When I began writing "Heavenly Beverley" nearly eight years ago, I had this delicious fantasy that I would be the next Mia Freedman, be discovered by a media organisation and enjoy fame and fortune. These days, I dislike being in any crowded spaces, except for social or arty-farty events, so the idea of tossing carefully coiffed hair and smiling at all and sundry whilst undertaking a magazine or book launch in a noisy shopping centre is my idea of Dante's Inferno.
And as far as fortune goes, we always seem to be able to snatch financial victory out of the jaws of destitution. Our regular pensions are always received with gratitude. The juggling of money is my department, as Michael would have difficulty coping with the concept of robbing Peter to pay Paul, which we have had to do on numerous occasions.
We have also had to make pragmatic decisions, such as parting with our beloved Digger the caravan. Regret had been tempered by relief at being able to reduce debt and pay off a variety of outstanding payments. So, if I was honest, consistently having enough to live well and have a savings buffer would be wonderful, but we do get by. We have a beautiful roof over our heads, good and plentiful food, great family and friends, endlessly entertaining pets and the love of both our lives, the East End Gallery.
However, I suggest that a canny and energetic creative guru could make a fortune by translating my life into a bone fide soap opera. Think of "The Big Bang Theory" crossed with "Utopia" and "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest" I did not choose the nickname of Lunachick lightly when I was surfing the internet in search of True Love. I am incredibly fortunate that a chap who called himself Spider52 wasn't put of by the sniff of potential nuttiness.
I often state that I live in a circus. My phone plays a carnival theme, my message alarm is a cross between an owl and a cuckoo and a helpful sign inside our house states that I am already disturbed, do just come in. A proclamation next to our front door reinforces that dogs have owners and cats have staff. This is so true. The cats have distinct characters - Suey knows he is a god and Chop believes he is a dog. Red the parrot has been known to exclaim loudly "You're a shit!" to anybody present in his orbit. Pip is on a cocktail of drugs that allows him to become rather frisky with no warning. Stella enjoys licking her bum then cleaning our ears or vice versa.
Dealing with the NDIS (National Disability Insurance Scheme) has definite elements of both "Utopia" and "One Flew Over The Cuckoo's Nest". What other disability agency would ask a bloke if his amputation was permanent? In our case, Alex has just been given notification of his fifth Local Area Coordinator in less than three years. Not that these paragons of bureaucracy can accomplish much. I was told by Alex's fourth LAC that his case is too complex for an LAC. Reports and recommendations have flown into the bowels of the NDIS for the last year. Alex requires adequate funding for Support Coordination. Shannon Kirk, in this role between us and the NDIS has been funded for sixteen hours a year...Give me strength.
Then, we have been dealing with the concept of Alex's brain injury for the last few months. We were eventually ushered into a neurologist's office on Wednesday. He was a reasonable chap, but his bedside manner was a bit hit and miss. My black sense of humour was particularly tickled when he asked Alex to describe his blank episodes. Alex's response was fabulous - "I don't know what a blank episode is like because I am having a blank episode!" Undeterred, our hero carried on and eventually explained that Alex had suffered a number of bleeds, micro bleeds and micro infarcts/strokes, probably as a result of his cardiac surgery or having been on Warfarin for a short period. This was common in people like Alex...So, all those years when I believed Alex had indeed had a stroke was correct, was known to occur and had not been investigated in spite of his deficits from seventeen months of age.
Alex will participate in a week long EEG exercise and will undergo neurological assessments sometime before hell freezes over. He has a return appointment to the neurologist in August. The appointment was $350 and we were required to pay in full, even though Alex and I are both pensioners. He couldn't be bulk billed or pay the gap. I coughed up and Alex has reimbursed me, which is rather a large chunk of his fortnightly income. Poor people obviously aren't meant to attend private specialists...
I had just left Alex when my message alarm went off on my phone. I hurriedly stopped and checked the SMS. We had been talking about how drying hand sanitisers can be. Alex had sent me a photo of his hand sanitiser which had moisturisers in its formula. God love him.
Yesterday, I received a phonecall from Alex's GP, who has been his doctor since he was six years old. I was eternally grateful as he was able to clarify some of the gobbledygook that had been given to us the day before by the neurologist. He hopes the EEG will show some activity as he believes the scar tissue in Alex's head will be causing the blank episodes. He confirmed that a neurology baseline will be useful now that Alex is an adult. During a twenty minute conversation, he was reassuring and empathetic. And this service didn't cost a cent.
Callum, Bron and Immy had their own crisis this week. Cal has successfully dodged the COVID bullet for the last two years. A family reunion was underway and a Queensland wedding was looming when his dance student tested positive. A rapid trip to a PCR testing centre followed. On the morning of his thirty-third birthday, Callum received the news that he was negative. This could surely be a winning cliffhanger situation for our potential soapie.
I rest my case. The Adventures of the Beverley Hillbillies could be a television ratings triumph...
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