And The Heat Goes On, The Heat Goes On...

Almost the end of January 2025. I used to look forward to the summer months, of glorious days and mild nights, of months when I could guarantee that the day would be sunny for a picnic on Sunday week. The Fremantle Doctor would arrive like clockwork, cooling down suburbs quite a long distance from the ocean in the late afternoon. We would have frequent days over 35 degrees along with those horrible, but reasonably brief endurance periods of extreme heat over 40 degrees.

I was lucky enough to live in Karrinyup for twenty years, one suburb back from the beach. When I moved to Marangaroo in 2006, we still managed quite nicely with evaporative air-conditioning only used occasionally. I very rarely turned on the reserve cycle unit in my bedroom.

However, the weather has altered significantly over the last fifteen years. We could comment ad infinitum about the reasons for this change - that is not the point. I remember reading an article only a few years ago about an intense heatwave over the inland top end, of nights only dropping to 30 degrees, of those living and working there struggling to carry out their jobs. I was so grateful that we were not subject to those temperatures for extended days on end. Or so I believed...

Now, these conditions are upon us. A cool change is any day under 35 degrees. We hand water our potted gardens twice a day when the temperature is over 37 degrees. Which is currently most of the time. Living one hundred and thirty kilometres from Perth city, summer temperatures may be 5 - 10 degrees higher than in the Big Smoke. 

We often look enviously at the metro temperatures when they enjoy a cool change. We may experience a significant delay in receiving relief or not at all. Summer is no longer a time of delight; it is often just a time to survive.

Hot temperatures play havoc with our comfort, our tempers and our well-being. Having been diagnosed with lung and heart conditions, I am so frequently breathless, uncomfortable and exhausted in the heat that household tasks have become really difficult. Hanging out washing makes my arms to sting with fatigue. Walking for any distance - such as to the doctors' surgery - may be too much for me. I rely on air-conditioning just to function and need regular rests. 

I have noticed a general increase in grumpiness which has been expressed on Facebook by various contributors. I understand the reason, but perhaps we all need to take a deep breath, stick our heads in water to cool down and review our immediate reactions.

Suggestions are welcome. We need to live together as harmoniously as possible, in spite of the current heat...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When Mad Dogs And Politicians Go Out In The Midday Sun...

The familiar saying "Only mad dogs and Englishmen go out in the midday sun" has been attributed to Rudyard Kipling, who warned of the perils of the heat, noting that only mad (rabid) dogs or the stiff upper lip Englishman would actually be outside  during the middle of the day.

However, Noel Coward included this phrase in a song he penned in 1931 or 1932 and became an integral part of his cabaret act from that time.

The song was intended as a mockery of British colonial behaviour in the Tropics, such as the wearing of excessive and inappropriate clothing for the weather, the scorning of hats (which often led to heat exhaustion or heat stroke) and the retention of pompous and arbitrary bureaucratic practices that were completely at odds with an oppressive climate.

Anyway, this post will illustrate that there is no need to travel to the Raj in order to experience a rather uncomfortable heatwave. A very annoying cyclone named Sean is partially to blame. Travelling well off shore, we have overcast conditions streaming in from the Indian Ocean with very high temperatures creating a exceedingly unpleasant pressure cooker effect.

Plus, heatwaves tend to aggravate the Foot-in-Mouth disease suffered by politicians, who tend to utter the most stupid of their statements during the summer months. For example, take a previous premier of Western Australia (whilst living in Perth's western suburbs near the sea) who unwisely voiced that Western Australians don't need air-conditioning in hot weather. He did not remain premier for too long after that inopportune gaffe.

Then, there is an election pitch by some bloke who used to be a policeman, declaring that business staff lunches and dinners might attract a tax break, and help to raise morale. Even better, he proposed businesses could organise client outings, such as golfing days, which might also earn a tax deduction. I understand dedicated golfers do tend to ignore the weather in their pursuit of ruining a pleasant walk, but the idea of our local businesses entertaining clients at the Beverley Golf Club on a 40 degree day just fills me with cynical mirth.

The star that causes these heatwaves, our Sun, is ideally poised to provide affordable and reliable power generation without adding to Climate Change. We also have abundant supplies of wind and tides, both of which could be harnessed for power. The idea of building seven small nuclear power stations across Australia seems a tad ludicrous, especially since we could all fry our breakfast eggs on the bonnets of our cars. That aforementioned bald headed chap from Queensland has yet to provide any information about these proposed power stations, such as costings, a time frame or the safe disposal of nuclear waste. Not a peep on where that nasty stuff would be stored. 

Methinks he doesn't actually believe in his own rhetoric - his gasbaggery is all for the show. But, given his somewhat presidential style performances and lofty ambitions, I could never vote for this politician. The other night, watching a show called "Fortress Britain", we were stunned to hear of a nuclear accident in Cumbria at the Windscale Nuclear Facility in October 1957. Decades before the Chernobyl catastrophe, the fire released radioactive fallout across the United Kingdom and Europe. Located in farming country, milk sales were banned from over 500 square kilometres. The reactor was sealed until the late 1980s and a clean up took over thirty years. In the month prior to the Windscale incident, an explosion at the Kyshtym/Mayak/Ozyorsk plutonium plant in the Soviet Union rates second on the disaster scale behind Chernobyl and Fukushima. 

The Windscale event was covered up by the British government and the subsequent report heavily censored. The USSR took nearly two years to evacuate all of the 22 villages in the path of the radioactive cloud. What became of those people is anybody's guess.

I had never heard of either of these events until I watched the British documentary series. I have since learnt the earlier nuclear accident took place in 1952 with in excess of 100 recorded incidents since then, unless one also counts the military scientists who received lethal doses of radiation in 1945 and 1946. I have listened to the comments of proponents of nuclear power, and I remain to be convinced of the safety of these facilities. How far I would need to be from a nuclear reactor in the case of an accident has no definitive answer...Rather like eating a cane toad and hoping for the best.

I suggest that our Federal Opposition leader might enjoy some time out of the midday sun so he refrains from spouting some of his more questionable opinions. The Federal election has not even been announced, so I could counsel him to keep his mouth shut until that time. And behave less like a mad dog.

 

 

 

 

Mister Rudyard Kipling...

 

 

Mister Noel Coward...

The English in the midday sun...

 

 At least some of them have hats...

 

 

That pesky cyclone...

 

 

 

A tad warm...

When 25 degrees feels cool!

 

 

1952

 

 

No thank you...

 

 

Having a nuclear reactor next door could be akin to eating a cane toad...

 

  

 

Perhaps our pollies could wear pith helmets as protection from the midday sun...

 

 And no mad dogs please.

That Old Familiar Feeling Of Deja Vu...

Knowledge is Power. That has always been my mantra for the entirety of my adult life. From finding out the details of my miscarriage almost forty years ago to determining my current health status, I have always believed that I am am better off if I can make informed decisions rather than groping around in a wilderness of ignorance. However, this knowledge can be a double-edged sword in my quest for the truth. And then there is the bitter sweet realisation that deja vu has surfaced once more.

Nearly thirty-four years ago, Alex was born on a beautiful autumn morning. He was a planned caesarean section as he had been diagnosed with a complex congenital heart defect whilst in utero. Four years previously, Christopher had made his way into the world as a cranky red-haired tiny scrap of a human. He had also been born with a complex heart defect. However, his prematurity and heart condition, along with a metabolic disorder and Noonan's Syndrome proved insurmountable and he made his way back to the universe after forty-eight tumultuous days. Apparently, my odds of having a second baby with a cardiac defect were 3 in 100. Somehow, I had hit the jackpot.

So, my relief was extraordinary when Alex was born pink and roaring. And he lived. His brother Callum was a smidge under two years older, his sister Vanessa who actually named him, was five. Surprisingly, he was my most successful breast feeder and we settled into a happy little routine for his first six weeks.

But, with Alex's cyanosis and restlessness increasing, we were back in the Children's Hospital sooner than planned. He underwent his first surgery to increase blood circulation to his lungs when he was eight weeks old. We understood that he would undergo two more surgeries - both of these open-heart procedures - at the Children's Hospital in Melbourne. As his parents, we were informed of the risks of him being on heart/lung bypass, such as bleeding issues, but these were not given huge priority and we felt safe that if Alex suffered complications, we would be in the right place.

Alex and I, along with my best buddy Tanya (as my support person) flew to Melbourne in September 1992. The operation went very smoothly and Alex turned pink once more. But, he was different. I voiced I thought Alex had had a stroke whilst on bypass. No notes were taken about my concerns and the matter was never discussed, either in Melbourne or when we returned home. 

At twenty months, Alex was diagnosed with Developmental Delay and Hyperactivity. This was a nonsense label, which suggested progression to me, just at a slower rate. We returned to Melbourne for his definitive surgery when he was three. By then, he had no language, no play and no relationships. He couldn't dress, feed or toilet himself. I kept pushing for further investigations. The term "Munchausen's By Proxy" disorder was firmly pointed at me. I have never forgotten that hurtful slur.

Eventually, Alex was diagnosed with Autism officially at four years and seven months. We had already started a private Applied Behavioural Analysis home programme and he was responding well. He still had issues with balance, limited body awareness and low muscle tone. We chose for him to left handed because of issues with his right side. All these subtle hints went unnoticed. His 'absence spells' went unexplored as I could always bring him out of them with a snap of my fingers and saying his name. We tried dancing and gymnastics and karate to improve his strength, but his inability to run continued through adolescence into adulthood. 

We blamed a mild intellectual disability on his slowness of processing and language difficulties. He needed glasses for sight and specialist orthotics for his feet. He started a gym programme for fitness. He began employment as a Cafe Attendant at Paraquad Industries in Shenton Park, finally finding his niche. Church activities and studies filled his social and intellectual needs and he gained his own unit through the Housing Commission.The NDIA were initially quite helpful with funding some of his therapies and his life appeared bright.

His 'absence spells' began to be noticed at his workplace. I pursued specialist neurological testing through Neurosciences. We waited nine months for that appointment. Then Alex underwent an MRI and the answer that had been staring us in the face for thirty years was finally in the open.

Alex had had a stroke during or after one of his cardiac surgeries. I knew which surgery. The majority of the damage was confined to his frontal lobes, which is a significant language and processing centre. The stroke also explained his right sided weakness and low muscle tone. His intelligence was confirmed as normal. Although he does not have epilepsy, the front lobes' scarring is considered the likely suspect of his absence spells.

This diagnosis changed his life in so many ways. He thinks of himself differently. He is keen to improve his conversation and try "small talk". His diet is becoming very cosmopolitan and he watches how much he eats. He enjoys exercise - walking and swimming at the beach as well as the gym. He is going out to new places with Peter, his support worker. He is being given more responsibility in his workplace. His life is becoming so rich. 

Yet, the feeling of deja vu still remains. I do wonder if his skills might have been enhanced by early intervention of  a stroke diagnosis. We will never know, but the knowledge that I was right all along is, sometimes, a bitter pill to swallow.

My anger at not being taken seriously has also extended to my life. My abject terror during my miscarriage. The desperation of 'knowing' that my twins were in trouble in utero and being unable to prevent their stillbirth. And then, more recently, my quest to explain the breathlessness that has become the overriding issue since September 2023. Of course, there were hints much earlier. An Ectopic heartbeat diagnosed in my forties. Chest pain that was dismissed as heartburn because I wasn't having a heart attack. A cardiologist who thought I might have a heart defect, but eventually dismissed me as fat, anxious and unfit. Sensations of fluttering and fullness in my throat. Fatigue and bone-sapping weariness. 

Over the last fifteen months, I have been fed information in dribs and drabs, here and there. I have met physicians with woeful bedside manners who gave contradictory findings. I had to wait to see Respiratory Specialist Scott Claxton and then Clinical Professor Jenny Deague. Small Airways Disease (SAD) seemed the primary diagnosis, which had probably been triggered by COVID. But what explained the development of my Pulmonary Hypertension?

Last Monday, Michael and I saw Jenny Deague, a cardiologist that had recommended by Scott last September. Unavailable until now, she was worth the wait...

Quite matter-of-factly, Jenny explained that my Atrial Septal Defect (present from birth, which used to be called a "hole in the heart") had caused the Pulmonary Hypertension. What had been clear as mud became extraordinarily coherent in a millisecond. She was so knowledgeable and so caring. All my symptoms could be related back to the congenital heart defect. SAD was just an added complication. Jenny had provided all the answers in one visit. I was so bloody grateful to her.

But, those feelings of deja vu returned. I am sixty three years old. I care for Michael and for Alex. We have an Art Gallery, a home, caravan, two dogs, a cat and a rude parrot. I have been searching for answers for over a year. The diagnosis of a definitive ASD blew me out of the water. 

However, I am now ready for the Long Haul. Next on the agenda is an echocardiogram and a holter monitor for twenty-four hours. Perhaps a transaesophogeal ultrasound. And then maybe, closure of this pesky ASD. 

I now am aware of my foe. We are not friends. I shall do whatever is required to halt the progress. I have so much living to do. I intend to survive.

 

 

deja vu...

 

 

Whoops! Happening again...

 

 

 

This is a normal heart...

 

 

Foetal circulation and changes at birth...

 

 

Transposition of the Great Arteries - Christopher's heart defect

 

 

 

This is Alex's diagnosis...

 

 

Mine...

 

 

 

 

 

Welcome to 2025! Let The Mischief, Mayhem And Magic Commence...

 Zoom Zoom. Suddenly, we are nearly a fortnight into 2025 and I suspect this year is going to launch forth with the same speed as 2024. At present, we have settled into a pleasant routine sleeping until after eight most mornings, watering the garden, enjoying meals slowly and satisfyingly, walking the dogs in the evening cool, watering the garden, catching up on household chores, walking the dogs in the evening cool, watering the garden and enjoying meals slowly and satisfyingly. Detecting a pattern here? January in Heavenly Beverley asks for this agenda - year in, year out.

Having a somewhat incapacitated Steve Stick ( my beloved Dyson V15 vacuum cleaner) definitely cramped my style for nearly a week. Having (accidentally)  tried to destroy Steve, Michael jury rigged him back together so I could tackle both the Gallery and Station House. Fortunately, the new part arrived this morning, after which I attempted to insert it and break another bit. Michael expertly removed Steve from me without any fuss and achieved the Final Fix For Functionality.

I have also had much improvement in my relationship with our Italian dishwasher, Fabio. Having christened him with a suitably Mediterranean name and deciding to stoke his substantial ego soothed the savage beast. Grudgingly, he has begun to operate relatively normally once more. Only on Eco cycle and with a thorough rinsing on kitchen items first. I will do just about anything to avoid the wasted time and excruciating boredom of washing dishes by hand.  I need to continue to pander to Fabio's every whim as long as he keeps his end of the bargain.

In my usual style of regularly turning the Gallery upside-down, there were obstacles everywhere, dusting to be done, a complete rejig of all the art pieces and several paintings plus a carpet of dirt and deceased insects to be removed from the floors. This task took a mammoth six days, only finishing last Sunday. 

The result is, I believe, the best ever display of the East End Gallery thus far. We have also welcomed two new artists - macrame maker Bow River Knots and artist, picture framer and aspiring Green Hills Art Centre owner and facilitator, Johanna Larkin. We are delighted to have Wendy and Johanna join us in our wonderful arts precinct - the East End Gallery and Studio 116 just keep growing and growing.

We are also announcing that we will be holding FOUR (4) Sundowners during 2025. Note these date in your diary, phone or organiser and make sure you join us!

• Saturday 1 March 
• Saturday 19 April
• Saturday 31 May
• Saturday 27 September

We shall also sneak in a celebration for Michael's 70th birthday on or around 4 September. Stay tuned for more information!

In the meantime, the best news in all the universe is that Michael has fully recovered from his encounter with that Bitch, hMPV. Coming home after ten days in hospital was probably the best elixir for his well-being - the first night in our own bed, he slept for over ten hours. He began to regain his strength over the next couple of weeks. Now, his Mojo has returned and he is working on his next sculpture to be titled "Cast (Iron) Away". He has a few extra ideas already floating about in his enormous artistic intellect and I am so proud of him. 

The first two weeks of January 2025 have proved to be as a mixture of both excellent relaxation interspersed with frenetic energy. I think we might be in for another roller coaster ride of epic proportions. Can't wait!

 

Whew! hang onto your hats...

 

 

 

Always a good idea...

 

 

 

My Dyson Steve Stick ...

 Professor Steve Stick...

 

Our Italian Euro dishwasher...

 

 

Who is called Fabio!

 

 He is back!

The East End Gallery - January 2025 -