Post Olympic blues, and old time baby blues

I'm watching the end of the Men's Marathon right now and very soon the Olympics will be over for another four years.  The Ugandan won.  I've loved the events that have been conducted in the streets of London.  The old girl has scrubbed up very nicely.  The Brits did a fine job .... and their athletes have been unbeatable - for the first time ever.

Like many Australians, I've been a little disappointed in our team's performance this time round.  Some of the athletes have been utterly devastated by their perceived failure in bringing home a gold medal.  I felt like weeping with him when the defending Olympic 10 metre diving champion missed his last dive in the semis and dropped right out of contention.  One mistake and it was all over for him.
 
Unfortunately, there will be some people will be all too eager to criticise the gold medal shortfall when they come home.

I think that with only a population of 20 million, Oz has been punching above her weight for years.  It was only a matter of time before the rest of the world was going to catch up.   A top 10 finish is still doing very well, all things considered. ( Hungary came 9th!)  

What has been great about this Olympics has been how no one country has totally dominated.   Of course the US and Russia have done well, but it was thrilling to watch Cyprus' first ever medal winner cross the line - almost as good as witnessing the Jamaican sprinters burn up the athletics track or the the Kahazakstani cyclists winning six gold medals.

Of course, the ParaOlympics will be starting next week - and that is inspiring for a whole bunch of other reasons.  

Earlier today it occurred to me how a couple of Olympics have marked several milestones in my life.  I remember missing the Opening Ceremony of the Seoul Olympics -1988 - twice.  I missed it the first time because it was only a few days after my boys were born 8 weeks early and I was spending all of my time in the special care nursery - and I  missed the replay too - even though I did plan to watch it.

 I won't ever forget that day.  The paediatrician came into my hospital room, turned off the TV, sat on the end of my bed (this is NEVER a good sign - let me tell you)  and told me that Chris (or Twin 1 as he referred to him)  had something wrong with his heart.  Pretty much the only Olympic event I recall seeing after that was the Mens' 100 metre final a week or so later ( Remember? Ben Johnson won, then was disqualified  It was still a brilliant race.)  Everything else was a blur.

The second event was more recent.  Fast forward to the Beijing Olympics - 2008.  The day of that particular Opening Ceremony  was also the day I started Radiotherapy for my bout with DCIS.  Of course that means that this time next year I will be 5 years clear- and I don't care if that one is not marked by an Olympics either.

Having elderly parents (and why it feels like a House of Cards)

It's been a while since I last blogged - and I make no apology for this. Real life has gotten in the way. These days I'm feeling quite meh. I'm alternating between going to work each day, hibernating inside the house because it's too revolting to do anything outside, wasting time on Facebook (far too easy to do really),reading books on my Kindle, which I love to pieces - and feeling terribly guilty because I keep putting off writing my current story due to lack of inspiration.

But all of these things are unimportant today because my 91 year old father, who is my 86 year old mother's carer, was admitted to hospital on the mainland last week with terrible abdominal pains. Suddenly, everything about their lives is falling down like a house of cards.

 Lynda, my sister, has been staying with Mum this past week because she is such a high falls risk while Dad has been having multiple scans and a biopsy in search of a diagnosis. He's been dehydrated, constipated and generally pretty miserable throughout and we still don't have a firm diagnosis (although we have a pretty good idea what it is - and it aint good.)

 Of course his specialist wanted to discharge him today (Sunday) but my sister has managed to put that off until at least tomorrow. We share grave doubts that he will be able to manage an upstairs bedroom and a downstairs toilet - if you get my drift. He reckons he can sleep in his recliner in the downstairs living room - which is closer to the bathroom.

 Hah!... is what I say to that.

Since he is 'Gold Card positive' - an affectionate term which means that he has generous entitlements from the Department of Veterans Affairs - he may be able to have a week of convalescence at a Nursing Home before coming home. But we still need to arrange emergency Respite Care for Mum while he's away. She actually has some regular respite coming up in mid July - but that's still two weeks in the future.   A lot could happen in the meantime.

Somehow, I see a trip to the mainland in my immediate future.

 I also see the possibility of having to help place both parents in a nursing home and disposing of the house they have lived in since 1963 with its accumulation of nearly 50 years worth of chattels. They still own a beautiful oaken radiogram from the 50s and several 100 78rpm records in pristine condition. They also have EVERY issue of Choice magazine since God knows when. What the hell are we supposed to do with them?

My head hurts when I try to think about it.(OK we chuck the mags - but surely the others are museum pieces?)

My sister is tired. She's been sleeping on a mattress on the Living room floor because it's next to Mum's room. But she needs to get back to her own family. We agree that we mustn't waste our respective leave allocations because this business could go on for some time. I may have more leave up my sleeve but I'm also on the other side of Bass Strait. I can't simply hop in a car and drive there at the drop of a hat. This is very frustrating, especially as we still don't know what's coming next.

Aaaaghhh.

 I guess it's a case of watch this space.

I'm an Early bird!

It's official. I'm an early bird.

A few weeks ago, we put down a deposit on a 15 day Rhine/Danube Cruise in August next year, and by being such clever early birds, we will get a super-duper cheap return airfare to Europe!

How cool is that?

That would be um... very.

Of course, living on the other side of the planet, we intend to make very good use of this cheap airfare and plan to extend our two weeks cruise to approximately two months traveling around Western Europe! This will use up a chunk of my Long service leave. My first lot was spent on Maternity leave, so I figure it's MY turn this time.

Who is we though, I hear you ask. Well it's Vaughan, my ex, who is going to be my travel buddy.
I think it says quite a bit about our current relationship that we get on well enough and share sufficient interests that we can even consider traveling together.... and do it without killling each other.

On the contrary, we've been having a ball with the planning and budgeting. Well he's having a ball with the budgeting side of things. Me, I'm just praying that there's going to be enough money in the kitty by the time we leave.

Right now, there is half a crate's worth of brochures on my living room floor and we have spent weeks discussing:
1, the relative merits of leasing vs hiring a car in Belgium and France,
2, doing an independent rail tour of Switzerland and
3, how to get from Munich to Budapest via Prague.

The short answer are:
1 Yes. Leasing a car is the way to go if you are going to be touring for three weeks or more, which we will be doing after our cruise. Check.

2 Traveling by train seems to be the smart way to get about in Switzerland, especially if we plan to include the Glacier Express - an eight hour trip that goes from the Matterhorn (in the West) across a gazillion alpine bridges and tunnels to St Moritz (in the East. You don't want to be leaving a car behind for that one.
So Check that one too.

3 A four country group Eurail pass is going to be our friend for this sector. We plan to spend about three days in Bavaria, another three days in Prague and take a sleeper train to Budapest (where the cruise begins). Final check.

We've also been checking out 'B&B' accommodation in rural France and Belgium (what would we have done without Google maps and the internet?) and I've been exploring the possibilities of doing several half-day cooking classes. There is one in Budapest which sounds great, but I'm also interested in doing classes in Normandy and in Burgundy. I figure that if we're going to be away for two months, a few low-key/ do-nothing type days would be in order. Since one of the highlights of my last trip was my Tuscan cookery class, I think fitting in two or three classes would be great. Good wine, good food and good company. You can't beat it!

We're also interested in visiting the historical WWI sites near the Somme (one of my great uncles fought there.) Of course we mustn't forget the Normandy D-Day landing beaches,and just down the road is the Bayeux tapestry. Oh dear, the list goes on ... and on.

Our biggest danger will be that between now and when we go, we will find so many things that we can't possibly miss out on, that we will run ourselves ragged when we finally get there.

Speaking of which, I have learned my lesson from my last sojourn. We are going to stop off in Asia going over and coming back, in an effort to offset the dreaded Jetlaaaaaag.

It may still be more than a year away, but I'm getting excited now!

How I spent my home holiday...

It's a new year and I've had the last three weeks off. But on Monday it's back to work and I'm at that point where I've really gotten into holiday mode. You know, sleep in 'til nine (or later), read in bed with a nice cup of coffee for an hour or so - mooch about for the afternoon and finally kick into gear late afternoon or evening - ready to do it all again tomorrow.

It's going to be a rude shock come 7 am Monday when I can't kill the alarm.

But it wasn't all an exercise in wasting time. Oh no. I'm very proud of the fact that I filled a 4 metre skip with with garden crap. The garden had become completely overgrown - and I filled it with tree boughs and a few things too large to go in my rubbish bin.

Just after Christmas I wrote a quick list of things I'd 'like' to get done during my time off . No pressure mind - but I find if it's written down, it will at least get looked at.

Anyway, I'm pleased to report that I almost cleared the list - right from the easy bits like getting a hair cut, buying new towels and replacing Chris' boots for school, down to the harder things like putting my stamp collection into order and finally getting back into writing. (Yay for the last one).

But then, on Christmas Day I discovered that my DVD player had karked it - so that led me to the Boxing Day sales. Eek!!! I mean I had always intended to EVENTUALLY replace my TV/ DVD player/ amp with a digital model - I just hadn't counted on doing it in this half of the year.

It was kinda the same thing with the mega spiffy vacuum cleaner Andrea showed me at the vacuum store. Sure a new machine was on the household's Wish List - but WAY down. But then, the sale price was SO good (almost half price), I really couldn't pass it up.

'Course now I have to bloody vacuum...

But this particular wish list has some other 'big ticket' items on it... and I've decided to tackle some of them now too. Next week I'm getting the guttering covered with a leaf guard, since they are too tall for a standard ladder and the trees are now too tall AND I've started pricing new carpets. I've drawn the line at the painting and bathroom renos - for now.

I think I probably do need to get back to work on Monday. I could go broke being on holidays.

Chris and doctors

It's been a while since my last effort, but inspiration has finally grabbed hold and ideas are forming.
There's another 'Mum' story which I'd like to share soon, but bigger than that, the travel bug is biting again. Planning has commenced for a Grand Tour of Europe in 2013. The only trouble: planning is cheap, saving is hard.

But back to this blog. Chris' school needed a new update - and this is what popped out.

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Chris and doctors

When Chris was around four years old, he had a series of middle ear infections, each of which required treatment from our local GP. Up until that point he’d had quite a happy relationship with Dr G, but it didn’t take too long for Chris to associate the discomfort of an ear examination with any contact with the man – and their relationship was soured for several years.

We knew things had reached rock bottom one day at the surgery. While we waited our turn, Chris was relaxing on the floor flicking through a telephone book (his favourite reading material) and his brother played in the toy corner. Chris had his back to the hallway that led to the treatment rooms and was oblivious to the comings and goings of the various doctors and patients, until Dr G came out and called for his next patient.

Chris was on his feet in a flash and heading for the door, refusing to come back until Dr G and his next patient had left the room. Only then did he return, making sure that the door was closed between them.

This happened three times in all – and had the folk in the waiting room chuckling at his stark reaction. It was almost enough to give the poor doctor a complex.

Fortunately they repaired their relationship a few years later, bonding over a quick game of ‘cars go brrm’, and Chris has been as good as gold with him ever since.

Not surprisingly, we are grateful that his general health is excellent. The only time he sees a doctor these days is when the visiting cardiologists from the Royal Children’s Hospital review him. Chris has had several open heart surgeries, the last when he was nineteen, and will require lifelong reviews – and possibly future surgery.

He had a visit just last month – and he impressed me how much of the routine he recalled – and more importantly, accepted calmly.

Even though he paced around the waiting room and poked his nose into a few rooms he shouldn’t have, he was relatively patient – for him.

First he was measured by the nurse. Getting his feet together and his heels to the wall was a bit of a challenge, but we managed it. Then he was weighed, having to stand very still while the machine settled on a weight. Again a challenge, but Chris handled it well.

The part he usually finds hardest is the ultrasound, but this time he was almost relaxed. He lay still for about twenty minutes while the technician applied jelly to his chest, taking images of his heart from multiple angles.

Next was the ECG – and Chris calmly allowed the technician to apply the sticky dots to his body, lying absolutely still while he took the readings. Then, when we finally went in to see the specialist, he whipped off his shirt without being asked, to let him listen to his chest with the stethoscope.

I am confident that Chris understands that he has had operations and remembers his recent trips to Melbourne for MRIs. He’s even asked when he’ll be going back to hospital and if he needs another operation.

Not for a very long time, we hope.

He has certainly come a long way from running for the door whenever a doctor approaches – even a friendly one.

A near miss in 1956 - or fourteen hours to Melbourne

This is number three in the series of family recollections.

In early October 1956, not long before the Melbourne Olympics and long before the days before cheap airfares and dual lane highways, STD calling and mobile phones, my parents Ross and Lorraine drove to Sydney in their Simca Aronde car for two weeks holiday.

The months before had been difficult. Lorraine had finally fallen pregnant again after a miscarriage the year before - but this pregnancy had its own share of problems. Even though her GP was monitoring her very carefully, the threat of a miscarriage was always present. Plus Lorraine was plagued by thrush and the kind of morning sickness that lasts all day.

However, their holiday had gone smoothly and their hotel,The Hotel Imperial in King’s Cross, had lovely harbour views. They’d been entertained by the Exners, a Swiss couple whom Ross knew through business, and were nearing the end of their time there

Lorraine woke the morning of their planned departure to discover she’d begun bleeding - not heavily - but enough to be significant. The hotel management called for a doctor, who immediately prescribed bed rest for the next three days.

On further consultation, the doctor felt that the long, bumpy drive back to Victoria was too risky. Ross and Lorraine agreed. The prospect of complications somewhere out in the Mulga, or at least between small towns, was too frightening.

It was decided that Lorraine would fly home – a very expensive option in those days – and Ross would drive back to Geelong alone.

But how would they manage it? They only knew the Exners in Sydney and even if they could get Lorraine to Mascot Airport, how was Lorraine to manage the trip home from the other end?

Their salvation came in the form of a fellow hotel guest. Mrs Brady, the mother of an old friend of Ross’ happened to be staying at The Imperial too, and promptly volunteered her daughter’s assistance to get Lorraine back to Geelong.

Thelma, the daughter, had served in the AWA as a driver during the war, so Ross knew Lorraine would be in good hands.

So it was finally worked out: Ross would hit the road at around 5am, the Exners would see off Lorraine at the airport at around nine, Thelma would meet Lorraine at Essendon Airport and take her to her parents’ place (around 50 miles away) to await Ross.

That turned out to be the easy part. Ross still had to drive non-stop from Sydney to Geelong, a distance of around 550 miles (880 km).

It was not a pleasant trip. There had been flooding around the Holbrook/ Little Billabong area which had left the highway full of potholes. He recalls that hitting them at 70-80 mph instead of thirty was fairly nasty - and was murder on the car’s suspension.

There was one bright spot on the trip. It was still early morning and he encountered a lone driver in a Ford who was driving at a similar pace. They drove together in loose tandem for several hours; the Simca pulling ahead on the curves, and the Ford catching up on the hills, but both making very good time. A kind of open road cameraderie developed between the two drivers.

Ross recalls watching the Ford breeze past at a petrol stop and being surprised when the driver turned back a few moments later to invite him to breakfast. Ross was tempted but felt unable to accept.

He never saw the car again.

He drove on alone: his imagination playing out non-stop ‘what- if’ scenarios, worried sick about Lorraine reaching Geelong safely, and only stopping for ‘pee and petrol’ along the way.

He arrived at Lorraine’s parents’ house at around 7pm, exhausted after a solid 14 hours behind the wheel, relieved to find her safe and well.

Thankfully, there were no more bleeds after that first one and Lorraine only had to endure the usual inconveniences of pregnancy – which in her case was several more months of morning (and afternoon) sickness. She managed this by consuming vast quantities of Dexsal and Perry Mason novels.

The morning sickness finally stopped during the last trimester and Lorraine delivered a healthy baby girl the following March – me - and did it again three years later in 1960 (Lynda) and in 1965 (Tracy) with two comparatively easy and morning sickness free pregnancies.

The GP, Ian Vaughan, who had nursed her through that first fraught pregnancy, wasn’t on duty the night she delivered me. In fact he only managed to be present for baby number three. That night he was heard to say something like. ‘It’s another girl – just like the other two.’

1965: My birthday, and a new baby

This is the second in a series of recollections I'm preparing for my mother.

All through the latter part of February 1965, my mother’s small hospital suitcase stood just inside the sliding door of our lounge room, and every morning without fail I checked to see if it was still in place.

If it was missing, then I would know that Mum was at the maternity hospital – and that our new baby was finally on its way.

The only morning I didn’t do this was 4^th March – my 8^th birthday.

I guess my mind was on other things.

It wasn't until after I saw Dad in the bathroom and he said “Happy birthday. Mum’s bag is gone.” that I even thought of it.

Of course, being eight years old, I had to go to check it out for myself – and sure enough, her suitcase WAS missing.

But there was no baby yet.

Over breakfast Dad told us that he'd taken Mum to Baxter House overnight and he would have more to tell us after school.

In spite of this earth-shattering news, we still made time to open my birthday presents. I only recall one present that day – although there must have been others. It was a my new school’s tie pin, which I was pretty pleased with and wore on my lapel.

I was such a dag – but you have to remember this was the mid-sixties…

I went to school as usual, but had to catch a different bus at the end of the day, because Lynda and I were to stay with family friends, Gordon and Cynthia Hall at their home in Highton (a suburb across town).

Coincidentally, it was the also their eldest daughter’s 16^th birthday that day. Natalie and her sister Michelle attended my school and were given the task of bringing me home from school with them.

It was all quite an adventure for an eight year old.

School really dragged that day and I could hardly wait to find out whether I had a new brother or sister. And I wanted details!

I’d been fascinated by the whole notion of babies ever since I’d known Mum was pregnant and had plagued her with all sorts of questions. For instance, I knew that ALL babies had blue eyes when they were born – and I was anxious to see this phenomenon for myself, since we all had brown or hazel eyes in our family.

You can imagine my frustration when we were told that there was no news yet. I thought I was going to burst. What had Mum been doing all day?

We joined the extended Hall family in their celebration of Natalie’s birthday over dinner that night – and I think that a cake was produced for me too, which was a bit special. But the most memorable thing about that meal was that it was the very first time I’d ever eaten corn on the cob. Freshly picked and slathered with butter. Yum, sensational.

It is still one of my favourite foods.

Lynda and I stayed up late waiting to hear from Dad, but bedtime came and went with no word. Since tomorrow was still a school day, we finally went to bed, trusting that there would be news in the morning.

Thank heavens, there was.

Cynthia Hall woke us the next morning bearing hot chocolate, news and a small gift for us both. The news was that we had a brand new baby sister. Her name was Tracy Kim and she’d been born at 11:30pm – just inside my birthday.

Woo hoo!

Oh the gift? Bizarrely, a troll doll each. Mine had red hair and Lynda’s had white. I think I still have mine … somewhere.

In those unenlightened times, a woman's confinement was taken quite literally. New mothers were scarcely allowed out of bed for toilet privileges for a week or more after a normal delivery. Children were not permitted to visit their mothers and I suspect fathers were barely tolerated. They certainly didn’t venture inside the labour ward. Not then anyway.

For us the only direct means of communication with our mother was to write her a letter.

I wrote and I asked her that burning question. What colour WERE our new baby’s eyes?

Mum wrote back, telling us that it was hard to see her eye colour since she was sleeping so much, but that her eyes seemed to be very, very dark. She also told us how tiny and perfect her hands and fingernails were.

Naturally we were desperate to see this for ourselves, but it was nearly two weeks later before we finally met our sister.

Tracy did not disappoint.

I don’t remember too much about her homecoming, except that she was a very good baby and her eyes were never, ever blue. They were almost black right from the start. But she was utterly perfect and we all thought she was gorgeous.

Four year old Lynda announced that she was the most beautiful baby ever. Ever modest, Mum said that every family felt the same way about a new baby. Lynda replied. “Yes, but ours really is.”

You can’t argue with that kind of devotion, can you?

A post script:

A few months later I really earned my big sister stripes. It was winter and Mum was outside putting the washing on the line. She slipped over on the wet grass, and broke her upper arm.

She was in plaster for what seemed like months, probably because she continued to breast feed and didn’t have an ounce of calcium to spare for mending bones.

Basic tasks like showering and dressing were all very challenging, and caring for an infant was even worse.

She continued to breast feed and it was an ongoing battle to keep her cast from resting on Tracy’s head as she fed. Feeding was one thing, but she couldn’t bathe her, carry her safely or even change her nappy – so I became her right hand (or left in this case), at least after school anyway, while our grandmother handled the cooking and cleaning side of things.

Excellent training for when I had my own children twenty-something years later.