders and pounced on an unsuspecting and ill-prepared world.
Havoc reigned. Horrific stories were flying out of Italy, Spain, Iran, then Great Britain and finally the virus caught up with the US. In a matter of weeks, America became the epicentre of chaos. The Land of the Free has no universal health system. Added to this catastrophe were mixed messages, a narcissistic and dismissive president and slow reactions. And as the Land of the Free also has scant independent media organisations (hooray for the ABC and SBS), I suspect that "news" was heavily airbrushed. I really thought that POTUS had completely lost the plot when he threatened to fire his chief medical officer. On Twitter. Ye Gods.
Australia is home to twenty million. Given our geographical size, we have (so far) been spared the enormity of death in places like New York. Never in my wildest dreams would I have believed the development of a grudging respect for the Prime Minister and health minister. I live in hope that they will continue to behave in this manner after the pandemic is under control.
Anyway, I've digressed. How bloody grateful am I now for small miracles. Our daily walks, watching the comedy duo of Stella and Pip careering around our town oval. Occasionally waving at other people also exercising their canine clowns and allowing all the dogs present to engage in a gigantic playdate.
The privacy of our beautiful courtyard. Sometimes we wish the width was a metre more, but that may be due to the potted jungle we have created around its fringes. Yesterday, I was invited to join a FB group named "View from my Window", so promptly armed with my camera, I snapped some photographs and was reminded how lucky we are to have such a lovely outdoor space.
The relief of receiving this year's Fluvax. At least that is one less circumstance to worry about. The luxury and ease of telephone appointments with our doctor. One five-minute consult with Stephanie and Michael's urgent prescription was faxed through to our pharmacy.
Today is "Frocked Up Friday", which was started by a witty Geraldton woman. Again on Facebook. These pages have all sprung up in response to COVID 19. Rather than contemplate the gloominess, frocking up every Friday allows us the opportunity to have some harmless fun, roar with laughter at the results and share in another wonderful community. Hence, I shall shortly retire to the bathroom and render myself gorgeous...Evidence will be online later...
The piece de resistance was shopping on Wednesday. Armed with funds newly delivered into our bank account, I launched forward to boldly find those items that had been out of stock for weeks. The local IGA had paper towel and vinegar. Woolies in Northam had toilet paper. Aldi down the road had disinfectant and handwash. I picked up some new dog toys for Stella to demolish at her leisure. A folding step for reaching high items in our wardrobe. I could have bought some new shoes for Michael, another dog lounge or a dining table and two benches. Sometimes a visit to Aldi is worth the trip just for the entertainment value.
I shall resume the hunt for flour next week.
In the meantime, we are side by side at our computer table, looking out at the luscious leaves of our strawberry plants, the ficus in its outrageously red pot and Michael's beloved golden cane palm. Autumn has finally arrived and the blast furnace of summer has receded. There is a whisper of breeze under cloudy skies. Great dog-walking day.
Stay safe, take care and capture those tiny moments of pleasure.
Alas, all the plans of mice and men were tossed out the proverbial window. Whispered tales of a weird pneumonia wreaking havoc in central China were initially treated with minor and haphazard attention during January. We were far too busy glued to the news of the dreadful bushfire crisis, followed by flooding rains in some areas in February. Just as we thought we could breathe a collective sigh of relief and that no disasters threatened, Coronavirus broke through the Chinese borders and pounced on an unsuspecting and ill-prepared world.
Havoc reigned. Horrific stories were flying out of Italy, Spain, Iran, then Great Britain and finally the virus caught up with the US. In a matter of weeks, America became the epicentre of chaos. The Land of the Free has no universal health system. Added to this catastrophe were mixed messages, a narcissistic and dismissive president and slow reactions. And as the Land of the Free also has scant independent media organisations (hooray for the ABC and SBS), I suspect that "news" was heavily airbrushed. I really thought that POTUS had completely lost the plot when he threatened to fire his chief medical officer. On Twitter. Ye Gods.
Australia is home to twenty million. Given our geographical size, we have (so far) been spared the enormity of death in places like New York. Never in my wildest dreams would I have believed the development of a grudging respect for the Prime Minister and health minister. I live in hope that they will continue to behave in this manner after the pandemic is under control.
Anyway, I've digressed. How bloody grateful am I now for small miracles. Our daily walks, watching the comedy duo of Stella and Pip careering around our town oval. Occasionally waving at other people also exercising their canine clowns and allowing all the dogs present to engage in a gigantic playdate.
The privacy of our beautiful courtyard. Sometimes we wish the width was a metre more, but that may be due to the potted jungle we have created around its fringes. Yesterday, I was invited to join a FB group named "View from my Window", so promptly armed with my camera, I snapped some photographs and was reminded how lucky we are to have such a lovely outdoor space.
The relief of receiving this year's Fluvax. At least that is one less circumstance to worry about. The luxury and ease of telephone appointments with our doctor. One five-minute consult with Stephanie and Michael's urgent prescription was faxed through to our pharmacy.
Today is "Frocked Up Friday", which was started by a witty Geraldton woman. Again on Facebook. These pages have all sprung up in response to COVID 19. Rather than contemplate the gloominess, frocking up every Friday allows us the opportunity to have some harmless fun, roar with laughter at the results and share in another wonderful community. Hence, I shall shortly retire to the bathroom and render myself gorgeous...Evidence will be online later...
The piece de resistance was shopping on Wednesday. Armed with funds newly delivered into our bank account, I launched forward to boldly find those items that had been out of stock for weeks. The local IGA had paper towel and vinegar. Woolies in Northam had toilet paper. Aldi down the road had disinfectant and handwash. I picked up some new dog toys for Stella to demolish at her leisure. A folding step for reaching high items in our wardrobe. I could have bought some new shoes for Michael, another dog lounge or a dining table and two benches. Sometimes a visit to Aldi is worth the trip just for the entertainment value.
I shall resume the hunt for flour next week.
In the meantime, we are side by side at our computer table, looking out at the luscious leaves of our strawberry plants, the ficus in its outrageously red pot and Michael's beloved golden cane palm. Autumn has finally arrived and the blast furnace of summer has receded. There is a whisper of breeze under cloudy skies. Great dog-walking day.
Stay safe, take care and capture those tiny moments of pleasure.
Shopping expedition on Wednesday... -
Photographing the courtyard on Thursday...-
Frocked Up Friday this afternoon...-
Dog walking this evening...-
Wednesday, 15 April 2020
Kate's Coronavirus Chronicles - Turning Points...
Another day in the Coronavirus saga. I rose with Destructodog just after eight, as she was threatening to chomp through more of our bedding. Last night, I had been planning to write this post, but the wall caught up with me at nine-thirty and slammed me into a bedward direction.
A few minutes ago, at ten, Michael elegantly made his way into the living room. Good friend and fellow artist Murray Cook rang just in time for Michael to abscond from tea and coffee making. Talk about the life of Riley.
Yet another load of washing is whispering in my ear from the laundry, but I shall studiously avoid listening to its pleas, so I can get this bit of writing under my belt.
April 14/15 now has the tradition for some fabulous celebrations of life and hope.
Back in 2014, April 14 was a particularly horrible day. Michael was very sick in St John of God hospital. He had been there since the previous Thursday when his pneumonia had completely flattened him. Four days, three changes of IV antibiotics, precisely two visits from the Grand Poobah specialist and his entourage and one frantic wife. Michael was hallucinating all that terrible afternoon, his fever galloping and his resolve wavering. He kept whispering that he wanted to go home so he could die in his own bed.
We were in this predicament as Michael's Joondalup specialist had taken leave just as Michael had crashed. We could have been readmitted to Joondalup Hospital under Scott Claxton's team but we didn't know at that crucial time. On the morning of the fourteenth, I had ascertained that Scott had returned from leave and immediately requested a hospital-to-hospital transfer. Nothing was happening fast enough - no specialist, scant nurse attention and my husband seemingly fading in front of my eyes.
Late that afternoon, I saw red. In fact, Michael's room, the ineffective and dismissive specialist and his team of wannabes were all bathed in my scarlet rage. Having been informed by a registrar whom I thoroughly disliked that the current antibiotic was damaging Michael's liver and restricting treatment for his fever, I just exploded when the horrid little doctor decided to leave Michael on that drug. And then he turned his back on me...
Expletives erupted out of my mouth and I ordered the entire troop out of Michael's room. Having packed during the day in anticipation of the transfer, I moved our battered Volvo into the waiting zone and began throwing items into the back. The hospital's concierge brought Michael down from that dreadful place in a wheelchair so I didn't have to enter the ward again.
All we had were his original x-rays. I drove like a maniac through peak hour traffic and pulled into the Emergency parking bay at Joondalup Hospital. Loading him into a wheelchair and steering him to Triage, I explained that I'd kidnapped my husband from another hospital. The Emergency Department was packed. Michael was admitted in the waiting room and given twelve puffs of Ventolin through a spacer. Ninety minutes later, he was on a stretcher in Emergency, back under the care of Scott. An hour after that, he was sound asleep in his new room in the ward.
I remember waking on the morning on the fifteenth in a warm cloud of relief. Scott was in early, examining Michael and warning us this was a long haul. After the debacle at SJOG hospital, I nearly fell over as Scott included us as part of the team in the plan for Michael's recovery.
That day was a giant turning point. Even though Michael faced a number of complications over the next few weeks, I never felt unsafe or uninformed. We went home with Michael still receiving IV antibiotics. Then a long course of oral antibiotics. Finally, in June, we received the go-ahead from Scott that we could travel to Michael's beloved Goldfields.
Six years ago, I am convinced Michael nearly died. My lengthy and clear list of complaints about the conduct of the hospital, the staff and the doctor went precisely nowhere after another eighteen months. The official verdict is that because Michael had not actually died, the initial specialist had no case to answer...
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, my oldest surviving son, Callum Timothy, was born after a horrendously stressful pregnancy, at six thirty-three on the evening of the 14 April 1989. At that time, Vanessa was three years of age and I had buried three babies in two years. Having been forbidden by my obstetrician, that outstanding and compassionate Terry Jenkins, to have another pregnancy for six months after my girls had died, I did just that. Zoe and Melanie were stillborn in January 1988; I was pregnant by the following August.
Callum, a steely perfectionist even in utero, refused to follow the song and dance routine we had set for him. Hence, he didn't stretch or roll or kick on command. The final six weeks were spent in repeated and frequent trips to hospital for monitoring his wellbeing. Five days before Callum's somewhat unplanned arrival, Terry has gone on leave promising to see me on the delivery table on 28 April.
Except, we didn't quite get there. After a week of heightened worry about the baby's movements, we made the decision that Terry's partner would deliver the baby on that Friday evening. And so, Callum was born, roaring with displeasure at being removed from his comfy cocoon and promptly had a fit of the vapours.
Quickly after a cuddle, Callum was moved to the Special Nursery. The official diagnosis was Hyaline Membrane Disease, which interferes with oxygen exchange in the lungs of premature babies. Neonatologist Noel French worked to stabilise Callum in an oxygen headbox for the entire night, so he wouldn't have to be transferred to the intensive care unit in another hospital. I know this as Noel was there at three o'clock in the morning when I first visited my new baby and then came to see me in my room at around eight o'clock on 15 April. Callum was improving. No transfer was necessary.
This was just the beginning of Callum's bloody-mindedness. He refused to feed, crawl or walk until he was damned well ready. He only slept when I played ABC Classics radio. He spoke in full sentences after being considered a late talker. He resisted all attempts at toilet training until he was three and a half. And that has been his pattern for most of his life.
However, when I think back to 15 April 1989, I am wrapped in a fuzzy glow of having brought Callum successfully into the world. And endless gratitude to Noel French. He was such a caring and compassionate doctor and really went the second mile. I encountered him again during my pregnancy with Alex. I had been chucked into hospital at thirty-two weeks gestation as I'd had a twinge that might have been a labour pain. The registrar I had been admitted under had refused my request to give me cortisone injections to strengthen the baby's lungs. I sought out Noel, who immediately prescribed the course of drugs for the following five days.
I remember asking him why the obstetric registrar had dismissed my concerns. Noel replied succinctly, "Some people are just born pompous pricks".
Thus endeth today's lesson. And like Michael's recovery and Callum's birth, the COVID 19 crisis will pass.
A few minutes ago, at ten, Michael elegantly made his way into the living room. Good friend and fellow artist Murray Cook rang just in time for Michael to abscond from tea and coffee making. Talk about the life of Riley.
Yet another load of washing is whispering in my ear from the laundry, but I shall studiously avoid listening to its pleas, so I can get this bit of writing under my belt.
April 14/15 now has the tradition for some fabulous celebrations of life and hope.
Back in 2014, April 14 was a particularly horrible day. Michael was very sick in St John of God hospital. He had been there since the previous Thursday when his pneumonia had completely flattened him. Four days, three changes of IV antibiotics, precisely two visits from the Grand Poobah specialist and his entourage and one frantic wife. Michael was hallucinating all that terrible afternoon, his fever galloping and his resolve wavering. He kept whispering that he wanted to go home so he could die in his own bed.
We were in this predicament as Michael's Joondalup specialist had taken leave just as Michael had crashed. We could have been readmitted to Joondalup Hospital under Scott Claxton's team but we didn't know at that crucial time. On the morning of the fourteenth, I had ascertained that Scott had returned from leave and immediately requested a hospital-to-hospital transfer. Nothing was happening fast enough - no specialist, scant nurse attention and my husband seemingly fading in front of my eyes.
Late that afternoon, I saw red. In fact, Michael's room, the ineffective and dismissive specialist and his team of wannabes were all bathed in my scarlet rage. Having been informed by a registrar whom I thoroughly disliked that the current antibiotic was damaging Michael's liver and restricting treatment for his fever, I just exploded when the horrid little doctor decided to leave Michael on that drug. And then he turned his back on me...
Expletives erupted out of my mouth and I ordered the entire troop out of Michael's room. Having packed during the day in anticipation of the transfer, I moved our battered Volvo into the waiting zone and began throwing items into the back. The hospital's concierge brought Michael down from that dreadful place in a wheelchair so I didn't have to enter the ward again.
All we had were his original x-rays. I drove like a maniac through peak hour traffic and pulled into the Emergency parking bay at Joondalup Hospital. Loading him into a wheelchair and steering him to Triage, I explained that I'd kidnapped my husband from another hospital. The Emergency Department was packed. Michael was admitted in the waiting room and given twelve puffs of Ventolin through a spacer. Ninety minutes later, he was on a stretcher in Emergency, back under the care of Scott. An hour after that, he was sound asleep in his new room in the ward.
I remember waking on the morning on the fifteenth in a warm cloud of relief. Scott was in early, examining Michael and warning us this was a long haul. After the debacle at SJOG hospital, I nearly fell over as Scott included us as part of the team in the plan for Michael's recovery.
That day was a giant turning point. Even though Michael faced a number of complications over the next few weeks, I never felt unsafe or uninformed. We went home with Michael still receiving IV antibiotics. Then a long course of oral antibiotics. Finally, in June, we received the go-ahead from Scott that we could travel to Michael's beloved Goldfields.
Six years ago, I am convinced Michael nearly died. My lengthy and clear list of complaints about the conduct of the hospital, the staff and the doctor went precisely nowhere after another eighteen months. The official verdict is that because Michael had not actually died, the initial specialist had no case to answer...
A long time ago in a galaxy far far away, my oldest surviving son, Callum Timothy, was born after a horrendously stressful pregnancy, at six thirty-three on the evening of the 14 April 1989. At that time, Vanessa was three years of age and I had buried three babies in two years. Having been forbidden by my obstetrician, that outstanding and compassionate Terry Jenkins, to have another pregnancy for six months after my girls had died, I did just that. Zoe and Melanie were stillborn in January 1988; I was pregnant by the following August.
Callum, a steely perfectionist even in utero, refused to follow the song and dance routine we had set for him. Hence, he didn't stretch or roll or kick on command. The final six weeks were spent in repeated and frequent trips to hospital for monitoring his wellbeing. Five days before Callum's somewhat unplanned arrival, Terry has gone on leave promising to see me on the delivery table on 28 April.
Except, we didn't quite get there. After a week of heightened worry about the baby's movements, we made the decision that Terry's partner would deliver the baby on that Friday evening. And so, Callum was born, roaring with displeasure at being removed from his comfy cocoon and promptly had a fit of the vapours.
Quickly after a cuddle, Callum was moved to the Special Nursery. The official diagnosis was Hyaline Membrane Disease, which interferes with oxygen exchange in the lungs of premature babies. Neonatologist Noel French worked to stabilise Callum in an oxygen headbox for the entire night, so he wouldn't have to be transferred to the intensive care unit in another hospital. I know this as Noel was there at three o'clock in the morning when I first visited my new baby and then came to see me in my room at around eight o'clock on 15 April. Callum was improving. No transfer was necessary.
This was just the beginning of Callum's bloody-mindedness. He refused to feed, crawl or walk until he was damned well ready. He only slept when I played ABC Classics radio. He spoke in full sentences after being considered a late talker. He resisted all attempts at toilet training until he was three and a half. And that has been his pattern for most of his life.
However, when I think back to 15 April 1989, I am wrapped in a fuzzy glow of having brought Callum successfully into the world. And endless gratitude to Noel French. He was such a caring and compassionate doctor and really went the second mile. I encountered him again during my pregnancy with Alex. I had been chucked into hospital at thirty-two weeks gestation as I'd had a twinge that might have been a labour pain. The registrar I had been admitted under had refused my request to give me cortisone injections to strengthen the baby's lungs. I sought out Noel, who immediately prescribed the course of drugs for the following five days.
I remember asking him why the obstetric registrar had dismissed my concerns. Noel replied succinctly, "Some people are just born pompous pricks".
Thus endeth today's lesson. And like Michael's recovery and Callum's birth, the COVID 19 crisis will pass.
Destructodog in her crate - March 2020
Michael's respiratory specialist and all-round good guy - Scott Claxton...
Joondalup entry...
Where we have been on multiple occasions!
Michael during one of his admissions...
Never forgotten. Professor Noel French retiring in 2018.
Callum at eight months old - December 1989
At nine...
Early high school...
Aged twenty...
As dancing teaching with his student winning a competition - March 2020
Daddy to Imogen - April 2020.
Tuesday, 7 April 2020
Kate's CCs - Dear Trent, Love Kate.
The "Weekend Australian" is one of those items that I buy almost religiously. I sometimes wonder why. Before COVID 19, this newspaper often irritated the shit out of me but I never want to miss the lives and loves of the likes such as Nikki Gemmel and her family, and the urbane Phillip Adams, along with Facebook buddy Bernard Salt.
Last week's Magazine gave me a further reason to feel connected to the writers who strive to achieve a sense of community and camaraderie. Some bloke from Brisbane, Trent Dalton, invited all the readers of his article "Tales From The Bunker" to add to his commentary. Trent lives in the western suburbs of Brisbane. I spent part of my childhood in the western suburbs of Brisbane. He has a downstairs rumpus room. We had a downstairs rumpus room. Trent talks to his Dad's dearly departed stonefish, Keef. Anybody who talks to a preserved deceased and deadly aquatic creature is my kind of guy. Plus I also make reference to or chat to my Darling Dad on a daily basis from the heavenly lounge where I am sure he is still enjoying a decent glass of red. And he would thoroughly approve of discussions with Keef. His own goldfish, Fred, circumnavigated Australia twice within the confines of a travelling fishbowl.
So, without further ado, here is my letter to Trent - my tale from my bunker.
Dear Trent,
Thank you very much for allowing just anybody to correspond with you. I feel rather privileged to be invited to produce my own piece to send to you, which I hope meets with your approval.
I'm Kate, the Beverley Blogger and I have been writing my own version of events, know as "Kate's Coronavirus Chronicles". This has been added to my blog which is called Heavenly Beverley. I have been writing these posts for nearly six years as a way to scratch the desire to share my literary efforts with the world.
Sometimes, my posts fall flat and I'm fucked if I know why. Stuff I think is sharp and witty may only get a handful of views, whereas other disappointing tripe attracts a legion of fans. As for making my fortune out of my (unpublished) manuscript or being discovered like Mamamia, I live in hope...
Anyway, on to the job at hand. How am I going? How am I coping? Depends on which minute of the day. Always in the background is the shadow of this monster - Coronavirus. She is lurking just out of view and that's where I want her to remain. Six years ago, my beloved Michael nearly died from pneumonia. That nasty bug was known as the Bitch for four very long weeks. Caused by a combination of Michael being a smoker and working in pretty disgusting environments. Since then, my mission from God has been to keep him well. He only has sixty per cent of his left lung functional, is prone to debilitating chest infections and has chronic asthma and emphysema. Our daughter asked me last night what would happen to Michael if he catches COVID 19.
He'd drown, I told her. How do I feel about that? Bloody terrified.
I am trying to connect my youngest child with the Priority Assistance Shopping Programme for his foreseeable needs. Alex is autistic, with severe asthma and a congenital cardiac disorder. His GP put him into isolation nearly a month ago to protect him from COVID 19. Yesterday was the day I set aside for liaising with Woolies to "walk him through" setting up an online account and a request to be included as a Priority Shopper. I can't do this myself with Alex as we live in different regions. The overloaded customer operative I eventually spoke to said she'd try to contact him before her shift ended at seven-thirty. She didn't. So now I have to start all over again. Frustration, along with understanding for the employee's plight was last night's response to this situation.
Today, our daughter was given four weeks notice by her employer. And I get that millions of Australians are losing their jobs. But for my quirky, oddball, hyper-intelligent girl, her position as an administrative assistant had been her first job ever. At the age of thirty-four. I am not upset at her employer - what would be the point? I'm just deflated. For somebody like Vanessa, having a job was the freedom she had longed for. And now, her wings have been clipped again.
Exhaustion. That was why I didn't take the call from her this morning. I had gone back to bed for an hour's kip. Michael, her adopted Dad, with his gentle manner and calming influence. drew her back from the precipice. By the time I spoke to her, she was already adjusting to her new normal and planning life back studying After Work. Relief.
Callum, the ultimate Middle Child between his siblings, is a primary school teacher and has added a high school science graduate diploma to his bow. Which is why he was offered four weeks work as a high school maths teacher during March. Cal is married to our stunning strawberry blonde daughter-in-law, Bronwyn and Daddy to Imogen who has just turned four months old. Bron is a severe asthmatic with other health issues. After every teaching day, Callum has arrived home, stripped off his clothes and shoes, showered thoroughly and changed before he greets his wife and his child. He currently has two more days of teaching left this term. Every day has been a calculated risk of bringing COVID 19 to his family, balanced with the need to keep an income going for as long as possible. Is breath-holding an emotion or an Olympic sport?
Then there are the occasions to release a tiny dance of happiness. This morning, the lack of money was rearing its head again, snarling at me, laughing at me. We are overdue with a number of bills, including the electricity account for the building we own. One of our two tenants, a hairdresser, is finding the going tough. She turned up as I was wrestling with this issue and gave me most of what they owe for the power bill. She provided me with an excuse to brush my hair and teeth, insert some earrings and launch forward into town on a few urgent errands. Which I would not have been able to do. A temporary weight lifted off my shoulders and gave me cause to smile.
That'll do for today, Trent. Have I given you a sense of being me, an overweight middle-aged woman living in a Western Australian country town? I hope I haven't overwhelmed you, as that was not my intention. I am just so grateful that you offered me an opportunity to speak as me.
Cheers,
Kate.
PS give my love to Keef.
Last week's Magazine gave me a further reason to feel connected to the writers who strive to achieve a sense of community and camaraderie. Some bloke from Brisbane, Trent Dalton, invited all the readers of his article "Tales From The Bunker" to add to his commentary. Trent lives in the western suburbs of Brisbane. I spent part of my childhood in the western suburbs of Brisbane. He has a downstairs rumpus room. We had a downstairs rumpus room. Trent talks to his Dad's dearly departed stonefish, Keef. Anybody who talks to a preserved deceased and deadly aquatic creature is my kind of guy. Plus I also make reference to or chat to my Darling Dad on a daily basis from the heavenly lounge where I am sure he is still enjoying a decent glass of red. And he would thoroughly approve of discussions with Keef. His own goldfish, Fred, circumnavigated Australia twice within the confines of a travelling fishbowl.
So, without further ado, here is my letter to Trent - my tale from my bunker.
Dear Trent,
Thank you very much for allowing just anybody to correspond with you. I feel rather privileged to be invited to produce my own piece to send to you, which I hope meets with your approval.
I'm Kate, the Beverley Blogger and I have been writing my own version of events, know as "Kate's Coronavirus Chronicles". This has been added to my blog which is called Heavenly Beverley. I have been writing these posts for nearly six years as a way to scratch the desire to share my literary efforts with the world.
Sometimes, my posts fall flat and I'm fucked if I know why. Stuff I think is sharp and witty may only get a handful of views, whereas other disappointing tripe attracts a legion of fans. As for making my fortune out of my (unpublished) manuscript or being discovered like Mamamia, I live in hope...
Anyway, on to the job at hand. How am I going? How am I coping? Depends on which minute of the day. Always in the background is the shadow of this monster - Coronavirus. She is lurking just out of view and that's where I want her to remain. Six years ago, my beloved Michael nearly died from pneumonia. That nasty bug was known as the Bitch for four very long weeks. Caused by a combination of Michael being a smoker and working in pretty disgusting environments. Since then, my mission from God has been to keep him well. He only has sixty per cent of his left lung functional, is prone to debilitating chest infections and has chronic asthma and emphysema. Our daughter asked me last night what would happen to Michael if he catches COVID 19.
He'd drown, I told her. How do I feel about that? Bloody terrified.
I am trying to connect my youngest child with the Priority Assistance Shopping Programme for his foreseeable needs. Alex is autistic, with severe asthma and a congenital cardiac disorder. His GP put him into isolation nearly a month ago to protect him from COVID 19. Yesterday was the day I set aside for liaising with Woolies to "walk him through" setting up an online account and a request to be included as a Priority Shopper. I can't do this myself with Alex as we live in different regions. The overloaded customer operative I eventually spoke to said she'd try to contact him before her shift ended at seven-thirty. She didn't. So now I have to start all over again. Frustration, along with understanding for the employee's plight was last night's response to this situation.
Today, our daughter was given four weeks notice by her employer. And I get that millions of Australians are losing their jobs. But for my quirky, oddball, hyper-intelligent girl, her position as an administrative assistant had been her first job ever. At the age of thirty-four. I am not upset at her employer - what would be the point? I'm just deflated. For somebody like Vanessa, having a job was the freedom she had longed for. And now, her wings have been clipped again.
Exhaustion. That was why I didn't take the call from her this morning. I had gone back to bed for an hour's kip. Michael, her adopted Dad, with his gentle manner and calming influence. drew her back from the precipice. By the time I spoke to her, she was already adjusting to her new normal and planning life back studying After Work. Relief.
Callum, the ultimate Middle Child between his siblings, is a primary school teacher and has added a high school science graduate diploma to his bow. Which is why he was offered four weeks work as a high school maths teacher during March. Cal is married to our stunning strawberry blonde daughter-in-law, Bronwyn and Daddy to Imogen who has just turned four months old. Bron is a severe asthmatic with other health issues. After every teaching day, Callum has arrived home, stripped off his clothes and shoes, showered thoroughly and changed before he greets his wife and his child. He currently has two more days of teaching left this term. Every day has been a calculated risk of bringing COVID 19 to his family, balanced with the need to keep an income going for as long as possible. Is breath-holding an emotion or an Olympic sport?
Then there are the occasions to release a tiny dance of happiness. This morning, the lack of money was rearing its head again, snarling at me, laughing at me. We are overdue with a number of bills, including the electricity account for the building we own. One of our two tenants, a hairdresser, is finding the going tough. She turned up as I was wrestling with this issue and gave me most of what they owe for the power bill. She provided me with an excuse to brush my hair and teeth, insert some earrings and launch forward into town on a few urgent errands. Which I would not have been able to do. A temporary weight lifted off my shoulders and gave me cause to smile.
That'll do for today, Trent. Have I given you a sense of being me, an overweight middle-aged woman living in a Western Australian country town? I hope I haven't overwhelmed you, as that was not my intention. I am just so grateful that you offered me an opportunity to speak as me.
Cheers,
Kate.
PS give my love to Keef.
The Monster...
Michael - early April 2020
Vanessa - August 2019
Callum Bronwyn and Immy - March 2020
Imogen and Alex - late December 2019
Our bunker.
Saturday, 4 April 2020
Kate's Coronavirus Chronicles - Now is NOT the Time to Watch Horror Movies!
Faced with a mixed bag of television viewing after our favourite "Gardening Australia" on the ABC, we pondered our options. Michael wasn't keen on the thriller series (which we hadn't been watching anyway) or Pierce Brosnan as James Bond or Bruce Willis in action that we'd seen half a dozen times. Incredibly, I suggested we pull out the DVD of "28 Days Later".
What could be better than viewing an enraged bunch of zombies who had been infected during a pandemic caused by, you guessed it, a virus capable of jumping from animals to humans? Genius!
Michael had requested action. Which he received in bucketloads. Along with lots of gore, fights, explosions, shootings and an army leader gone nuts. Outstanding!
Surprisingly, the film did have a moderately happy ending. Our hero and heroine, along with a young girl picked up during a particularly nasty episode, find isolation and finally rescue as the last of the rage virus victims died from starvation. And of course, that outcome would extinguish all the awfulness of the previous ninety minutes...
I had chosen to tap on my laptop keyboard whilst all this was unfolding on the telly. Every now and then, my eyes would shift, almost involuntarily, to stage left to catch a glimpse of the carnage. Brilliant!
Then, of course, we chose to go to bed for a soundly satisfying sleep. Not. Michael, as usual, fell asleep on his back, mouth open, snoring his rocks off. I couldn't get comfortable, tossed and turned, moved large lumps of dogs backwards and forwards across the doona and was just drifting off when Michael sprang bolt upright into a sitting position and bellowed about giant ants in the bed. Splendid!
That was the final straw. Nearing one o'clock in the depths of night, I needed my beauty sleep. Faced with the prospect of Michael having imaginary ants in his pants, without a visit from Mister Carrot or Madame Cat with her suitcase to lighten proceedings, I enquired relatively forcefully whether Michael would like to have a sleeping tablet. As opposed to a bit of four by two across his skull.
He accepted my generous offer and had soon returned to Cloud Cuckoo Land. Minus any ants, giant or otherwise. After all the excitement, my trip to unconsciousness took longer. I staggered, bleary-eyed out of bed when Stella demanded attention just after seven. Attending to duty, I lasted until nine o'clock. At that point, I ordered his Majesty out of bed, declaring that I needed to return to a horizontal position and he had drawn the short straw.
I remember mumbling, "Just give me an hour" before I descended into blissful slumber. Two hours later, I was woken by a need for morning ablutions. Feeling much more refreshed, I wandered out to begin the day. Again.
Michael had admirably attended to the dogs and was in the process of making me a cup of tea as I emerged. All was forgiven for his night time shenanigans.
And the moral of this story - FFS, no more horror movies until further notice!
What could be better than viewing an enraged bunch of zombies who had been infected during a pandemic caused by, you guessed it, a virus capable of jumping from animals to humans? Genius!
Michael had requested action. Which he received in bucketloads. Along with lots of gore, fights, explosions, shootings and an army leader gone nuts. Outstanding!
Surprisingly, the film did have a moderately happy ending. Our hero and heroine, along with a young girl picked up during a particularly nasty episode, find isolation and finally rescue as the last of the rage virus victims died from starvation. And of course, that outcome would extinguish all the awfulness of the previous ninety minutes...
I had chosen to tap on my laptop keyboard whilst all this was unfolding on the telly. Every now and then, my eyes would shift, almost involuntarily, to stage left to catch a glimpse of the carnage. Brilliant!
Then, of course, we chose to go to bed for a soundly satisfying sleep. Not. Michael, as usual, fell asleep on his back, mouth open, snoring his rocks off. I couldn't get comfortable, tossed and turned, moved large lumps of dogs backwards and forwards across the doona and was just drifting off when Michael sprang bolt upright into a sitting position and bellowed about giant ants in the bed. Splendid!
That was the final straw. Nearing one o'clock in the depths of night, I needed my beauty sleep. Faced with the prospect of Michael having imaginary ants in his pants, without a visit from Mister Carrot or Madame Cat with her suitcase to lighten proceedings, I enquired relatively forcefully whether Michael would like to have a sleeping tablet. As opposed to a bit of four by two across his skull.
He accepted my generous offer and had soon returned to Cloud Cuckoo Land. Minus any ants, giant or otherwise. After all the excitement, my trip to unconsciousness took longer. I staggered, bleary-eyed out of bed when Stella demanded attention just after seven. Attending to duty, I lasted until nine o'clock. At that point, I ordered his Majesty out of bed, declaring that I needed to return to a horizontal position and he had drawn the short straw.
I remember mumbling, "Just give me an hour" before I descended into blissful slumber. Two hours later, I was woken by a need for morning ablutions. Feeling much more refreshed, I wandered out to begin the day. Again.
Michael had admirably attended to the dogs and was in the process of making me a cup of tea as I emerged. All was forgiven for his night time shenanigans.
And the moral of this story - FFS, no more horror movies until further notice!
Relaxing start to an evening of viewing...
Followed by...yeah nah...
Nope...
Meh...
Brainwave?!
Two hours later...
Yet another of Michael's famous dreams, without the anteater...
Or Mister Carrot...
Or Madame Ruby pinching Michael's toast...
Michael's choices for sleep - Unavailable...
Tempting...
Or they might be a good alternative to the bit of four-by-two...
Michael accepted the "magic solution" and was quickly nigh-nighs...
And I certainly didn't need any methods to return to slumber!
Oh, how wonderful I felt as I woke...
And of course, how I actually looked!
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