The club where everyone knows your name

In 2011 my friend Scott created a Facebook group for music lovers with eclectic taste, and invited a hundred or so friends to join. I was one of those friends.

It operated on a simple premise. Share a link to song you enjoy, that you think other people might also enjoy. At it’s most simplistic level the group is still that; a place where people share youtube links to songs they like.

What we soon discovered was if you share something on social media, you tend to say something about the thing you are sharing, And what happens when you share music is you talk about it in an emotional way - eg I love this song, this song reminds of that time my heart was broken, this album was the soundtrack to my divorce, this song takes me back to a special time in my life - that sort of thing. And when people bare themselves in this way, in a trusted environment, it allows deep connections to be made.

Those deep connections can lead to many wonderful things. In my case it has led to treasured friendships and important support networks. These are mostly sustained online.

In 2014 or so, I had an idea. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to meet some of these people in real life?

So I dreamed and I planned, and I started to make it happen.

First, I went to the Netherlands, to meet the group’s most active and prolific member. That went well, so I dreamed and planned some more, and I learned how to shoot video for social media. That led me to another idea. What if I filmed interviews with people about the music they love?

So that’s what I have done, on my last few big holidays. I have traveled around seeking out members of this group, to meet, to drink, to talk and to film an interview, so that other members of the group can see them and hear them and get to know them a little bit better.

So far I have interviewed people in (USA) San Francisco, New York, Boston, Cleveland, Montgomery Village, and Portage, (UK) Bath (Northern Ireland) Belfast and Den Haag in the Netherlands.

Tomorrow, I’m off to the USA again, to meet some people for the first time (yay!) and to spend time once more with beautiful friends I have already met along the way.

See you soon my Club Eclectica family.

Write about... anxiety

Please note: This blog post contains a personal account of an anxiety attack. If you are likely to become upset or distressed by reading a personal account of an anxiety attack, do not read on.

Write about... anxiety

I reckon it’s been over a decade, maybe even two decades since I last had a serious anxiety attack. Before today that is. Today’s attack was surprising and intense. And it happened in a swaying gondola high above the canopy of a rainforest in North Queensland. If you had to choose a place to have an anxiety attack, a swaying gondola is probably one of the worst places you could choose. There is literally no escape, no reprieve at all until the gondola reaches it’s destination.

The worst part of it was, I was alone. 

There was no one to soothe me, no one to talk me through it. No one but me. So that’s what I did. In between sucking in tiny gulps of air, I tried to talk myself through it. My self talk consisted of positive affirmation (It’s ok, you’re ok, you’re going to be ok) mixed with self-loathing (you idiot, why did you put yourself in this position) and power phrases (you are strong, you are brave, you can do this). It’s hard to choose the most terrifying part, but definitely the thing I liked the least was the shuddering of the gondola whenever it passed under a gantry. Being able to focus on that one aspect allowed me to prepare myself for every gantry crossing with the mantra “jiggle, jiggle, jiggle” a second or two before the gondola did indeed jiggle, jiggle, jiggle. 

The ride from the Smithfield Skyrail terminal to the Kuranda terminal involves two stops, at Red Peak and Barron Falls, with a ride of about 10 minutes in between stops. At the first stop, Red Peak, I scrambled out of the gondola and said urgently to the smiling attendant “that was terrifying, I don’t think I can do that again.” 

Enter Chanel, a friendly, calm Skyrail staff member, who comforted me and told me there was no rush to get back on. She steered me toward a seat, telling me to sit a while, drink water and take deep breaths. She also told me that if I really didn’t think I could get back on then they’d find another way to get me back down to Smithfield. Knowing there was an option there if I needed it, was incredibly helpful. After a while my breathing slowed, although my breaths were still shallow. I walked around the observation deck to a lookout, and waited there for a half hour or so, until I felt t I could go on. 

Back at Red Peak station I waited in the queue for the next leg of the trip. I got to the front of the queue, saw the gondola coming and squibbed it. I headed back down the stairs to try and get my breathing under control again. Chanel noticed I had left the queue and she wandered over and stood with me a while, until it was time for her break. She promised to be back in 10 minutes. I decided I couldn’t let this awesome young woman see me sink down any further, and i headed back up the stairs and into a gondola. 

This time, as well as the “jiggle, jiggle, jiggle” mantra I put my headphones in and listened to music. Again, I was alone in the gondola. My breathing was still shallow, and I still had a few leaky tears and fearful squeals and moans, especially when the gondola came to a complete stop at one point, but the music definitely helped distract me a little from my fear.  

At Barron Falls I was able to walk around the observation deck (avoiding the section with a glass floor), take photos, and talk to people. I didn’t need as long to recover from my panic as I had needed at the earlier stop. 

For the third leg of the trip, I was again in a gondola alone. I relied on what had worked for me so far, the “jiggle, jiggle, jiggle” mantra, music and the positive self talk from earlier (you’re going to be ok). I even took photos and made a video, so I had a record of what I was experiencing - like I could ever forget it, right? 

Me, being deeply unimpressed with the Skyrail experience, due to anxiety. 

When I arrived at Kuranda I was greeted by another female staff member, who took one look at my face and just knew there was something amiss. She told me that if I didn’t think I could go back down by Skyrail, they’d find another way. 

I walked out of the Skyrail station thinking, that’s it, thank god, I don’t have to do that again. As I wandered through the village of Kuranda, I didn’t feel well at all. My legs were heavy, my head was thumping, and I still couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. My chest was tight and painful. As I walked up the main street a glance to the right revealed a sign, “Massage” it said. I scuttled toward the sign, which was in front of health food shop. The young woman in charge was sympathetic, but had bookings all day. Then she handed me a business card. “This woman is in the Heritage Market and she’s awesome. You should give her a call.” I was literally 5 minutes walk from the market, so I just headed over, and found Debbie. 

Debbie is one of the best massage therapists I have ever encountered. She asked me what had brought me to her today and as my tale of airborne panic spilled out of me, Debbie tapped the middle of my back, gently and repeatedly. As I talked, and she tapped, I started to feel calm. Debbie spent about 20 minutes teaching me where Meridien points are in my body and how to tap them, so that I could perform this therapy on myself, whenever I needed to. She also explained to me what cortisol and adrenalin were doing to my body at that moment, and how the more she tapped, the more I returned to a better colour. What? I asked, what colour am I now? Red, she said. Bright red. 

An hour-long massage followed, and it was definitely one of the best massages I have ever received. In her little cubicle, with a wide window overlooking a small man-made lake (in which I could see freshwater crocodiles) Debbie skilfully found all of the pain and tension I was carrying and with firm gentleness she released it. By the end of the hour, I felt like all the tension I had been carrying not just today but for many months, now had an avenue for release, and I felt a smile stretch the skin on my face. 

Debbie then offered to drive me back down from Kuranda to Smithfield. What an absolute angel. I couldn’t take up her kind offer though. It was totally out of her way and I have never really been one for shying away from life’s challenges. I wanted to go back down in that bloody gondola again, just to prove to myself that I am not anxiety’s bitch. So we came up with a plan to keep me calm on the way back down. 

I spent a bit more time in Kuranda. Lunch, wandering, looking, soaking it all in. And then I returned to the Skyrail terminal. As I moved forward in the queue, I could feel my breathing start to constrict again. Nup, not doing it, I decided, and fled to the bathroom. Some breathing exercises later, I rejoined the queue. 

There was a big queue of people waiting to head back to Smithfield, so there was no way I was going down in a gondola on my own this time. The female staff member I had spoken with earlier greeted me warmly and told me she was proud of me. She put me in a gondola with another solo traveller, a guy in his thirties from either the U.S.A. or Canada - I couldn’t really tell and didn’t want to ask - and a couple of guys in their twenties who appeared to be visitors from Japan. 

I felt sorry for them, and hoped I wasn’t about to ruin their Skyrail experience. Headphones in, music cranked up, I started tapping the side of my right hand with three fingers of left hand, just like Debbie showed me. At the first gantry I whispered “jiggle, jiggle, jiggle”. Everything was going to be ok. 

When we arrived at Barron Falls, the solo traveller in his thirties told me he found the “jiggle, jiggle, jiggle” mantra weirdly comforting, which was pretty awkward for me for a moment because I hadn’t realised I was saying it out loud. 

In the next gondola I was seated with a family of four, visiting from China. To the young boy, I said “can you see the waterfall?” before cranking up the music again and resuming tapping the side of my right hand. 

When the gondola arrived at Red Peak, Chanel was waiting. She said “I’m so proud of you!” and she told me she noticed I wasn’t there when she got back from her break, and had wondered what had happened to me. She said she asked her male co-workers “what happened to our lady?” Those same male co-workers, when I had spoken to them about being scared and anxious had both said “you’ll be ‘right,” which I think they thought was comforting. When it came to practical and useful advice and assistance, it came from the women I met throughout the day. 

On the final leg, I rode the gondola with a woman in her sixties and her son. The woman tried to chat with me but I explained there were things I needed to do in order to get down to the bottom in one piece, mentally, so to speak, and she left me to it. Earphones in, music cranked up, tap, tap, tap on my right hand, steady breaths, jiggle, jiggle, jiggle. 

Me again, on the final leg, riding through the clouds, deciding I wasn't going to be anxiety's bitch.

At the bottom, I clambered out slowly, smiling. I had done it! As I walked back in to the Smithfield terminal, I saw a man leave the office and administration area. His name tag said “general manager” and I smiled at him. “Just the person I need to see,” I said, before telling him how awesome and caring his staff had been with me today. 

“You would be surprised how many other people experience the same thing on Skyrail,” he said, “even today, there were other people feeling the way you felt.” 

I found that a little bit comforting. In my most terrified moments, my aloneness was really heightened. But maybe I’m really not so alone after all. 

Notes:

If you're not afraid of heights you should totally ride the Skyrail to and from Kuranda. The scenery is really beautiful, Kuranda is a gorgeous village full of lovely people. Don't let my experience put you off - it wasn't about the ride, it was about the rider. If you're in North Queensland, do this. 

https://www.skyrail.com.au

Marvellous massage therapist Debbie can be found at Kuanda Massage Services. 

www.kurandamassageservices.com

If reading this blog has caused emotional distress and you need support, contact Lifeline if you're in Australia, or your local equivalent support organisation.
https://www.lifeline.org.au

Five Songs For Darren

True Colours - Cyndi Lauper
Dancing Queen – Abba
It’s Raining Men - The Weathergirls
September - Earth, Wind and Fire
I Don’t Want To Talk About It - Rod Stewart

Foreword

I want to be crystal clear here. I am an atheist who doesn’t believe in heaven, hell or the afterlife. I think we get one shot at life and then we are dust. I don’t believe in spirits, or ghosts or souls. So I don’t think for one minute that our dear departed Darren is going to read this letter. It just made sense to me to write this piece this way.

This blog post discusses grief and ways of grieving. If you find the subject matter distressing, can I suggest you reach out to someone? Lifeline can be contacted on 13 11 14, beyondblue can be contacted on 1300 22 4636 and GriefLine can be contacted on 1300 845 745.

A letter to Darren

It’s been a year.

It doesn’t feel like it’s been a year, but the calendar doesn’t lie. In my heart and in my head, it still feels like it was just weeks ago that I called in on a Friday night, to sit on your bed watching Home and Away, listening to you talk proudly about Luke and Jack (and bitch about everyone else).

If I’m not paying attention on the way home, sometimes I find the car turning toward your place. And then I remember that it’s not your place any more. And then I feel your loss again. Over and over it happens. It doesn’t really hurt any less than it did a year ago, but I have stopped crying every night on the drive home. That’s when I think about you most - when I’m in the car. I don’t know why that is. There’s so much I don’t know.

I called this letter five songs for Darren because my precious memories of you are tied strongly to music.

Even though we knew each other from a really young age, when we first started primary school, we first became close when were part of the high school musical Pippin, in year 8 or 9. We would have been 14 or 15. Those were fun times.

My next musical memory of you is when we were reunited after about 20 years without contact. When school ended in the mid-80s, we seemed to all just fade away from each other. Thank goodness for Facebook. I remember feeling really excited when your name popped up as a suggested friend. I couldn’t wait to re-connect.

Our first outing after that was so much fun. Australia Day celebrations at Club Festi where we laughed our heads off and danced our arses off.

And then of course there were your Friday Facebook posts. Every Friday morning you’d post a song to encourage all friends and family to celebrate Friday. We all miss your Friday posts. We miss you.

I want to tell you about the five songs. Your beloved family chose three perfect songs for your funeral. True Colours, Dancing Queen and It’s Raining Men. They also organised a hot pink coffin decorated with donuts. You would have loved it, it was so you.

Those three songs are so you too. I can remember you singing True Colours to me once. I tried to join in but you shooshed me and held your finger up like some kind of shield against my voice while you sang it at me. And you sang the whole damn song too.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LPn0KFlbqX8

I’m pretty sure we danced to Dancing Queen at Club Festi, and I feel like you shared this as part of your Friday Facebook posts on a fairly regular basis.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xFrGuyw1V8s

And of course It’s Raining Men was perfect for you, the biggest gay in the village. Even before Grindr it rained men for you. You were unstoppable once you got the app you big slut.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l5aZJBLAu1E

But you won’t know about the other two songs because you weren’t here when they became significant.

On the day you died I was home alone on a Friday night, music playing  and drinks flowing, having a wee party on my own, and September came on. I was having a full-on boogie in the kitchen, having a whale of a time, when I spotted the message from Lindy. Poor Lindy, having to break the news to me.

So instead of dancing, I was sobbing. Sobbing to September, pieces of my heart breaking off. So much raw pain and grief. I remember howling like a wounded animal (I’m so sorry Lindy) and the song played on and on.

I fucking love that song, but the association with your death made it impossible for me to enjoy it. Every time it came on I’d quickly turn it off and move on to another track. A few months ago, I was able to listen to it again without having a cry, and I let this dance number back into my life. I sealed the deal by dancing to it at my 50^th birthday party. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gs069dndIYk

And then I Don’t Want To Talk About It is what got me through. Which is weird, because I don’t even like Rod Stewart that much.

So much bad stuff had happened to me in the months before your death (Dad died, I had various health issues), I felt really overwhelmed when we lost you. I was teetering on the brink of an emotional breakdown as it was. Losing you almost tipped me over the edge. Rather than talk about it, I felt like the only path to survival was to contain it. Holding it all in helped me hold it together.

To help me keep it all in, I got into a routine.

On the drives to and from work I would play I Don’t Want To Talk About It and sing along if I could. In the early weeks I would just cry my eyes out, and it’s really fucking hard to cry and sing at the same time. Then the crying ebbed and the singing took over. Over and over I would play it, and over and over I would sing it. I didn’t want to talk about it, but apparently I wanted to sing about it. Have I mentioned that I don’t even really like Rod Stewart?

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=U-uAdxpj-KY

And then one day, I’d had enough. I was done with Rod Stewart and I moved on to other songs.

It’s been nice this week to go back and listen to these five songs, and feel again all of things that I associate with them. Looking back hasn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. These songs keep me connected to my memories of you

I still don’t want to talk about it much, and I have stopped singing about it, and now, I am just really happy to be able to write about it.

If you really could read this I would tell you that I’m so sad and angry that you left us you fucking bitch. And I miss you. And I'd ask you questions, like are there donuts in heaven? And what did you do with my spare set of keys?  

And I would tell you that it’s getting better now and I’m starting to remember how to be happy again. I still miss you but I am happy.

And I know that you would be happy for me. You’d probably roll your eyes and tell me to snap out of it, but you’d be happy for me. I know you would. 

Love, your friend Leanne

P.S. I inherited your fish, you know the aggressive little bastards that I hated and that you said hated me. When I got to your house your brothers were draining your big fish tank and your precious fish were in a Tupperware container with the lid on! Well guess what? Those fish are all dead now too. The little bastards didn’t take to my tank and they dropped off one by one in the months after you did. I mourned each little death like it was massive deal, expending so much emotional energy on each little cichlid corpse. I bet it would have made you laugh to see me sooking over your bastard fish. 

Farewell my dear friend

I wrote a thing for you.

I first met Darren in the 1970s when we were both at Reservoir East Primary School. We weren’t in the same year but in the Reservoir East playground we all mixed with each other. I didn’t know Darren well at primary school, but I did know him.

In the 80s, we were at Reservoir High School, again, not in the same year level, but there was some cross polination. In those years, I got to know Darren best when we worked on musical productions together - not on stage, but on the production side of things like helping in the wardrobe department or turning pages for the band during the nightly performances. What I remember most about that time was Darren’s outspokenness and his sense of humour.

After school, we went our separate ways, but when we connected again almost ten years ago, Darren’s humour came to the fore again.

It was through Facebook that we connected, and not long after that we caught up in person. When we did meet up again, Darren very seriously explained there was something he needed to tell me, something that I did not know. We were sitting on my back deck and I poured him a glass of wine, for courage. Darren explained to me that unbeknown to most people, he was gay. Well, I frankly pissed myself laughing and assured him that unbeknown to him, most of us were aware he was gay. Maybe even before he realised it himself. To say he was pissed off and disbelieving is an understatement. Pissed off, because I had ruined his big moment by laughing at him, and disbelieving because he was completely unaware of just how obvious it was to the rest of us.

Coming out is not an easy thing to do, and I shouldn’t have laughed. I now understand that people who identify as queer are on a lifelong journey of coming out. It’s exhausting and it’s a brave thing to do and I really should have been more supportive of Darren when he told me.

It didn’t affect our friendship though, and over the last decade we became important to one another in a way that not all friendships do. We didn’t plan it, it just kind of happened and we built it on a foundation of a supremely excellent night out at a party in Lalor, where we danced our arses off all night.



We didn’t go out together much after that - Darren was really a homebody, preferring to hang out at home rather than go out at night. Although we didn’t go out much I have lost count of the hours we spent together on my back deck or at Darren’s house drinking coffee and sharing tales of woe. And Darren’s woes were legion. He was always in some kind of dispute with a government department, a business or a fractious individual. At those times we would put our heads together to write a letter to whatever decision maker could fix the issue and mostly those letters would get Darren a result. He would have been a formidable advocate, if only he had decided to go down that path.

We didn’t just write cranky, officious letters though, we also judged people on their fashion choices, judged people on their parking or driving ability. More seriously though, we talked about the big things that were happening in our lives - relationships, ailing parents, careers. On that front, I think it is safe to say that Darren found his vocation working as a disability carer. I was so proud of him for taking that step, of training to get his qualifications and then putting himself forward to take on clients. Caring is not easy work, but Darren was a natural at it, and even he was proud of himself especially when he could see the difference he was making in people’s lives. And he had the rare joy of forming friendships with some clients, in particular Luke, who Darren had a lot of love for and enjoyed a special bond with.

I can only imagine how painful the loss of Darren is for Luke, and I’m thinking of you mate.

A few years ago I developed an interest in tropical fish. It turned into an obsession for a little while, surprising my friends and family who had never known me to have an interest in fish before that. Darren is totally to blame. Totally.

Just after Darren came back into my life I visited him at home and was surprised to see a giant fish tank full of beautiful tropical fish, in his lounge room. I couldn’t stop looking at them, they were gorgeous.

Not long after, I rescued an old fish tank from my daughter’s room and set it up again. I was cycling the tank, running it without fish for a while, to get the water parameters right. One day, without warning, Darren turned up at my door waving a water filled bag at me. It contained a white fish. Darren said “you have to take this fish, my fish are trying to kill it”. He knew I had a tank set up and, in what became a pattern over the years, he offloaded his “problem fish” on to me. I protested that I didn’t know if the water was ready for fish yet. He told me he didn’t care, strode into my kitchen, lifted the lid of the tank and tipped the fish in, despite my protests. That says a lot about Darren actually. He did what he wanted to do, whether you wanted him to or not!

The fish became known as Alby and I started to research, to learn more about this fish. The first thing I discovered is that kind of fish should never have been put in the same tank as Darren’s fish. The second thing I discovered is that the bloody thing was pregnant, and within weeks I didn’t have just one fish, I had six fish. Then those fish started breeding with each other and pretty soon, Darren and I were trading with each other the fish that we had bred. Sometimes I’d get a call from him “Hey, have you got any guppies? What about mollies?” And sometimes he’d turn up at my place with a container of fish that I didn’t have room for and didn’t want, but I would take them in any way, fearful that if I didn’t they wouldn’t survive.

On weekend afternoons we would visit aquariums and think about expanding our fishy empires even further.

The most exciting times were when our favourite fish would breed. Darren and I would cluck over the eggs laid by my angel fish, and grumble when the fish ate those eggs, dashing our dreams of tanks and tanks full of beautiful angel fish.

A month or so ago, we jointly came to the realisation that we were both a bit over it and it was time to start downsizing. A week before he died and not for the first time, Darren asked me again if I wanted his big fish tank, knowing full well the answer would be no.

The news of Darren’s sudden, unexpected death has been a massive shock to me. Darren was the friend that I saw most frequently, at least once a fortnight. For most of this year we had slipped into the habit of catching up on a Friday night. I would let him know when I was leaving work and he would leave the front door open for me. A twitch of the upstairs curtain when I pulled up outside confirmed to him that my arrival was imminent and by the time I got upstairs he would be ready with a kiss hello, a hug and smart arse comment.

The second last time I saw Darren, he was unwell with a virus and wouldn’t let me near him, for fear of making me ill. The last time I saw him, a week before he died, he was feeling better so a hello kiss and hug was back on the agenda. If only I had known it would be last time we saw each other. What would I have done if I had known? Would I have held on longer and tighter? Would I have bought him a gift? Would I have stayed longer? Sometimes, we miss the really important moments, or only realise their significance with the benefit of hindsight.

To say I am in shock is an understatement.

I am shocked. I am sad. I am angry. I am bereft.

At times, it feels hard to believe that this has happened, that Darren is gone. And I wonder how on earth I will go on without Darren - my glorious, loud, cranky, smart-arse, funny, loving, bitch of a friend.

I hope there was no pain. I hope you rest in peace. And every time I see someone wearing leggings as pants, I will think of you Darren.

Farewell my dear friend.

Election eve

It’s the last week of what feels like a marathon run and I fell before the finishing line.

It’s election eve in Australia and I’m sitting upright at a computer writing words for the first time in almost a week. A combination of pain from a non occlusive thrombus in the right radial artery (translation: blood clot in my right forearm) an allergic reaction to medication and a virus of the head-spin inducing variety have kept me from the things that have held me together for the past year – basically sitting at a computer writing words.

Because it is the eve of an election that is being largely fought on the issue of health funding, I wanted to write about Medicare. I wanted to tell you the story of how the public health system has caught me and my family every time we’ve fallen. Like, when my son’s birth turned into an emergency situation, from which he eventually arrived safely into the world, or about all the times my kids needed urgent medical attention and were able to get it, without delay and without cost. Or how, in the last few weeks when I have witnessed the health system up close, every test – even those using expensive, cutting-edge equipment – was covered by Medicare. And the care I have received has been mostly excellent.  

I even had a bulk-billed home visit from a doctor on a Sunday. If I lived in New Zealand, that visit would have cost $400. I can’t even begin to imagine how much such a thing would cost in the US, thousands maybe?  The US health system is the stuff of nightmares.

As much as I wanted to write about that, and have in the past written love letters to Medicare, it’s really a universal story here in Australia. I bet everyone reading this can think of a time when possession of that little green card meant you could get the care you needed, without it costing the earth. You don’t need me to convince you that Medicare should be saved, do you? And, tbh, I think that Australians are so passionate about protecting Medicare that vote to save it.

What people are talking about though is a people powered movement that has been steadily growing in the last twelve months. It has been dubbed by The Australian newspaper as a "secret army" and the subject of many illuminating media stories* about a campaign involving people talking to one another. The people in that movement have set up market and street stalls, knocked on doors and made phone calls - oh so many phone calls – they’ve literally had thousands of conversations. Each week, more people have joined in. 

Watching a movement grow is very special and it’s been a brilliant campaign to watch and to work on. The campaign organisers around the country and the team at campaign HQ are some of the finest people you could ever meet. I’m inspired by their stamina and drive, and their tenacity and creativity. They've literally given their all and I know I'm not the only one that doesn't have much juice left in the tank. But still they carried on, week in week out, facing greater adversity as the looming election grew closer - the tales of chicanery and bastardry at early voting centres have been toe-curling. 

I’ll be watching the results very closely tomorrow night. my ears pricking and my pulse rate raising a little every time there's an update on the results in the thirty-odd seats the campaign touched. Good luck one and all, the Build a Better Future campaign team. 

*That secret army’s not so secret anymore

*Election 2016: Union volunteers staff Labor’s ‘ground war

BONUS: ELECTION EVE TRADITIONAL TUNE

BONUS: THIS TRACK INSPIRED THE WORK OF THE HQ CAMPAIGN POD

My Left Foot - Part 2 - Surgery and Hospitalisation

Surprisingly, I felt very calm during the morning of my foot surgery. It was probably because everything was organised.

The kids were at school and would head to their dad's house in the afternoon. The dogs were at my brother's house and I had done 30% water changes on all of the fish tanks. The guinea pigs had fresh hay, water and food and the plants had been watered. My friend Darren was driving me to the hospital and my friend Jacky was picking me up. I had rearranged the lounge room, ready for many weeks of convalescence. There was food in the cupboard and ready-made meals in the freezer. There wasn't anything left to do, but I couldn't sit still and spent the whole morning on my feet pottering around the house.

I arrived at Epworth Hospital Hawthorn at lunchtime and waited on shaking legs for the admissions officer to call me to the window. When it was my turn, I was asked for payment of the hospital excess of $450. I had already organised to have the excess waived, and I took a seat while she searched for the right piece of paper to confirm it.

A nurse with a bubbly personality collected me from the waiting area and wheeled me into the pre-op ward. I was handed a surgical gown and a large paper bag and shown into a change room. Once I got the gown on I hobbled to the nurse's office where I was quizzed about what I had consumed that day and how I was feeling.

She left me alone with a stack of trashy magazines and after ten minutes or so the surgeon entered the office and greeted me. He asked if I was ready and I told him I was more than ready to get this show on the road.

"Ready when you are Doc,"

With a permanent marker he drew a dark blue arrow on my left shin, pointing at my left foot. "Now we're ready," he said. We laughed together before he left me alone in the room again.

Next to enter the room was the anaesthetist. He had warm hands and a gentle manner and he nodded sympathetically when I told him that, like just about everyone on the planet, I was terrified by the idea of general anaesthetic. He promised to look after me and changed the subject, asking me to climb up on the guerny and tell him about my work. I could feel my heart thundering in my chest as all of the anxiety I had suppressed all day came bubbling to surface and I babbled.

While I was part way through a despairing diatribe about union density in the Australian private sector the anaesthetist and his nurse wheeled the guerny the short distance from the office to the operating theatre. As the double doors were pushed open I heard myself say, in a fairly belligerent fashion, "they get all the benefits and the buggers still won't join their union!"

6 pairs of eyes stared at me, surgical masks hiding facial expressions. I sincerely hoped I hadn't been wheeled into a room full of Tories with sharp knives!

The anaesthetist asked me to sit up on the guerny and roll onto my stomach and said he was about to give me something to help me relax, as well as a nerve block.

I don't know who the other people in the room were, but they seemed busy fiddling with machines and murmuring softly to one another. I felt a quick sting in he back of my left knee and stayed face down for maybe 30 seconds more. The anaesthetist asked how I was feeling.

"A bit light headed actually," I told him.

He helped me sit up and the room started to spin. As soon as I lay down again, this time on my back, the anaesthetist said "We're ready to start now Leanne." A black mask was lowered over my mouth and nose and I was told to count backwards from ten. I don't think I even got to 9 before I was out like a light.

When I awoke a couple of hours later, my first thought was "It hurts."

My eyes blinked open and I saw a nurse behind a desk at the end of my bed. My elevated foot was resting in an open cast with crepe bandage wrapped around it, held together with tape.

"It hurts," I said, aloud this time, in a croaky voice.

She moved away from the desk and I closed my eyes. When I opened them again the anaesthetist's nurse was at my bedside.

"Hi," I said, "It hurts."

Then I cried a little She put her hand on my arm, to comfort me.

"We're going to move you into your room now and then we'll get you something for the pain."

I was becoming more alert and the pain was waking up too, growing in intensity.

"It hurts," I breathed, trying not to cry again.

The guerny was wheeled into an insanely large private room and I transferred to a bed with help from two nurses.

Now that I was fully awake I noticed how thirsty and hungry I felt and I could smell the hot meals that had been delivered to the other rooms in the ward. My stomach growled loudly. A nurse told me she would organise a light meal for me and handed me a cup of tablets, followed by a cup of water. I swallowed the contents of both before having a quick lesson in how to operate the bed and how to call for help. Before leaving the room the nurse switched the TV on and handed me to remote control, which I used to find ABC24. I watched the rolling news coverage through bleary eyes and it wasn't long before I dozed off.

When I opened my eyes again it was night and I could see the bright street lights through the window. I pressed the call button next the bed and a curmudgeon nurse appeared in the doorway. My most pressing needs were urination and food and she helped me get up on my right foot and pushed a wheeled walking frame within reach. I used it to hop to the bathroom and the nurse left to find me some food. The plate of sandwiches that arrived about 15 minutes later were gratefully received and I savoured all three of them.

When I had finished eating I was handed another cup of pills and a cup of water, and then I snuggled into the bed to watch Lateline. I slept well, deeply.

The pain woke up the same time I did and I buzzed for a nurse who told me the meds would arrive in half an hour. I counted the minutes, 28, 27, 26, 25, and tried to distract myself with emails and social media.

My first visitor that day was the surgeon. When he asked me how I was feeling I said "better than Campbell Newman," to which he looked perplexed - I'm not sure he got the reference, but he glanced at the television and said "Oh." (I can’t actually remember what was going on with Campbell Newman on that day). He told me the surgery went very well and the most important thing to do now was rest, and he’d stop by again the following day.

My next visitor was the hospital physiotherapist, who showed me a range of mobility devices I could use while in hospital and hire to take home. I took a knee scooter for a test ride up and down the hallway, moving fast on the smooth linoleum-covered floor. I chose the wheeled walking frame for in-hospital use and arranged to hire a knee scooter and a commode seat to take home. All three were delivered to my room before my next visitor arrive.

Darren was immediately drawn to the knee scooter and took it for a spin around the room before heading out for "real coffee". I was almost feeling like my old self by the time I finished that coffee.

I slept through the afternoon until my kids arrived, dropping in to visit me on their way home from school. I was so very happy to see them. We cuddled, held hands and shared a bag of lollies while they
told me about their respective days.

Mum's on Endone

After they left I tried to read, first a magazine, then a book, but I was struggling to concentrate and stared at the television instead.

The next day passed in much the same fashion, without as many visitors. Wake, visit the bathroom, take meds, eat, doze, repeat. The surgeon came again and Darren popped in to drop off a bottle of Vitamin D capsules and reassure me that the fish and the guinea pigs were all fine.

Day three of my stay was a Friday, the day that the acute surgical ward was converted to a weekend IVF clinic, meaning I had to move out. I was transferred to the rehab ward soon after lunch, for my final night in hospital.

There's a big difference in the level of nursing supervision patients receive in the rehab ward than in the acute ward - well, that's my experience any way. Things take a bit longer to get to you, nurses are more likely to be up for a chat (maybe that's why things take longer?)

I was in there for less than 24 hours and in that time a wheel fell off the walking frame twice - both times while I was using it, causing me to land heavily on my injured foot. The second time it happened, I was in the bathroom and had just finished using the toilet. The toilet blocked and overflowed and while I was moving away from the overflow - pretty quickly, I might add - when the wheel fell off for the second time. I was in pain, I was immobile and water from the toilet bowl was snaking across the bathroom floor toward me. I tapped the call button and was shocked when four nursing staff burst through the bathroom door.

I gestured, first at the toilet and then at foot, and asked "You're filming this right? Where's the camera?"

One of the nurses snarled at me "you pushed the wrong button - we thought it was an emergency."

I pointed at the overflowing toilet bowl, and my foot, and said "It kind of is."

Three of the four nurses turned their back and left he bathroom, one remained behind to get me back into bed and deal with the toilet situation. He unblocked it pretty quickly and mopped up, while I tried to get comfortable on the bed, bristling with nicotine withdrawal and indignation. I slept fitfully that night.

I'm just speculating, but the nurse who brought me my morning meds looked and smelled like she had come straight to work from a booze-fuelled all night dance party. Her long fake nails were decorated with glitter, her orangey skin peeped out over too low pants and under a too small shirt and her smeared make-up had a definite "morning after" look to it. She was nice enough though, and certainly wasn't going to take any crap from me.

She got me medicated, fed and showered and organised my take home meds from the hospital pharmacy. She taught me how to give myself injections of Clexane (an anti-coagulant, taken to reduce the risk of blood clots) and helped me get my things together, ready for departure.

The surgeon left a phone message saying he wouldn't be stopping by that day and that he was happy for me to be discharged.  He'd see me in a fortnight at our pre-arranged appointment.

Jacky arrived and gave me a big squeezy hug before picking up my overnight bag and the commode seat. The orange coloured nurse followed us to the lifts, carrying two pharmacy bags and yelling at me to slow down - I was scooting down the hall pretty fast and it felt great!

Jacky, who incidentally is the queen of parking, had found a spot right next to the hospital entrance. I got myself into the front passenger seat and waited there while Jacky and Nurse Orange wrestled with the knee scooter, trying to find the lever that would make it fold down. They found it (hooray!) and we took off, waving farewell to Nurse Orange.

I found my sunglasses, leaned back in the seat and lowered the passenger window.

It was time to go home.

#myleftfoot

My Left Foot - Part 1 - The Injury

I didn't really think about my feet very much prior to November 2013. Sure, they had done a good job of carrying me across continents, mountains and dance floors but they were also annoyingly wide and difficult to shoe.

Besides, there were other parts of my body that demanded the lion's share of attention, like the hip afflicted with severe osteoarthritis and the knee joint that has so thoroughly pulverised it's meniscus I can both feel and hear the bones grinding against each other whenever I take a step. I had grown used to living with chronic (often debilitating) pain for almost fifteen years and in the back of my mind I knew I would need to have both joints replaced some time in the future.

In the early hours of Monday 18th November 2013 my left foot made it's bold play, dragging me into a world of white hot pain and long-term limited mobility.

It had been a lovely family-oriented weekend. My son and daughter were with me (they have two homes and spend 50% of their time at the home they share with me) and we spent time with my father and two of my brothers and their families, celebrating my son's 16th birthday. Underlying the celebratory good cheer was a deep concern about my father's increasingly apparent mental decline, due to dementia.

Dad and I jointly purchased a new bed for my son, a combined birthday and Christmas gift for the young man who had well and truly outgrown his narrow single bed.  We completely emptied and cleaned his bedroom and my son and daughter assembled the new double bed. By Sunday night, the contents of his room were either gathered near the front door ready for collection by a charity or packed away again in his room - or so I thought.

On a middle of the night dunny run, with neither my eyes open nor the lights on, one of my feet connected with a box of action figure toys out of its usual place. I don't recall if I kicked the box or stood in it, but whatever I did caused a spectacular fall that resulted in my body slamming against a wall and my foot bending like a banana. While reaching out with my hands to break my fall I managed to pull a heavy electric keyboard onto my thighs and a basket of percussive instruments onto my head. Cowbells, rhythm sticks and maracas created a brief cacophony as they rained down on me. My brain did a quick assessment of my injuries - sore head, sore thighs, my foot. MY FOOT!

My long, loud howl of pain roused my thirteen year old daughter. In her levelheaded way she calmly lifted me from the floor and supported me as I hopped back to bed. She helped me into bed and gently rested my foot on a pile of pillows before heading to the kitchen for an ice pack. What a trooper! Did I mention she was only thirteen at the time this happened? #likeagirl

The pain was excruciating but I tried valiantly to give my daughter a reassuring smile as I sent her back to bed. It was just after 3am and she needed to get up at 6am to get ready for school. She returned to her room, but I discovered later that she didn't sleep again that night, so great was her worry about me.

I didn't sleep again either.

For the next three hours I quietly sobbed while my foot swelled and throbbed. I set my mind to the problem of how the hell I was going to get the kids to the train station and myself to hospital. I went over and over the plan I had nutted out - lie here until 6:30 am, call cab and call brother, drop kids at station and pick up brother, go to hospital.

As the hours passed I added another item to the list - lie here until 6:30am, hop to the bathroom, call cab and brother, etc. My tumble had derailed me from the purpose of getting up in the first place and my bladder was uncomfortably full.

At 6am my daughter returned to my room to check on me, and when the tousled head of my son appeared in the doorway and he asked "what happened?" his weary mother and sister snarled in unison "how on earth did you sleep through all the ruckus?" Poor fella. He dropped to his knees by my bedside and hugged me tightly. Eager to help, he kept asking what he could do for me. I laid out the plan for them and my son helped me get off the bed, then supported me while I hopped to the bathroom. Every hop jolted my left foot, giving new life to pain. I gritted my teeth and sank gratefully onto the toilet seat.

I couldn't bear to jolt my foot any more, so I crawled on hands and knees back to the bedroom, grabbed whatever clothes were within reach and after levering myself onto my right foot, I threw the clothes and myself onto the bed. I dressed myself lying down and waited for the kids to finish dressing, having breakfast, making lunch and packing bags. The pain was so overwhelming I was having trouble talking, so I booked a cab via an app and sent a text to my brother telling him to be in his driveway and ready to jump in a cab.

When the cab arrived I crawled out to the driveway and, using my elbows on the taxi seat and with a helping hand from the taxi driver I levered myself up on to my right foot so I could get onto the seat. The driver was very kind about my predicament.

As I looked at the worried faces of my children when I left them at the train station, I wondered if I would see them again that night, or if I would be spending the night in hospital.

I was relieved to find my brother waiting in the driveway at Dad's house as instructed. He was Dad's primary carer and there was every chance he wouldn't have been able to get away. Thankfully, Dad was still asleep when I arrived. Knowing that the Royal District Nursing Service would be along soon to supervise his morning insulin injection and make sure he ate breakfast, and also knowing Dad's habit of wandering off from home in search of his "other home" usually occurred in the afternoons or evenings, we felt we could take the risk of leaving him alone for a little while. All I needed Shane to do was get me into a wheelchair. Once he had wheeled me into the emergency department I told him he should head back to Dad, but he stayed with me and asked his partner to keep an eye on Dad. #dementiaadventure

At the triage desk I graded my pain as 10/10 and gratefully swallowed the morphine tablet handed to me by the nurse. After 20 minutes, when the morphine had merely taken the edge off the pain, I figured I had sustained a fairly serious injury. Although still in pain, my mood improved dramatically and I was able to smile and joke around. That's morphine for you!

I was wheeled into the x-ray department and the pain reared its head again when the radiographer insisted I bear weight on my foot. I waited in the short-term emergency ward trying to calmly breathe my pain out (some hippy pain management technique I had used successfully during labour and childbirth) and chatting with my brother. I sent an email to my boss and my staff, letting them know I probably wouldn't be coming into the office.

A doctor arrived at my bedside to let me know the x-ray did not show any breaks or fractures, so they were sending me home. A woman arrived with a pair of crutches and an equipment hire form, so I could pay the $30 hire cost before leaving the hospital. I was discharged without a prescription for pain relief medication and was advised to take paracetamol to help with the pain.

I spent the remainder of that week on the couch with my foot elevated, using my phone and iPad to work from home.

The following week I hobbled into the office for a day-long management meeting and spent the rest of that week working from my couch. When there was no significant improvement by the start of the third week, I went to my local general practice and asked for another x-Ray. Again, the x-ray didn't show any bone damage and the GP said that I should continue to rest it as much as possible, and it should be back to normal within a couple of weeks.

I felt frustrated with this advice and wanted to look into it more thoroughly, but there was so much intense, serious stuff going on in my life right then that I let go of the idea of healing and settled for carrying on and coping with a bung foot.

For the next seven months I hobbled around on my painful, misshapen foot while life went on. I hobbled to the Victorian Civil and Administrative Tribunal for the hearing to be appointed my father's guardian and administrator. I limped through tours of aged care facilities in the north and north east of Melbourne. I clomped around Dad's house, helping my brother's pack up his belongings after I moved him into a nursing home. I shuffled through airports in Melbourne, Sydney and Adelaide and dragged my foot along those cities' streets and throughout the north island of New Zealand. All the while, biting back the pain and discomfort. I almost managed to stand through an entire Polyphonic Spree concert, but I just couldn't make it through the eight song encore set and trudged outside the venue looking for a seat.

Stupidly, this injury also co-incided with my sudden and surprising obsession with tropical fish-keeping - an interest that involves lugging around heavy buckets of water and other heavy things like tanks and gravel. #tanktales

There wasn't much time to elevate my foot over those months as the demands of the campaigning work I was doing in my regular job, coupled with the work I was doing out of work hours on our internal election, saw me working fourteen hour days and working seven days a week. I can't be sure of this but I think my stress and fatigue left me in a fog so thick that the pain couldn't pierce it. I just kept stumbling on, knowing the end of this intense period would surely come.

Then two things happened in July 2014. We lost the internal election, throwing my job security into question, and the twelve month waiting period for the private hospital cover I had organised on the advice of a health insurance consultant I had met at a pub in mid-2013, expired.

I pushed my job security fears to one side and made an appointment with the sports medicine doctor who had diagnosed my knee issues a year or so ago. I told him I wanted to organise hip replacement surgery as soon as possible now I was eligible for private hospital cover. He had watched me closely as I walked into his office and he said we could talk about the hip but it seemed my foot was the obvious priority.

The MRI he ordered showed the ligament that normally holds the foot bones in their place was, in my foot, a "ball of grey mush". Arrows on the scan pointed to spots of arthritis and possible fracturing. The doctor referred me to two surgeons for urgent assessment and asked me to let him know which one I decided to go with.

The first surgeon I saw sent me off for a CT and CT-spect scan. The process for these scans takes a day and when I next saw the surgeon he was able to show me an in depth look at the damage to my foot. The ligament was beyond repair and there were little fractures and small loose splinters of bone.

In the fall all those months ago I had sustained a lisfranc (mid-foot) injury along with the ligament damage, and the only course of action available was a surgical procedure called a mid-foot fusion.

I was relieved to finally have an understanding of the injury and to learn there was, if not a cure, a procedure that could give me some relief.

Between the diagnosis and the surgery (about 7 weeks) I got through by having the foot strapped by a podiatrist (surprisingly effective) for four days per week, then wearing a soft ankle brace on the other three days.

On 5th November 2014 - almost a year after I fell - I was wheeled into surgery.

To be continued.