Birthday Sucked as Predicted

Published November 8, 2026 by helentastic67

As predicted this year’s birthday was less than spectacular. I need you to know how terrible it will actually be every year but know I will be underwhelmed. The terrible started the day before on the Tuesday, my birthday landing this year on a Wednesday. I had the first meeting for my local councils new DAC. (Disability Advisory Committee.) You know it’s not called that now; I don’t know what it will be called. But some years ago, in the last thirteen years I think I’ve been attached to the group they decided to break down all the fun accessibility words like Access and Inclusion, Cultural Diversity, Indigenous and the other things into separate groups. Because it always helps to create a safe place for these groups individually and when you expect them to get long out in the real world, do I need to finish this train of thought.

So, I was all about to go out to this meeting when breakfast decided to come out the same way it went in. I’m all about the graphic description today, so strap in.

I cancelled my taxi, took off my shoes and my AFO and called it. I went back to bed; I call this a late scratching. I attempted to have a protein shake later in the day and that went badly also. Both ends. That’s my attempt at being a little more diplomatic. You’re welcome.

By 9pm I actually rang one of my carer providers to see if I could have a carer. I was lucky to get a carer, who while new to me came and stayed with me for a few hours.

Seems the perfect time to use the best quote from the film Bridesmaids

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bridesmaids_(2011_film)

If you are not familiar, you just got homework and the best quote ever from this film is “Oh my God! It’s pouring out of me like hot lava!”

My birthday I managed to finish the hydrolyte I started early in the morning. My carer was dispatched to do a few things; I managed a shower in the late afternoon.

A text from an older sister suggested even after stating how unwell I’d been still suggested I eat cake. My younger sister rang me late that night and we had a long call in which I cried.

Honestly, family is like death by a thousand tiny cuts. I did get out on the Thursday briefly for an appointment and a bit of hunter/gathering on the Friday. But it really took a week to bounce back.

A friend cheered me this week by pointing out a situation that would be worse than the two days I endured. Said friend has colonoscopy bags. Just so it helps to imagine. I thought this would make the “Hot Lava” situation easier? Until he suggested if the person who had to change the bag could not do so in time. You are so welcome.

Next time someone tells you their birthday sucks believe them. But always also be aware they know it could be worse.

You Poor Thing

Published October 26, 2026 by helentastic67

You Poor Thing

I can’t tell how often over the years I’ve heard those words. This time it was last Thursday. I had been tramming home from my chiropractor’s appointment. My usual chiro has been away and I’ve been lucky to see another one I used to see thirteen years ago.

It was the first warm day of spring, I’ve a separate post to write to explain a weird thing in Melbourne called Fake Spring, hang in there for that. Meanwhile, it was the first day to wear shorts. Get out the Lilly white legs I sport. Short season means people will notice my calf-high AFO. (That’s my Ankle Foot Orthotic.) It and the Botox helps me lift my drop foot when I walk so I don’t trip over. People don’t seem to notice my cuff and collars on my left arm or my walking stick. They definitely won’t notice my Vision Australia badge stating “I have low vision”

So, “You poor thing” I get off the tram just past my home. I hold up my right arm to wave at the driver calling out a thank you. A man on his Harley stopped at the back of the tram. Elderly lady makes her comment. It’s usually delivered to me on warmer days. I lift a finger and point in the direction of my home. I’m nearly home I reassure her, with these words and continue. It’s just another fucking day really. Despite the tone this is not a pity post. It’s a Fuck You post.

I think my twice-yearly dose of CBF has set in hard. October is always crappy. It’s been four years since my father’s passing. I’m OK with this however, it’s the fracturing of my remaining family that sucks, I’ve been trying to make my dad proud. And considering I’ve been project managing several things right now that has not been easy. The wins have been few and far between and not nearly enough wins for the constant barraging of losses.

I got from fifty-three to fifty-four at the end of the month and it sucks every year. Oh, you’re still with me this is not a pity me post. Right now, I’m just trying to get through each day crossing off the items on the To-Do List. Next week, expect a more upbeat post despite the To-Do list not getting shorter. I just wish 2026 was over.

Let’s hope the upcoming deadlines passing will improve my mental state and in the New Year after catching up on blogging and the wrapping up of certain projects will allow some breathing space and future posts will context my current grumpy.

Oh, wait! Barrack Obama, yes that could be a thing. Yes please!

Mid-October, Real Spring May Finally Have Sprung

Published October 19, 2026 by helentastic67

Mid-October Real Spring May Finally Have Sprung

Melbourne suffers through something we call Fake Spring on account of spring arriving only to need to pull out the woolens a few days later. This T-shirt/Woolen routine throws everybody every year like it’s the first time.

I have a jungle on my balcony. Half of which is on other people’s balconies while I wait for waterproofing to be achieved successfully. Waterproofing and home maintenance. The never-ending dramas of home ownership. Boo, I say!

So, this baby. If I have a carer visit once over Autumn/Winter, they will see this tree and insist its dead. They will even offer to pull it out and take it to the bin, how rude.

But come October each year for the whole fifteen plus years I’ve had it, it returns making me feel a little smug success at the fact that I’ve done very little and it still thrives. I bought myself this plant for my then birthday when my last boyfriend didn’t take the hint and buy it for me for my birthday.

It has been in its forever home only two years and it was re-potted a year ago. And it’s loving its new home. The green blossoms will be white by the end of the month and about a week after that the wind will likely blow them all away but it’s all totally worth it.

The orchids after spending seven years in the dark on my last balcony actually flowered this year, I couldn’t believe it. After being hidden from the west facing full sun of summer blast in their last home.

They took all winter to open but totally worth it too, so chuffed.

I thought it was worth some good news.

Angry – I See Red

Published October 5, 2026 by helentastic67

Angry: I See Red

This is something different. I’m using speech-to-text because I’m angry. I’m normally very motivated to blog when I’m pissed off or frustrated about something, but right now, I’m *angry*. Which is next level.

I’m angry for enough reasons that each one deserves its own post. But I’m too busy dealing with the blows and kicks to the face, trying to get out of the way and focus on the things that will give me the most reward for the least effort. All my efforts to get ahead of things and avoid getting angry seem to come to nothing when I find that other people can’t do their jobs.

I’m angry about how people respond when I dare to tell them what’s going on for me. I’ll share one good thing and three bad things, and they only hear the good thing—which is really null and void, or redundant, because the other three things make the first one a waste of time.

Carers are always a drama. Every day, I touch on carers because people think they’re set-and-forget. It’s great that I get carers, but that comes with all their own stuff, too.

And at 53, I’m already being treated as if I’m redundant and contribute nothing to society. Apparently, my needs and input are irrelevant. That deserves its own post!

People treat me as if I’m past my prime, as if I won’t wear something anyway, or probably can’t afford it. That’s not helpful. I’m currently paying out of pocket for things that should be funded, and I’m spending hours and hours doing things someone else should be paid to do. But they didn’t do their job properly to make sure they’d get paid.

Daylight saving has started. It’s too fucking soon.

A few weeks ago, I mentioned to a lovely woman in Sydney, Noelle—she’s a meme queen—the responses I’d been getting from people. Her response was, “It’s September, so I guess people are starting to realise Christmas isn’t far away. They’re also thinking about how quickly the year has gone, and that they haven’t done everything they were meant to do in 2025, let alone in 2026.”

I feel like there’s a hashtag for life goals in there somewhere. I don’t do hashtags, though.

I’m sick of having to go over things and repeat myself because other people didn’t do their jobs properly.

A year ago, I paid to have the balcony waterproofed, and it still leaks. Another unsatisfactory outcome. I guess I’m sick of getting more problems than solutions. I didn’t sign up for this version of adulting. I want my money back—for the waterproofing and for life.

I’m seeing red. Let’s hope October is better. My birthday is at the end of the month, and it’ll be like any other day, as per usual.

I’ve also had internet dramas that are driving me fucking crazy. I think we all know what that’s like. I’m also sick of being ghosted. That’ll get its own post, too.

Okay, I don’t love this speech-to-text solution, but I don’t hate it either. Okay. I’m done!

Side Bar

Published September 29, 2026 by helentastic67

Side Bar

This might be a question for parents. If asking for a friend were walking my dog and let’s say there was flooding, If I saw your children unsupervised by their parents. That would be you, not me. You they who had these children. What if said children were out in said flooding areas and I want to know would it be up to me to rescue your children if they were at risk of drowning?

Or at what point would it be acceptable if I yelled at them to deter them from potential mishaps? Keeping in mind, I got the version of child I could manage, and my recent new addition now a full year old and officially no longer a kitten, has taught me I would have been a yelling parent. The kids I didn’t have are so lucky because while Freddie doesn’t pay attention, I’m good at yelling.

I remember, asking for a friend. I was discussing this scenario earlier with someone who was in the above potential scenario. We all know the moral and ethical answer. However, nobody wants to get in trouble for yelling at somebody else’s child. So, feel free to comment and provide feedback.

In the early days of having hellonwheels, I was fangin’ it through a park in Clifton Hill on Hoddle Street when I saw two young kids playing on piles of bark chips. I stopped to talk to them. I quietly told them I knew it was fun but maybe they should try not to spread it all over the grass and keep it to the designated garden bed. From out of nowhere, grandma hung up her phone to and stormed over to ask me what was wrong? I told her nothing was wrong and repeated the above to her and she took her two young grandchildren away. Which had not been my intent.

People Have No Idea

Published September 21, 2026 by helentastic67

People Have No Idea

So, every now and again things get added to the already full bucket of shit to deal with, and it’s a long process to get answers and solutions. People just have no idea.

Earlier 2025, my left foot had started to hurt. While I was already dealing with my base line of my fifteen years plus disability and the recent hernia surgery, vertigo, etc.

For a while when out in the community I was alternating between grunting/growling or swearing every time I stepped on my left foot. People with chronic pain have become really good at hiding it from others. Because nobody knows how to react when we answer honestly to the age-old question “How are you?”

I know I’ve started being blunter because people will never know if we don’t tell them, and then I must remind them I don’t expect them to fix anything. Because they cannot. I remind people this is why I have such a dark sense of humour and that I appreciate the gentle laughs we share.

Several conversations over time with all the people. The OT, the Podiatrist, my AFO guy in Richmond and to be clear my AFO guy stretched out the side of the AFO using a neat trick of putting lipstick on the raised calluses on my left foot of which there are two.

One particular day in this process I had mentioned it to my Neurophysio while she was working on my left calf and foot.

There was a moment of quiet contemplation where we were not chatting as she did her brand of torture to the muscles in my calf and foot. She sits slightly in my blind spot on my front left but I look down and she has removed her shoe and she is very clearly checking if her foot has the same bumps and bones where mine now has.

She catches me watching her, She’s twenty plus years younger and from the UK. I really like her. I snort a little laugh at her as she thinks she needs to explain what she’s doing. It makes perfect sense; this is not the only time someone alludes or outright tells me I have weird feet. If you haven’t gathered, the point here is it’s a process of elimination.

My GP sends me to the nurses at the clinic he works from and one of those nurses is the other Helen. We now have history also. At that appointment I’m lying on the bed in the nurse’s prep room and checking my foot she calls in the other nurse and I mean, why not make it a party right? Helen says to her colleague, sorry Helen. I don’t mean to offend you, but you have weird feet. Like I hadn’t been telling the beautician this on the few occasions I had her do a foot treatment, me trying to tuck my toes from one foot behind the other, in an effort to hide the very things I was there to have her make them soft and pretty.

I also moved to a much better podiatrist in this process and how to get even more by using tape on my foot to rotate it even a little for her.

Again, I snort a little laugh and my GP finally decided I needed an X-ray and an Ultrasound. I know, sounds extreme right?

One early evening in 2026, my GP calls to tell me of my results. I prompt him with my brand of dark humour. “They say amputate at the knee?” He returns fire with “Yes, the neck down!” Touche!

The diagnosis was a really big cyst of 4mm by 2mm. I know. Huge! It sounds tiny so why does it hurt so much? You know there were ways to put more swear words in there.

So, I don’t know if it’s too late to warn my delicate readers but here’s a picture from only yesterday. So, even after a year this still hurts like a Mother trucker!

Apologies if people needed a warning?

Old Friends

Published September 13, 2026 by helentastic67

Old Friends

I’ve also had a friend staying in Melbourne. Although for him, it’s not a holiday. It’s just a change of where he’s lying in a bed — and no carers, instead nurses.

We went to high school together. We were not friends but have become friends in the last ten years or so. At high school, we were both outsiders, but his being different made him much more of a target for bullying. That didn’t sound right, I was bullied too. It’s just girls do it more subtly. I know!

When I was young, bullying was called being “picked on”. It was indeed bullying, but you weren’t told by strangers that you should kill yourself. You just ended up wanting to kill yourself. And people had to come up to you and tell you to your face they didn’t like you, at which time you or I would tell them to their face to “Fuck off!” Anyway. I digress.

A few weeks ago, said friend, “Dear John”, rang me on a Sunday night, starting with a profound apology. I cut him off with a, “You never need to apologise to me!” That’s when he explained he had been down already for three weeks, at which time I told him he was dead to me.

My thoughts and feelings on this are that I don’t get back to the country often, so him being closer to me means I’m going to take advantage and hit him with my form of love language. If you’re new here, my love language is food!

Now, what it helps to know about said friend is that he has a spinal injury and has had it since we were only seventeen. He was the tallest, oldest kid at the Royal Children’s Hospital back in 1998. He is considered an incomplete quad. That means for him, he’s in bed most of the day and week. He has the use of one arm from the elbow to his hand, with the ability to reach his phone on his bedhead. It is to say, he cannot feed himself.

The first time I visited him a few years ago with a bag of sweet and savoury treats, I did not know how much help he needed. I prompted him with a very silly suggestion, and he simply told me that nothing gets in his mouth without somebody putting it there! And there is something really humbling about being able to go and feed someone something they could not otherwise access or feed themselves. It’s a humbling experience and a privilege. I’m not friends with him out of pity.

I’ve definitely had many life experiences he has not. I’ve had friends who have lived lives I have not, and I share stories with him he would likely not prefer to hear, but it’s always a starting point. I think he is entertained by my stories and banter. Definitely the d’Affinois I’ve introduced him to.

And more recently, my mushroom baskets and homemade sausage rolls. I usually start his stays in Melbourne by taking him a halloumi pide. It’s something he would not get or bother to try in the country where he grew up and still resides.

I grew up an hour from him, but our lives, as mentioned, have been very different. My first visit was assisted by a friend who drove me there and helped by collecting pide in Heidelberg on our way. I introduced both friends. She went to do her thing and upon arrival, I enquired where his laptop was. He no longer had a small TV hanging from the ceiling, and I was informed his laptop had arrived that morning at 9:25am. After consulting his phone, I discovered that was, in fact, the case. It’s always a challenge being in hospital.

If it’s not a planned visit, you may have found yourself in hospital without so much as a charging cable for your phone. He had also reported to me that he had the “black screen of death” on his laptop! His carer agency had arranged for a new laptop and had it sent. I went to ask at the nurses’ station. It arrived in the time I was there and I prompted him as to whether he had any carers to help set it up. He seemed nonplussed.

My friend returned, and hearing my concern as to who would get it out and set it up for him, my friend got up and went to work. She held out the barcode on the box for me to get a photo and send it to him. I couldn’t even do that, honestly, what a princess I am. I got the fuck out of the way. I asked who would set it up for him, and he said he would. I know for this he uses a stick between his teeth. I asked how long this would take, and he said, “Not long.”

Over the years, we have had many conversations about patients and how this existence has taught him to be patient. I know in comparison to this friend, I’m an Olympic sportswoman. And let’s call her “T for Tech” because however long it takes to set up a new computer, it’s too long. I am so impatient.

While visiting, I gave him a little sass, and my friend — let’s call her “T for Tech” — gave me a look that said I was pushing it too far. I responded with, “What? It’s not his first day!” He snorted a small laugh. You can imagine any more effort than that hurts. I like to laugh out loud.

I like that birds scatter and people might notice and wonder where it came from and what might cause such an outburst. I guess this happens with me too. I imagine people wish they were a fly on the wall in these conversations. I spend actual time with them and not with actual family, as much as I’ve tried.

When I’m out and about with my carers, there is always banter, sweet conversations and a feeling like I’m part of a family. It’s not my actual family, but it is a family.

So, I know I’m in high regard somewhere.

What Does This Mean?

Published September 7, 2026 by helentastic67

What does this mean

At some point you will be wondering what the hell any of this has to do with being one-handed? Well, I haven’t always been one-handed, I haven’t always had disabilities.

Well, not as I know it now, I had a normal life up until I was thirty-four. I did all the study up until I my early twenties, I did all the seasonal jobs around a part time or casual job and full-time study. I had routines and then the twenties were more “I think I want to be doing something else” and I started to have to hustle.

For anyone old enough, the 1990’s we had a recession. We were lucky if we had jobs. I guess I’m giving you context to life before my diagnosis and then my disability. There were also many times, well a few I could have been diagnosed earlier in life but, I fully believe I was diagnosed when I was meant to be.

I’d had a life; I got to travel a tiny little bit, OK, once and I managed to make it to be thirty- four before shit hit the fan. So, to speak.

My Blogging

Published August 24, 2026 by helentastic67

My Blogging

“If you can read it? If you can understand it? I didn’t write it!” is often something I tell people.

I hand my carer my shopping list, which I insist on doing old-school, and after a polite noise of confusion from them, I tell them their first test is understanding my handwriting.

I haven’t written my blog posts longhand for years. Disappointingly, certain appointments and the privilege of having my mobility scooter motivated me to come home from physio, where I’d had a kip and enough rest that I’d put on some music, grab some medicine — that being coffee — and smash out posts one after another until I’d gotten a few things off my chest or out of my mind. I’d smash out seven or eight blog posts before realising I should probably consider dinner. By then, it would be dark outside.

So, it is to say: carpal tunnel surgery and a trigger thumb issue. Not as fun as that sounds! Now my handwriting is something even I struggle to understand, I will write several words for something scheduled in my diary, so if I can at least decipher one word, I can then work out what the rest of it says.

I had recently been contemplating purchasing a really nice pen, but even that wasn’t going to improve my handwriting. So, what’s the point?

Back in my college days, I had a class every Friday where the whole class would go flooding into the shops to buy the things we needed for a display. In my first class, I learnt that the stuff I had at home was rubbish, so I begged my parents for a credit card. That way, I could buy the things I needed, have an awkward conversation with a salesperson in a department store, take the goods to use, and then return all of the items for a full refund at the end of the day. Clearly, there were weird looks every time and negotiations at every desk I visited.

That first subject was Menswear and Accessories. I got a shirt, shoes, tie, belt — you get the idea. Then for a big hit of bling, I bought a Montblanc pen, a fountain pen. You know the pen was the most expensive item. My lecturer put it in his shirt pocket to save it from going walking. I came in $5 under my credit card limit that day. It all went back undamaged. It is effectively how I got through the second year of my course. It gave my dad a really good credit rating.

Obviously, I didn’t even get to use that pen, but I’ve only seen one Montblanc pen in the wild since then. I set myself a target years ago: if I ever got published, I hoped somebody would gift me a stunning Montblanc pen.

And in recent years, I have decided that I have, in fact, already been publishing via this very blog. So, where’s my pen?

And anything worth having is worth getting yourself, right? But I’ve already signed all the important documents online in recent years, so what’s the point? Then I’d need to get a safe, as pens go walking in my home and I live alone. So, I guess I won’t be getting a Montblanc pen.

A young carer asked me the significance of this particular pen and I explained that it was basically the Ferrari of pens. I had chosen the fountain pen specifically because, in a display, the tip of the pen was big enough to stand out. I did some research recently, and that pen is worth thousands. Ouch!

Won’t be getting that one. Maybe I’ll just go and look at one up closely. Perhaps at an upcoming ladies’ day to the city. If you are too afraid to go look, here’s a link:

terstuck-gold-coated-legrand-calligraphy-fountain-pen-flexible-nib-MB134040.html

I mean, you can’t even see the emblem on the top of the pen in this and it’s gold. Yuck. Not a fan of gold. Full stop.

I mean, it is to say that in the ’90s, an expensive pen was the equivalent of what a $410,000 watch is now. And I think in recent years I’ve upgraded my high-end car reference from the humble Ferrari to the Maserati.

You can have an apartment in most parts of Melbourne, or you can have a Maserati. You cannot live in a Maserati.

I don’t know how I got here. You are very welcome.

A Pinch and a Punch

Published August 16, 2026 by helentastic67

A Pinch and a Punch

A pinch and a punch! And a punch and a kick for being so quick.

It is the first day of June as I tap out this post. Therefore, the first day of winter. I have had a week already, or even the year. Can we be done yet?

Don’t worry, I am indeed being overly dramatic. I will improve when I get serious and put on my merino wool pants. I bought two pairs last year. The first I bought at a sample sale of a favourite merino wool shop based in Clifton Hill. The only thing I found wrong with them was that they needed hemming. Being height-challenged, I find this to be the norm anyway, so what’s the difference? I then went and bought another pair in black as soon as the spring sale started. I got them online, so I didn’t miss out.

I’m serious about my need to be warm these days and if I’m neck to ankle in warmth, I can’t feel anything and I can’t complain. It’s worth every cent.

I went out for lunch with a friend today and had a delicious lunch not far away in Northcote. Returned home, my friend gave me my once-yearly haircut. Now I’m rugged up on the couch, the youngest child, Freddie, snuggled into my side on top of the lap blanket. The heater is on. And I’ve much to blog about.

Trying not to fall asleep. It’s now 6pm and it’s going to be a struggle to make it. I know I didn’t achieve big things today, but I only had one coffee and I did go out. Not out, out, but outdoors. And it feels like a big achievement some days. And if I reward myself with a kip, it will backfire.

I am halfway through the year, still trying to tick things off the list for 2025. And I only just made my Christmas Day French toast. Take that, 2025.

It has now been over twelve months without my mobility scooter, and while winter is not the season to be out in the elements on a scooter, it still means no fangin’ it out to my not-too-far-away weekly acupuncturist appointments, or my fortnightly physio appointments close to the stabby appointments. Both are free, with no out-of-pocket cost. I’ve not been to either in nearly the year since the loss of my wheels. It means I’ve given up the appointments to better use the time or a carer and her wheels.

Catching up on hunter-gathering, getting to further-away appointments and letting the painful things build up. It seems I can’t do/have both at the same time.