Is it just me or am I crazy? (don’t answer that!) I get that I have a lot of migraines. I get that I would rather sleep to fix my migraines than take pills. I’m not saying I’m completely against drugs. I’m just suggesting my first option is always sleep, chiropractor, sleep, then drugs.
However, when I go to bed at 7pm, it’s fucking serious. I don’t even think I want to go to bed that early as a baby. It’s even more serious if I send a message to family to ask them to check on me in the morning in case, I wake up dead.
This generally gets a thumbs up, just saying. Is it normal that family don’t think to follow up?
Oh, my Sweet Jesus Nelly! I don’t know if you can tell, but ‘Sweet Jesus’ has become part of my repertoire for swearing, but in this case it’s not in frustration or disgust, it’s because a carer shared the most hilarious side-splitting story with me on Monday.
Often as part of my time with carers I greet them with ‘how was your weekend?’ or whatever. I do see my carers more than family or friends, so I get their home lives set-up and know if they have had a good weekend or otherwise.
My Girl-Monday, lives with her son, daughter-in-law and 2.5-year-old granddaughter, while the husband is elsewhere finishing up selling a house, so he can join her in Melbourne. So, it was a bit of a surprise when Girl-Monday and I were in my ensuite and she came out with this statement.
“My daughter-in-law almost murdered my son on the weekend!”
WHAT?
I’m sorry What?
Did you say what I think you just did?
She did and she repeated it. My eyes darted to her face.
Apparently, the young granddaughter can get into the cot by herself (can you hear where this is going?) I’m thinking ahead and maybe they are already outsourcing parenting at bedtime and it goes like this.
“Oh, are you feeling sleepy? Do you want to get into bed?” Crazy right? I suspect this in reverse is why the son decided to teach the daughter (carers granddaughter) how to get out of the cot.
I looked at my carer and gave her a long Noooooo!!!!
So, he must have thought if in the morning and she wakes up before they are ready to get out of bed, they can call to her “Sweetie, do you want to get into bed with mummy and daddy?” and they wouldn’t need to go get her.
Again, I looked to my carer in a questioning his intelligence and of way. She informed me he is well educated intelligent young man.
I’m just thinking he has not thought this through and I’m with the daughter-in-law. Even now my sides hurt thinking about how my carer told me about this situation Monday morning.
I’m a single barren spinster, but I’ve had two younger sisters and even I know better.
There are brief opportunities to be answered by the little things about disability and you need to embrace them. Keeping in mind I’m well aware compared to others with disabilities far worse than mine, they would wish this to be one of their problems. But I still like to share.
Having a full left-sided hemiplegia means I have limited sensation on my left. My left arm, leg and particularly my left foot gets rather cold, so beds socks are a must.
But you know that half sleepy moment in the mornings, you stretch out and draw your feet up in bed? Sometimes, if you feel your sock coming off, you push your foot back down to push it back on, then change the angle before you repeat the movement, in the hope you don’t lose your sock. I often get out of bed in the morning to find I’m missing my left sock.
My carer generally notices it and I snort a ‘whatever’ and later I need to go back and dig around for it. It’s often tucked under Mika my cat, who settled at my feet.
Other times, by the time I get to find the sock, there is more than one. Last week I found a nest of three socks and they were all together.
No wonder I had carers complaining they couldn’t match up my socks. Clearly, it’s no biggy. If no one dies, we’re all ok. It’s a damn bed sock. Put it in the draw, it’s mate will join it eventually.
I don’t have any tattoos. I always intended to and I think there’s still time, but while I don’t have tattoos, it would appear I am into scarification in a purely accidental way.
I recently briefly lent my arm on an oven tray. I noticed it quickly because it’s my ‘good’ arm and it was on the soft inside of that part of my arm, so for the rest of the night anything I did with my right hand, that part of my arm brushed up against something tortured.
I managed to get some cream a huge bandaid on it by myself. The bandaid stayed on my arm all night, but the arm not fully protected.
Wounds on my good arm are not easy to dress myself. Not impossible, but definitely a challenge.
A few days later I was at my regular chemist where the staff recognise me. I showed her my large bandaid covered arm and I made my little joke “I don’t have tattoos, but it would seem I’m into Scarification” it took her a moment, but she got it.
I was a little self-conscious of people seeing the bandaid and thinking I’d attempted self-harm. I would have to puk that.
I’m actually right-handed, so sorry I would harm my left arm. I couldn’t do this to my right arm. Right?
And for a while, I wouldn’t even feel it on my left arm. This got rather muck, didn’t it? A long way to show off my non-battle scars.
I confess to say I’m not a fan on the animal print on people. I know, I know, it’s been around for eons.
Thank God, wearing fur is largely over and done with. But, every now and again some fashion victim tries to bring back Leopard print on pants or bags or fucking something.
I know I’m sounding rather grumpy about it but, every now and again I see an eighty-year-old Italian lady wearing them.
Now, I know an eighty-year-old wearing them. Wow, Wow, NO! Her children are doing her a disservice, take your mum shopping for age appropriate clothes. Her arse is no longer a peach. Might never have been.
I realise I sound very grumpy. Sorry Not Sorry. I’m just saying, let animals do animal print. They do it best. Leave it be.
You know those moments when you say something totally racist, when your intention is anything but, so says every racist. However, (see what I did there?)
Just like when people say “I don’t mean to be racist, but” and they say something totally racist. Standing outside my apartment complex the day my friend delivered my new couch.
Background about Frank, more Italian than I am. His parents were both older when they came to Australia in a different generation to me. Frank is the same age as me, however married with two fully grown children, whom I met when I worked for him about fifteen years ago and his kids were only little.
Frank arrives with the couch on the back of his van. At the same time, there is a van parked behind his with a woman sitting in the front passenger seat with the door open. Two men and another woman came down carrying things to put in the back of their van. Now, I had noticed their van parked there earlier in the day and some banter between the two men, shoulder slaps and verbal ribbing (teasing).
Did I mention, they were black? I don’t mean that in a racist way. There are plenty of Indian, Asian and African people in this area. However, I mean really black. I should point out now, over twenty years ago my sisters high school friend married a gentleman from Nigeria and so came the term “He’s as black as snow” and he has the most softly spoken voice. They have and assortment of chocolate coloured kids, however these four people were really black.
Frank was there and down the street came his friend to help. Frank and his friend started ribbing each other straight away. I asked how they knew each other, to which Frank quickly replied “Prison”. I’ve known Frank about twenty years now and he has definitely not been to prison.
Unbeknownst to Frank, I caught the eye of the woman sitting in the front seat of the van, at the mention of “Prison” her face showed surprise, shock and concern. I would like to say she paled somewhat, but that’s not true. I caught her eye and shook my head in the negative.
Frank and his friend were continuing their joke with who had the top bunk (while in prison). Anyway, when the two guys started bringing things (couch/fridge) down the steps Frank stepped forward to help because that’s what wogs do (they help) they don’t wait to be asked, they don’t offer, they just step up and help.
Every time Frank stepped up to help and also to help avert disaster, I gave him a little cheek too “You just can’t help yourself, can you?” Frank and I started to racially profile the people moving out, in a non-racist way.
We were guessing what part of Africa they were from (Eretria) and we figured they had been in Australia for less than five years, however the way they communicated with each other and the banter and cheek between the two men meant they were likely, brothers-in-laws or siblings and Frank and I considered where his parents had been like when they arrived here.
I had spoken to the supervisor in the front passenger seat and we agreed you only encounter people when you are moving in or out of the apartment. They had been here three years and it’s the only time I’d seen them. Now they are gone, which is sad because they seemed nice people.
And well, my friends seemed alright despite one (Frank) having been to Prison.
P.S. Prison, apparently a common term for going to church. Too funny.
I was thinking this morning in the shower, as you do the meaning of the word “Apparently” is that everything you say after it is not necessarily fact?
So, in that way, in my late teens my mum taught me the difference between when to use the words “but” or “however”.
So, when you use the word ‘but’ after a statement it’s maybe when you are about to justify a comment you have made, that actually negates that comment and if you want that comment to stand then justify it you should use the word ‘however’ instead of ‘but’.
I could give you an example now, BUT it will be more interesting to see if people notice it in the future posts.
I think the punchline to the previous post is that despite eating dinner by 7pm, doing the classic dinner and a show, I was actually home by 11.30pm.
Despite being completely spent and everything hurt from the 4,500 steps I’d managed all past a time I’m normally committed to my couch, I couldn’t go to bed until 2am.
AND I WAS STILL AWAKE AT 4AM.
It takes me days to get over it. I don’t drink, so I really don’t understand the drinking/partying mentality. Where you are hungover the next day, or is this just getting old?
Since my disability and in particular my loss in eyesight, I rarely go out in the evenings. My physical disability zapped my ability to run around like I just didn’t care. My loss of eyesight zapped my ability to see in the dark. My financial restraints zapped the ability to enjoy going out anyway.
But on a rare occasion I get scooped up to go out for dinner by people who get up super early for work. We go somewhere local, cheap and cheerful. Close to me and I’ve usually eaten by 7pm. Oh dear, I’m getting ready for the Nursing Home after all.
I’m often home again by 8pm. No joke. I might go out two or three times a year for dinner and this year I managed to get out for the Comedy Festival. I haven’t been out to the festival for about seven or eight years and it’s an effort to say the least.
I was dressed from early in the day, even though I didn’t need to leave the house (apartment) until around 5pm. I had a kip in my clothes even because I wouldn’t have made it otherwise and I even put on make-up. Effort.
But once committed, that was it.
These days there is a tram stop at my front door, which is awesome and at times I’m normally at home committed to a quiet evening on the couch, I go out and on the tram. As per usual, all things do not always go to plan. When do they ever?
I catch the tram past my favourite Wednesday Café and into the city via Smith Street, Collingwood and on Smith Street, the tram stopped because a car had broken down in front of the tram and an announcement came over the loudspeaker.
“Waffle, waffle, waffle”
Sometimes the messages are a little hard to decipher. A woman stood up behind me and in a rather grumpy tone, demanded “Can someone please translate that for me?” The tram emptied out of about 80% of the passengers, including the grumpy lady.
The tram driver walked down and stood next to me to tell the back part of the tram passengers what the issue was. It was that a car had broken down, people and a tow truck had been called. We could sit and wait (for an undeterminable time) or we could choose to get off and walk if we didn’t have far to go.
I reached out to the driver and gently touched the back of my hand to the back of his wrist (I was going for the non-gropey/non-offensive gesture), he looked down at me. “Can the car be pushed out of the way? Because we just lost all our muscle.” The driver responded “No, because the car has an electrical system.”
WFT! C’mon! FFS!
Another message came over the loudspeaker and the grumpy lady was back. She wanted to know why everyone had gotten off the tram, if we didn’t need to. She felt everyone had been told to get off and why had that been?
I got up and moved through the tram to speak to her. I stopped where she had last been standing, the younger couple sat staring at me a little bewildered. I asked them “Where is she?” They motioned outside, I said “I got this” It was suggested the grumpy one was probably after a fight, so I used my standard line of “It’s OK, I’ve got a stick.” (Hey it’s a walking stick, but it’s still a stick).
The younger woman sat up with keen interest, like there was about to be a rumble and someone was going down. Enter in my head the Cure song “Fight! Fight! Fight!” like the Rocky soundtrack. Can you imagine smartphones going out and it being all over Social Media?
I told the young lady that was not going to be like that. I got off the tram and went over to the grumpy one. I asked her if she was Ok and I offered to explain what the voice over message had meant. The first as I’ve already explained. The second message was more for people who were further away on other trams who had the option of abandoning their trams to catch alternative methods, so as not to get stuck on Smith Street.
She was rolling a cigarette and seemed to be okay with my version of the translation, but she still seemed argumentative about how she felt we had been told to get of the tram. The driver came over and the car driver had reported a tow truck had been called again and would be fifteen to twenty minutes away. The tram driver told us we could get back on the tram to wait.
Grumpy lady was still grumpy and she felt she had been advocating for people like myself. I wish she didn’t. I told her the next tram over wasn’t far away, so I would walk. I spoke to the tram driver again before I departed and he felt the need to tell me the next tram over was quite far and I should just wait. I took it as a challenge.
Sometimes, when the plan goes sideways, I can roll with the punches. It is a lot more physically taxing, but I had somewhere to be, places to go, food to be eaten and did not want my night to be squashed when it had only just begun.
To be fair, I walked half the distance I had intended, messaged my friend to alter where we would meet in the city and I even walked through the public housing block on Brunswick Street. I almost went around it, but I could very easily be in public housing, so with a “Hey, these are my people mentality” I forged on. Came across a black guy (not being racist) he was maybe early 20’s African and I gave him a little smile, said “Excuse me and asked which path would have efficiently take me to Brunswick Street?”
Out of the tram, walked to meet my friend, walked to Degraves Street, had medicine. Mmmm and shared three Tapas meals. Then walked to the Forum. Next venue, built in 1929 and saw Daniel Sloss.
Ok, don’t know him?
The Project
Ted Talk
He’s young, 28, he’s Scottish, he’s interesting, amazing thought provoking. Go See him.
When I was a kid, well teenager, also had a bedroom along the side of our house. My sister had a bedroom with a view of the backyard.
Yes, this is a second child syndrome moment because, it is what it is.
My view was of a grey fence that actually also had racks added so my dad could store his extra timber, metal and god knows what else. Like the double garage wasn’t big enough.
The neighbours loved to work late into the night over the fence in their carport on their cars. So, bright lights and late nights aplenty.
I recall a brief time, my older sister and I slept in a caravan behind our Aunt’s house, mum and dad were on a mattress in their big back room. My parents were building the house I grew up in. I lived in that house until I was nineteen.
In that bedroom that was view-less, having moved out of home to move to Melbourne to be a poor art student. I’ve moved many times. Have I counted? Yes. I’ve got to find my list. Then add a few places to it. But I hate moving and I finally have a reasonable view.
Ok, now I can see other people on their balconies and other apartments. But I have a view.
Hell onWheels/Life One Handed 