My People

Published October 7, 2024 by helentastic67

My People

I use the term “My People” often to refer to people in my life. They can be friends, carers, receptionists at regular appointments I go to or even people I encounter in waiting rooms as I did having my standard weirdo conversations.

Today, a Wednesday, I actually had a different carer today as my regular Girl-Wednesday was off sick. I got to my chiropractor by midday. No easy feat I assure you. But after breakfast in the car on our way, nailed it. I hope you are all aware. Helen is not a morning person.

Managed to get to my favourite North Fitzroy Café, got takeout lunch but still, it counts. Got home, inhaled lunch, sorry, no photo. But then fanged it out to the acupuncture and physio, punched, stabbed and electrocuted all in the same day. I even share a moment of celebration with my Physio that I got to the Grumpy One. It is understood I’m referring to the one that stabs me. I mean, I’m grumpy too but seriously, the stabber takes grumpy to a whole new level. Should put my family in a room with the other grumpy one.

My physio entered the curtained area that I was in. I pointed to the next treatment area stating, “You know, I know someone is in there, right?” Then I point to the shoes down on the floor, the toes pointing in my direction.” And I know they are that person’s shoes?” and he finished the thought process out loud! “If they were in those shoes, they would be staring at us through the curtain?” Me: “Right?” So creepy. He literally bent in half laughing with a hand on his knee.

Honestly, I love my people, and this is why I manage to get through each and every day.

On my way home, fangin’ it and I encountered a portion of footpath blocked off for some kind of maintenance, I had not gone to pee before departing my last appointment and detours were already not on my immediate agenda. A sign directed me to use the “other footpath!” Which to be clear was fifteen metres across the road and I doubt anyone was going to stop traffic to give way to hellonwheels. I detoured down a side street and down a lane way. The cobblestones wreaking havoc to my bladder. Cobblestones are retreats at the best of times and picking the best path does not always mean you can stick to it all the way along. But, alas, I made it to the other end and back to the High Street, continuing my way. Bars had started to open and put out their tables for after work drinkers and socialisers.

I got to the garage entrance in time for someone in their car to open the gate. I fanged it down and rather than the normal fang it to the basement and back to “Open up the motor” that I normally implement. You all realise its powered by two car batteries under my seat, right?

Parked in the shed and hot footed it upstairs, via the lift. Inside, put everything down on the floor, and made a beeline to the main bathroom to the toilet. I’m just saying, disaster averted.

Which leads me to some wise words for future property developers.

The Average Day of Getting Sh*t Done

Published August 5, 2024 by helentastic67

The Average Day of Getting Shit Done

Today’s title seems like an angry way to start but it is what it is. Yesterday I went to get out on hellonwheels when the poor girl could barely get out of B1, (basement carpark) so after limping back to my shed to put her back on charge and confirmed she was actually charging (it was), meanwhile my phone in my bag was going off, surprising, considering the amount of concrete I was under.

Back upstairs, I called to reschedule my physio appointment again. I should be getting there to get electrocuted every fortnight but lately every time I book my appointment, I end up needing to bump it, to prioritize something else.

Then, I go through my mental list of the calls necessary to get my scooter back to being a problem solver and not a hindrance. So, I call the people that used to solve it before the NDIS.

I start all my calls the same way, “Hi, I’m Helen, how are you?” And after I start this way, they usually assume I’m calling on someone else’s behalf, WTF! She is ME people!

I am distinctly aware most people don’t call on their own behalf, but this is how I get shit done and I can’t rely on anybody (should I finish the sentence there?) to do all the things for me to keep me independent.

Don’t take my grumpy tone as complaining, I’m very appreciative I can do this stuff, but I could do without the Busy-Work.

If All My Posts Could Be Titled Grumpy

Published May 20, 2024 by helentastic67

If All My Posts Could Be Titled Grumpy

Remember when I used to work with a grumpy ex-chef? I refer to him as”chef” or I should have. Well, occasionally, in random impromptu training sessions he would offer a scenario to the office a typical client scenario. But he would offer “Initials start with” then he would just pick someone in the office that was present and just use their name. Yes, Helen Caligiuri featured regularly. It was a moment to smile because I wasn’t in his bad books. But it was just an amusing way to throw someone under the bus.

The example I would give for an impromptu training session I once gave, was beconing all the Admin in to the front of my desk. I held up a very long and colourful police check and I asked, “should this client go to do their mutual obligation in a school or an aged care facility?” One woman looked at me with so much fear. She did not want to read the actual police check. Our clients had some colourful police checks. It is fair to say most would be license or loss of driving license or driving without a license related. Stupid but what’s the clientele coming through our doors 20 years ago one might expect?

It is also to say, a general rule of thumb Chef gave me was if a client was outside a primary school dealing drugs, you would not place them in a school to do their mutual obligation. No. God NO! That said, those were our locally born and bred young clients and then I had one Dickhead of a colleague! What? You think he’s reading my blog? Did I name and shame him? Initials or otherwise? Wish I could. He delivered me half-signed/half filled-in paperwork on my desk. It included a half-arsed police check.

I know this staff member was employed as the T.P.O. (Trading Placement Officer) however, while I was only an Admin he had not retained the wisdom of what I could legally enter on the government system with only half the forms filled in. And I was over it. Our Supervisor watched as I called the TPO over. I held up the paperwork and demanded. “What am I supposed to do with this?” Chef looked at me, not actively backing me but not telling me to step down. TPO asked “what?” He had no fucking idea. So, I explained to him his error in judgement. “I cannot lodge this!” Then I had to unpack why, “It’s not signed! Dated! Or completed!”

I suggested he put it on the government system, but I suspect he didn’t know how, not that he understood why he legally could not. Part of our admin process was that we “certified” that the original documents had been dated and signed. He told me to put them aside until Friday, two days later when they attended the office again to attend the Induction where we would normally officially place them on the system and therefore we would finally get PAID. What he failed to realise was that those clients fuck-all turned up two days later.

It has just occurred to me my current mental state might have me being too pissed off to politely complete this post but I think if half of you read next weeks post. My obvious attitude will be explained. Christ! I digress, where was I?

Those damn clients! If they turned up, I wouldn’t enter those documents because they were therefore out of date and I would need to have the clients complete new ones and then I would need to post-date their Induction timesheets and their start date. It’s a whole big fraudulent thing, yeah?

Just say yes!!!!!!

Women Are Stronger When We Stand Together

Published March 21, 2022 by helentastic67

Women are stronger when we stand together

A few weeks ago on 8th of March it was International Women’s Day, ladies of all ages, I hope you did something to celebrate. I participated in a zoom meeting with around eight other women advocates in the disability world. Other groups I part-take in the energy is very different. The women only meeting was very supportive. We all shared some experiences. I definitely plan to participate in some more women’s advocacy groups. My artist friend contributed to the events and celebrations that day with this street art in Melbourne’s well known Hosiery Lane.

Hosier Lane, Attraction, Melbourne, Victoria, Australia (visitvictoria.com)

Now, if you have dick and balls, you know who you are. We do not want to hear, but we don’t have an International Men’s Day. Because every fucking day is Men’s Day. If you stop and listen for just two minutes you might realise why it’s so important women get a safe space, just for a day.

Just try to remember when the last time a man was disrespected and undervalued for his age, gender, abilities, seemingly usefulness to society and women with disabilities are respected even less. And at times, sometimes in an effort to fly under the radar, some women will keep their heads down and not support other women just so they don’t lose favour they feel they have curried, rather than support another woman and this is also unacceptable.

If you don’t figure this already, I’m a really frustrated fucking hormonal grumpy woman who mentions in groups mostly of men the symptoms of menopause and expect them to pay attention. I am currently sliding into the Pause and not enjoying the symptoms. I don’t suffer embarrassment on this topic, but I know some other women will just drop out of sight until all the symptoms have passed.

A male friend recently told me I just needed a shag (Not the word he used) so, I thought this friend was better than this and now I realise my work here is not over either For Fucks Sake!

So, ladies lets be more supportive of each other and let’s be the change we want the world to be.

Cheers,
H

Different

Published January 17, 2022 by helentastic67

Different

Was catching up on some of my data entry today when I realised how well I cope with my brain injury. So well, people often forget my AVM/ABI is not so much mental but physical.

I guess the point of my blog is to educate people that all brain injuries are different. While catching up on my data entry, which is a lovely excel spreadsheet where I record the carer hours and other services for future reference, I realised a date in November 2020 I had so much on at the same time it wasn’t funny. Yet I can cope. This particular day, I had my Personal Care (PC), carer for an hour. My community access carer, despite not going out arrived just ahead of the PC chick. All of which I can work with, as can they.

I still had to be presentable as I had a committee meeting via Zoom. While I don’t do make-up when I’m not out of my home (apartment!). I won’t do make-up to stay at home, but I do need to not do colour and then I remembered my MOTHER was here. It was not planned; it was very last minute the night before. But it is what it is.

My mum had gone out to her appointment and returned by the end of the Zoom meeting.
By which time my handyman had arrived. My handyman comes once yearly for a spring clean. Does windows on the inside, the fan covers in the bathroom, any areas on walls or floor that take a serious hit and it’s not the light cleaning my weekly HC (home care) carers need to do. Suddenly with too many warm bodies in my apartment, a complaint goes out that it’s too hot and can the A/C go on? Well, it’s set still too hot but here’s the remote, work it out.

Still three people are in my home and I’m to prioritise what everybody wants as the most important thing to solve first. At this point I get a bit grumpy. OK! We are working on it, if you can’t help, don’t be part of the problem my mum gets the heater to cool air.

There is a new calm. Mum makes her lunch and coffee and departs for her long drive home. What she was here for had been achieved.

Despite what she may think of how I feel about my mum. My mum is a ROCKSTAR! She really is.

The second carer gets her stuff done for me and departs. It’s just me and the handyman and a recently departed carer visits for a bit. She distracts the handyman briefly with talk of fruit trees and such. I’m meant to roll with the punches, it’s fine. The handyman goes, as does the visitor.

My brain is fried. But I coped with all the craziness. All these things, they wouldn’t normally happen ALL AT THE SAME TIME.

Tuesday

Published September 20, 2021 by helentastic67

Tuesday

Had a crazy Tuesday this week. Now it’s Friday and I’m sitting at my fave café for what has become my new normal day here to lunch and write. It’s the Covid normal.

In my early days of diagnosis, I felt the need to explain my life was less Brain Injury and more normal and my first specialist explained I was a high functioning ABI.

So, Tuesday was a bit more crazy than usual. This is probably a good example of me being high functioning. Keep in mind, Helen is not a morning person.

9:15am – Usual carer arrives for Personal Care. She does all her chores and I do mine.

I make breakfast and sit to eat. (Slam down my entrée of pills)

Turn my phone on. It starts, the bells and whistles, texts and calls and messages. I don’t know why I need to go off grid on the weekend.

I call and negotiate with my young John to get me to my first of two appointments. He can squeeze me in.

11.45am – I’m meeting my Neuro Physio. He sits on the floor trying to stretch out my left calf and front ligaments.

I have been diagnosed with a clunky ankle. It’s an official medical term. It’s causing and adding to my knee replacement one day. It’s already nice and crunchy! (My knee)

So, he’s doing him. I’m doing me. I’m checking texts, sending texts, then I’m required to stand favoring my left side and sit, twist my upper body towards my left to help my leg and foot do leg and foot.

To be clear, all this teases my brain. It’s not super fun, because my right-side brain is saying “you want to do what? Get firetrucked!” (Trying not to swear!).

And I’m dealing with one of my two agencies to fill a shift, the following day on the Wednesday.

It’s a 6-hour shift where I get escorted out, I do the things, we have lunch either out or at home and I set them chores while I scooter out to other appointments, they don’t need to take me to. It’s also when I fit other things in where I need muscles and things that I can do by myself or on P.T.

It’s a 6-hour shift. The texts from my agency go back and forth. Eventually, I’m offered 3 hours which I later describe as like putting a band aid on a bullet wound. It’s a great image, isn’t it?

I was responding that I could offer their shift to my other agency, as in the whole shift 6 hours. What pretty band aids on either side of that 3 hour. I need the whole 6 hours.

I mention via text, I’m in the middle of something and I need to be present in my appointments, but then I get a rather long shitty text stating they had spent 4 hours messaging other carers and clients to find me someone. It sounds like they think I’m ungrateful. The grumpy text ends with an apology for the text. I am now getting busy – this is eight days after I started.

Hopefully I can do it justice. But otherwise, could be, I didn’t get to read her whole message. I got the gist and immediately texted my other agency and if the person was not in the office, I rang them directly.

When I rang, I could even interpret the pause and inner office convo that happened in the background. A carer they have been wanting to send me for some time, they were just waiting on an NDIS checklist.

I confess it’s been two weeks since that fateful day. So, while this may not flow seamlessly from the previous post, I hope you can keep up?

So, I text the agency who is choosing to do their job the hard way, that in the middle of two appointments I need to be actively present at. I’ll get back to them.

It does already look like I’m covering the following days shift myself another way. I flick a text to my other agency. In case that staff member wasn’t in the office that day, I quickly call.

“What’s that?” I’m on the phone while my Occupational Therapist, (OT) who I’m just meeting for the first time is with me. “No, I told her she could absolutely go pee.” Respectfully, that makes us friends for life.

I call the agency and I can tell exactly the conversation that’s happening in their office.

“Oh, send X, Y, Z!”

“Is that Helen? Just fill that shift!”

There is no better motivation than me missing a specialist appointment because their afterhours staff member fucked up my Monday morning. My Botox appointment was rescheduled for two months further away. Botox keeps my left toes from curling (I know. What?). Yes! Botox in my leg.

Anyway, yes. The NDIA survey has been completed and X, Y, Z can cover my Wednesday shifts until my other agency can cover it again.

After my OT appointment, I head out and call my Heidelberg taxi driver. Young John is best at this time and so is Sean!

I hoof it to my far local pide dealer. Pide is not code for anything. It’s just where I get my vegie pide from. Another taxi driver has arranged that I can wait around the corner to make life easier.

On the drive home (10-15 mins) I text the first agency. I confess I was pretty grumpy earlier and wished to call my support coordinator to growl at the agency because I just didn’t have the bandwidth to give the polite diplomatic response.

Yet, I messaged something along the lines of, ‘I appreciate how hard it is to fill shifts when my regulars are away or don’t have a weekend. Then something that I genuinely did appreciate her efforts. Despite that, rather than ring me first to ask if she could wriggle things so she could cover three of the six hours of my shift. Would it be enough?

Sometimes it is but this particular day, I had placed other things in around and in between the appointments that required wheels and muscle.

I did all of this with a migraine.

So, that shift was moved for a month or so to another agency.

The following Tuesday I received a message asking if I expected them to cover my Wednesday. I had to remind them I’d moved it temporarily. This is what happens when someone tries to cover a bullet wound with a band aid.

Chinese Whispers

Published March 20, 2020 by helentastic67

Chinese Whispers

I’ve had carers or support workers now for about thirteen years. Long enough to know the more people between me and my carers means anything they need to know, do, which entrance to use, etc. The more things can potentially go sideways.

When things go sideways that early (most of my carers in the morning around 9.30am) As I’ve been blogging how long now? I knew I mentioned in my early blogging days, I would complain about carers arriving early. This shit is still happening.

This is when I would point to my face and ask “Do I look like a morning person?”

Twenty-four hours a day is morning for me. I’m not a morning person, I’m not a go out at night person, I’m barely a person. I don’t mean I’m not human. I just am constantly grumpy and don’t cope.

My main agency lately, that provides my morning and rare afternoon carer doesn’t have the personal to cover all my shifts. They have already merged with another large agency I’ve dealt with years ago, but they still don’t have support workers in my area. So, two of my shifts each week, they outsource to another agency. One shift to another agency, the other shifts to another agency. Can you feel my frustration already?

Ok I will blah

I have passed on enough details.

No perfume, park on this side of the street, in this supermarket carpark. Enter the apartment complex here, not here. Come up in the lift to the second floor, etc, etc.

Sounds like a lot, but trust me, I glossed over bits or streamline.

The point is!!!

Burkies – Part 1

Published January 17, 2020 by helentastic67

Burkies – Part 1

Ok, the next two short posts are purely context for the third, I now must write today. So, bare with me and strap in for a bit of a chuckle.

When I was first diagnosed in 2007, I lived with my favourite housemate down in Clifton Hill. My favourite housemate even in twenty years of sharing, will as he has in the past, go by the name of ‘B’. The street we lived on ‘F’. We lived on a corner of ‘F’ and whatever the side street was.

During peak hour F street became the alternative route for people not wanting to use Hoddle Street, which was once described by my friend Frank as the carpark. Clifton Hill often had many commuters drive from the outer suburbs, so they could catch the tram from there to work.

The home was brick veneer and our bedrooms were right at the front of the house, surprisingly not as noisy to sleep as you might think.

We had a tiny bathroom, an equally small kitchen with an old Aga, where I stored my gladwrap, foil and such. To put it in perspective, an Italian couple had immigrated to Australia back in the 40’s and this was their first home, where they had, had and raised their children before moving out to the suburbs (as they did).

We had an outside toilet; we did have a garage and possums in the backyard which I fed bread. No, don’t eat that, eat the bread. That’s my finger! Eat the bread!

Anyway, I digress, B parked his car at the front of F street and occasionally he would not be able to park in this spot and he would become quite grumpy.

We consulted over this mysterious red car that was in ‘his’ spot. It was a little red Barina and it has stencilled letters on the side. You know, like those for Tupperware or Mary Kay or Avon.

Anyway, even if you know who is parking in your car spot, you can’t really say anything to them because it seems you are being rude. You resolve this dilemma in all good neighbourhood squabbles with the appropriate passive/aggressive culture of you just keep your car there until they stop trying to park there.

Anyway, B didn’t drive his car for a good few months, maybe he couldn’t afford his rego or whatever. B decided to sell it.

One particular Saturday, he called RACV who were out the front getting his car started. That afternoon, a woman came to see the car and buy it. Ironically, she had gotten a job as a Personal Carer (Support Worker) and needed a car. What a small world.

After the sale was completed, I was moving from one room to another and saw B standing inside the front door, which was timber and glass and he was (from where I was) hugging the door. I thought maybe he was sad to see his car go. He had inherited it from his grandmother.

I went past him a second time and he was still there, so I prompted him “Are you OK?” his reply came after a few moments. A car engine idled in the distance.

“Yes, I’m just making sure she got through the lights down the street and it didn’t conk out” or something to that affect, he was concerned she would come back insisting on a refund.

Moments like these.

Animal Print

Published October 18, 2019 by helentastic67

Animal Print

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.