MOOMINS M.C.

Does anyone realise or even care that I haven't been outside for ten days?
After this afternoon's physio session I was feeling well enough to venture outside and steal a bit of the outside world for myself.
As soon as the sliding doors parted, the non airconditioned air hit my body, my senses and my soul.
It was like having a drink of cool water after walking through the bush on a stinker of a day with none of the liquid release from the clutches of dehydration, available.
Sitting there watching the cabbies having a lunch break, the various hospital staff and others walking backwards and forwards, in and out of the building.
The blossoms, on the tree that I photographed in autumn with its golden leaves, the tufts of green on the bare tree branches, all new images and colours for my eyes to take in.
I immediately felt better, but on returning to my cell I was once again met by a feeling of imprisonment, or more an isolation from the real world.
Well, thankfully Brenton and Princess Strawberry came to the rescue and took me down the pub for some fresh air, a beer and a bit of pub grub.
Another motorcycling mate, Mick D, also turned up a bit later.
We spent a bit of time engaging in normal social interaction, in a pub.
Can't get more normal than that.

As painful as it was, it was really good for me mentally and spiritually.

.

Got one of those rough patches me thinks.
Got maybe 2-3 hours sleep in the last 48 hours.
Lost my appetite today, well more than that, my cellmate's lunch's smell made me feel a bit ill even.
I had to force myself to eat something at dinner.
Pretty much sick of this hospital and this room.
Knowing that tomorrow or the next day I will feel a lot better doesn't really do much for my sense of well being at the moment to be quite honest.
Oh well, just another step in on the path to recovery.

end transmission

'
Ok, a little update in the ongoing saga as begun by the drifting Kenworth and its trailer load of potatoes on the 18th of March 2006.

Let's see,

Days in hospital - 155 ( 165 minus 4 weekends leave and two seperate days leave , currently second longest staying patient in ward by one week )
Operations till now - 9
Operations pending - 2
Skin grafts - 1 ( approximately 1 square foot of donor skin removed )
Bone grafts - 2 ( probably one more in next surgery )
Metal plates implanted - 5
Metal plates to be implanted - 1
Metal rods implanted - 2
Metal screws implanted - 38 ( approx. )
Metal screws removed - 1
Metal screws to be implanted - data unavailable ( I don't know how many it'll take to hold the plate in the pelvis )
Metal wires fitted to fingers and removed - 2
Metal staples used - 80 ( conservative estimate, possibly more in future operations )
Metal staples remaining within body - 1 ( hopefully no more in future operations , or any cutlery pieces from the surgeon's lunch for that matter )
Stitches used - at least 6 sites ( can't really estimate actual length as I was unconscious during surgery )
Plastic splints used - 5
Plaster casts used - 4
Fibre Glass Casts used - 2
Blistered burns from cast trimming - 1
Physical scars from crash and surgery - 19 ( ranging from 1 cm to half leg length, and more due from upcoming surgery )
Emotional scars - unquantifiable
Wheelchairs used - 2 ( one electric, one manual still in use )
Anti blood clotting injections in the stomach - 160 ( approx. )
Pills ingested - uncountable, but usual average is 20 per day
Crutches - 2 ( still in use )
Morphine ingested - enough to knock out an elephant
Hospital meals ingested - far too many than should be possible or desirable
Dodgy roommates - 2
Good roommates - 2
Cascade Red imported from overseas - 13.5 litres


If I think of any more interesting trivia I'll be sure to post it up.


Oh and a big shout out to Adam's Ma and Grand Ma - Agnes and Gwen :)


.

'
My right thigh has swelled up since the surgery and is now officially a thunder thigh.
I had my first physio session since the op. today and was absolutely knackered afterwards.
I fell asleep for about three hours afterwards.
I must say that I'm getting better at dealing with pain.
Seeing as I've been in so many situations where pain is a companion, I've had the chance to experiment with a few ways of minimising it.
I admit not too many have been successful, but I now endure it a little easier.
I guess, because it's so familiar now, it makes it more predictable and therefore more manageable.
It still hurts though.

Been having some more weird dreams again.
I went for another ride a couple of nights ago.
I found myself astride some sort of twin cylinder machine and felt that feeling I knew so well.
I had the wind in my face ( must've had the visor up ) and the every time I cracked the right wrist, the thing would just take off like a steam train.

It reminded me of Wolfy's Vee Two Alchemy, which I had a short ride on during one of the trips down to Tassie.
The Alchemy was the epitome of motorcycling for me.
A lovely fat V twin Ducati motor in a very light frame, big tyres, big brakes and awesome handling.
I remember getting on the thing and having this really nervous feeling envelope me, much like just before you lose your virginity.
You know it's going to be fantastic, that you'll realise a dream, that you'll never get that feeling back again and that you'll never be the same person from that point on.

I first met Wolfy outside a pub as he was getting ready to hop onto it, at the time I don't think I'd ever seen one in the flesh and had to go up and have a chat with him.
It wasn't until a few years later that we met again through a mutual mate and started our friendship.

Anyway, back to the beast.
The Alchemy was essentially a kit racing bike.
When I turned up to his house, the thing was in bits on the kitchen floor.
His main stumbling block was the lack of an appropriate oil filter, which eventually was substituted by a Renault oil filter sourced from the local garage, slightly modified with a hammer.
I mean, it had no gauges, no real road going gear on it, so you really didn't have any idea how fast you were going on it, you could maybe estimate according to which gear it was in.

When I took off on it, I felt like I'd just been strapped to a train.
The worked Ducati motor launched the bike and insanely grinning rider with a really confident V twin rumble and vibration, coupled with seemingly endless torque and power that was almost daring me to go faster, and so I did.
As there was no tachometer to indicate some sort of end to the festivities I had to guess the point at which the redline should be, then I changed gears and it did it again, and so on until there were no more gears left.
No matter which gear was selected it just pulled like an angry bull.
At one point I had a sudden momentary lapse of lunacy and decided that I should try the brakes, you know, just so I can get the feel for them.
Well.
I nearly performed a flying dismount with forward somersault.
Being used to my crappy FZ 750 brakes, which I likened to four crumpets trying to bring two spinning pancakes to a halt, I just didn't expect the bite that the Alchemy's race brakes had.

The tyres on it were a bit wider than they should've been and because of that, the bike required custom made sprockets.
But being such a light bike and having those tyres meant that you could lean the thing at angles my poor old FZ 750 could only have wet dream about.
Overall, the bike handled everything with such confidence that it made me feel like I was a better rider than I actually was, but did it in a very safe way.
I suppose I wasn't even giving it a poofteenth of what it was actually capable of.







Alchemies........ like Wolfy's, except not as trick.


The bike in the dream was the same.
It had the same qualities and feel as that Alchemy ( which Wolfy still owns, and it's probably still in his kitchen in a state of semi disassembly ) and it gave me a really warm and fuzzy feeling deep inside.
I really enjoyed cracking the throttle and having the thing pull away like it was being chased by the hounds of hell themselves.

At a later point in the dream I was travelling on a three lane highway in the pouring rain and going slightly increasingly downhill.
I decided I didn't like being there and spotted an exit to the right and not very far away.
As the exit was to the right and going uphill, and the highway I was on was going downhill, it meant I had to try and slow down and turn quite rapidly on a very wet piece of bitumen, whilst riding on a constantly increasing off camber section of road.
Probably every motorcyclist nightmare, apart from black ice..........or errant semi trailers.
At the very last few metres the back end stepped out and I parked the thing at a perfect ninety degrees to the highway right at the point where I had to cross the three oncoming lanes.
I waited for a gap in the traffic and took off.
I remeber feeling extremely apprehensive ( read: shitting myself ) and thinking "Oh crap, this'll be good!" but the bike just did it with ease.

I wish I had that bike five months ago, I probably could have continued cutting the corner and maybe missed the damned truck.


.

He snores and talks to himself at night!!!!


.

Sometimes we get an opportunity that we should make the most of.
That's precisely the kind that has been offered to me at this moment.
I've been shifted back to my ward sooner than expected and managed to get enough energy up to write this.

For some reason or another I didn't feel all that crash hot about having this surgery.
And it seems I was right.
After waking up from my anaesthetic induced slumber I was glad to find I'd had my favourite toy returned to me.
Yes, the prodigal morphine pump had returned.
I was understandably in some discomfort, a sensation not unfamiliar to me, but I could at least hit the button and hear the sweet beep emanating from the machine, signifying the slight alleviation form the pain.
At that point things bode well for my recuperation.
I was in a ward dedicated to orthopaedic surgery and so figured I would be receiving the best possible care.
I had forgotten what it was like to be in post op.
I'd forgotten about the half hourly, then hourly observations, you know the temp., blood pressure, pulse, O2 saturation and how these make it completely impossible to get some sleep.
I'd forgotten about the other patients and the crap they're going through, also making sleep an unattainable commodity.
I was in a room of four, two were in obvious pain and one was throwing up all night due to his newly discovered allergy to morphine.
So no slumber the first night.

The next morning there were the hordes of well wishing visitors.
Included were the screeching children, whose screams and yelps of seemingly unreasoned delight resounded throughout the room with chaotic unpredictability.
After lunch the room appeared to have quietened down a bit and I was settling down to some well earned and needed sleep.
I'd made myself about as comfortable as I could, which took quite a degree of effort and teeth gritting.
Then I got a surprise, well an unexpected announcement ( surprises aren't really surprises anymore, well they don't have the same effect as they used to before the crash and all the related post big bang experiences ).
I was to be whisked off to x-ray for some more irradiation ( as if I hadn't had enough, don't be amazed if I turn out like the Incredible Hulk after all this ).
As expected the irradiation was a particularly painful affair.
I had to be transferred onto the radiology table and this was still an agonising affair, even with my little morphine pump doing its thing.
After completing my radiology yoga exercises I was then transferred back to my bed and wheeled back to my room.
Thankfully, I noted that two of the beds had been emptied and assumed that I would be able to once again indulge in the luxury that is sleep.
Bong Bong!! Wrong again!

What was to come was 24 hours of fever ( which is still continuing, although at a reduced temperature, hence my taking this opportunity to write a blog entry )
One of those free optional extras that you get with surgery.
Apparently, I had ticked the box on the form requesting one of these, unawares.
It started off as feeling a little on the warm side, and quite rapidly progressed into a full blown fever.
Time had ceased to flow at its usual pace and my vision had become seriously compromised as a result of the fever combined with the morphine.
Memories of reading a book my sister gave me "Fear And Loathing In Las Vegas", returned with visions of surreal and tortuous images and patterns.
I was having a real tough trot.
It was all but impossible to find a comfortable position to rest in.
Usually a side sleeper, I was finding it really tiring attempting to get comfortable, even more so than the previous night.
I couldn't sleep on my usual right side due to the wounds there, I was having real problems sleeping on my left side because of the metal plate in the collarbone and the only other viable solution was on my back, which I just can't seem to be able to come to grasps with as it causes my throat to close up and starts me on a snoring enterprise that not only keeps me awake, but also any other persons unfortunate to be in the same room.
On top of all that, the bed was a right mess as the radiologists had removed me and my bed sheet for the irradiation process.
When the sheet and I had been transferred back to my bed we'd both been left in a right shambles, with the rest of the sheets and blankets simply thrown on top.
My bedding looked like it had been put through a washing machine and then simply dumped on the bed.
It was absolutely soaked due to the fever.
So there I was lying in a mess worse than the U.S. liberation of Iraq and I got some disturbing news.
The nurses ( who for some reason could be heard laughing somewhere in the depths of the ward, but were unable to come to my aid for periods of up to 10 minutes or so, arseholes!!! ) had decided that the I.V. line in my arm connecting me to my best friend, the morphine pump, wasn't looking too good and had to be removed.
The pain until then had been barely bearable, but since I was now taking painkilling pills of inferior effect, the level of pain had increased somewhat.
Being wrapped in wet blankets and sheets, which seemed to tighten around me the more I struggled and writhed, weak with fever and exhaustion, wracked with sharp, throbbing pains and others I hadn't experienced before, I finally understood the meaning of the phrase "Couldn't fight his way out of a wet paper bag."

I managed to get through the night somehow and eventually just before lunch, was moved back to my old ward.
The moving from the bed to wheelchair and to another bed was one of the most painful experiences I've had to endure and I can honestly say I was nearly reduced to tears during my relocation.
I'm in a new room now with the ward's resident wet blanket.
This bloke seems to be a real negative bring down, and I know this from people who'd shared a room with him and requested they be moved.
Regular public disagreements with his girlfriend don't help his cause much either.
After lunch I managed to slip some earplugs in and finally get a few hours rest, more from exhaustion than anything else I suspect.
Only to be woken by more of the ''screeching child, whose screams and yelps of seemingly unreasoned delight resounded throughout the room with chaotic unpredictability'' syndrome.
This time however, my gloomy cellmate was telling the child to be quiet because I was trying to get some sleep.
Why he was bothering was beyond me because all the while "deal or no deal" was blaring out of the television.
For those fortunate ones who have not experienced the brain dead excuse for entertainment that is this show, let me enlighten you.
It is a game show, but in this game show there are no physical challenges, there are no trivial facts to regurgitate and there are no brain teasers to solve.
No, in fact all there is, is some loser contestant who has to guess the amount of money in the cases that are being held by other loser contestants.
The imbecilic contestants holding the cases also have to guess how much is in the case when their's is picked by the main contestant, or head moron.
This ridiculous exercise is carried out for some time and is punctuated by much yelling and screaming from the audience and the occasional "bank offer", which is announced by an extremely loud and annoying ascending siren.
That is when the head moron has to decide whether to accept the bank offer, hence the deal or no deal title.
On top of all that, my cellmate and his girlfriend sat there speculating on what decision the head moron would take and announcing to each other their own preferences if they were the head moron on the show.
Compared to deal or no deal, reality tv shows come across as well thought out, creative, beautifully planned and executed award winning productions.
This show is constantly one of the top rating shows in Melbourne and makes me believe that there are some real dickheads living in this fine city.

Time for me to try and extract some sleep from this 24 hour period.


.

Well this'll be the last post for a few days as I will be getting shifted to another ward for post op.
I'm being forced to relocate all my 5 months worth of accumulated crap to another ward for a few days and then back to my current ward.
The move will be carried out in my absence, whilst the good doctor is busy bestowing new scars upon my already somewhat modified body and drilling holes in my bones, therefore I will not be trusting my laptop to the hospital staff, or my prized Canon 350d for that matter.
Mum's popped in and taken away some of the crap and the camera, but I'm leaving the 'puter with my cellmate so when I return I can just get it off him without having to wait for someone to bring it in from the outside.
This whole moving thing really sucks as far as I'm concerned, for a couple of reasons.
Having to move all my junk is a hassle, especially when I'm not there to supervise it.
There is no guarantee that I will be going back to my cellmate and there is a real danger that I will be forced to endure another faecal commentary man.
The only consolation is that the cute Kiwi nurse will be there as she was transferred to that ward a couple of months ago.
So "Operation Bone Flute" is nigh and I will be able to notch up number 9.
This as we all know is not the last, but hopefully the last one for this period of hospitalisation.

As my sister's man, Glenn would say ''chowfanow!''


.

I went home on the weekend as I figured it might be the last time for a little while.
I had all sorts of offers from various people, of going for a trip somewhere on the Sunday in order to take some photos or something.
I for some reason or another didn't really feel like it and at the risk of seeming ungrateful, refused their generosity.
I was more interested in watching the rugby ( Bloody All Blacks ow! Smashed the bloody Wallabies again! ), going down the local fer a couple of cold ones and actually getting a decent night's sleep.
So there I am at the pub, and I get a phone call from Inge.
Inge is Alan's wife and she'd informed me that someway or another he'd managed to cut the back of his hand in the band saw.
For those not in the know, a band saw is literally like a rubber band made out of steel, with big sharp teeth on it and it spins around at a very high rate of knots.



So apparently the part between the wrist and the first knuckle, in the little and ring fingers, was chewed up faster than a cabbie trying to rip off a disabled person.
Supposedly his nerves aren't too bad, but there is a fair bit of bone and tendon damage.
Now Alan is of German extraction, so it should take him about a couple of weeks to get over this.
No but really, he should expect around 6 weeks off work.
He just bought a new motorbike too.


Cabbies.
A necessary evil.
On Sunday night I asked the taxi company to send me a cab that can take a folding wheelchair.
I specifically asked for a station wagon as I'd experienced the grumbling cabbie, who complained about attempting to get the chair in, before.
The bloke on the phone was adamant that I didn't need a wagon and that it should fit just fine in a sedan.
So, the taxi arrives and the driver proceeds to grumble and moan about not being able to fit the chair in.
Sure enough it had to go in the back seat, but we got it in.

Today I went in to the city to the dentist and again rang for a cab to get back to the hospital.
I told the muppet on the phone that I have a folding wheelchair and would like a wagon.
Guess what, he reckons it should fit in a car.
I informed him of the previous night's incident and that I don't really care what I get as long as it can take a folding wheelchair, but reckon that a wagon would be a good idea.
One of those maxi cabs turns up, you know the big van with a wheelchair lift.
The habibi bloke jumped out and asked me if I can get into the van.
Now getting into a car isn't a problem, but getting into one of those vans is nigh non impossible for me, especially without my crutches, as they are just too high.
So then I had to go in via the wheelchair lift in the back.
He asked me if I had one of those disability taxi cards and I told him that I don't.
The reason for this became very clear shortly afterwards.
After getting lifted into the back I noticed that the meter was already running and had clocked up $4.10 before we even started moving.
Upon questioning this I was ignored.
So I asked again.
This time I was told that if he has to use the lift, it costs extra and that was why he asked me if I had the card.
I explained to him that I'd never been charged for that before to which he argued that that's how it is and that's that.
Now, the bastard had that meter running before asking me if I had that damned card, and also failed to inform me of the extra charges prior to loading me in, and on top of that reckoned that he was the closest first available.
I said that I asked for a wagon, as I can get into one of those and the fact that the office had sent me a van was the taxi company's problem not mine.
As I can't get into a van I didn't think I should be charged extra because of the taxi company's screw up.
At this point he got shitty and just stopped the meter.
After a very silent ride we arrived at the hospital.
I had told him about my ongoing misadventures with his employer and offered to pay $15 ( it took me $12 in the morning and the trip back was slightly longer ).
He then refused and gave me the whole story about the extra charges again.
I again stuck to my guns and said that if the cab company can't send me the right car in the first place, then I don't see why I should be penalised.
I once again offered to pay and he again refused.
So I left and that was the end of that.

Honestly, if anyone thinks I was wrong let me know.
And let me know where you live so I can send you the parcel bomb instead of the explosively hot mexican pizza you ordered.
I'll just tell you that you ordered something hot, that's what was delivered and I can't comprehend what your complaint is.


Oh, and I'll charge you extra because you are now disabled.


.

And another beer / wine and pizza night passes by.
We had around ten or a dozen people involved in this one, including my mate Brenton who happened to be visiting at the time.
I must say if you were to lift a dozen people out of a pub on a Friday night and teleport them to the Epworth rehab centre, provide them with some wheelchairs, crutches, external metal fixations, etc. you'd have our little One Flew Over A Cuckoo's Nest evening.
Plenty of bullshit, jokes and funny stories, exchanges of injury details, bitching about the crap staff ( of which thankfully there are very few ), bitching about the crap food ( of which unfortunately there is a fair bit of ), the odd acquired brain injury patient throwing in his or her ten cents worth ( ever seen two brain damaged people flirting with each other? it's quite outrageous, no inhibitions at all ), liberal splashings of wine and beer, interruptions by nurses to administer injections and dangerous drugs ( nothing like downing your favourite opiate painkiller and washing it down with a nice Cab Shiraz Merlot ).
All good fun, eh. :)






P.S. Oh, and happy anniversary to me!
5 months today since having received a right old slappin' by that semi.
It was my cellmate's 5 month a week ago.
I do believe we are officially the longest serving in here at the moment.
I have it on good authority that the longest anyone has been here in one continuous stint is 14 months, so we're not breaking any records just yet.


.

Playing the waiting game now.
I feel a bit like a hunter or stalker.
Maybe like a paparazzo, lying in wait.
Nothing to do but wait.
The only difference now is that I know the time of when the event will take: next Wednesday.
That's operation No. 9 or a.k.a. "Operation Bone Flute".
The good surgeon will be drilling the necrotic ( dead ) bone out of the femural head ( the ball at the top of the thigh bone ), then drilling for live bone cores in order to fill up the negative space in the femural head.
Kind of like dentistry but in the thigh bone.
By the end of it I should hopefully have a repaired femural head and a temporary internal bone flute.
In three weeks they will check to see if the pelvis is united, if not it's back to the chop shop for some more metal installation.


The mind is wonderful, when all external stimulation ceases, it kicks in and starts to play with you and keep you occupied.
From escapist dreams to daytime fantasies, a veritable plethora of plays, movies, musicals, music clips, cryptic mysteries and an infinite number and variety of entertainment possibilities.
It's quite captivating to find yourself asleep, and realise that you're dreaming, then immersing yourself in the dream and just enjoying it.
Unless of curse it's one of those really freaky ''which drug fucked music video producer came up with this, what drugs was he on and where can I get some'' cryptic video clips.
I had one last night where it actually had some sort of metal / R & B / gospel music soundtrack and bizarre visuals that ended with a band and gospel choir in some sort of half missing / built / destroyed church or chapel, which was painstakingly designed and built by more drug fucked set producers and designers to gain maximum visual impact.
So exceptionally disjointed and confusing that it really was a modern art masterpiece.

Then there was the one a few days ago, where I, two men and a woman found an entrance into some subterranean world, not quite like the one in the book "The Descent", a little bit friendlier.
It was somewhere in the Siberian tundra and in this underworld lived people like us, except they were a bit weird and different.
We ended up finding some Russian scientist who had discovered it ages ago and decided to live out the rest of his life in this new world as some sort of highly enlightened and respected member of their society.
Some seem to possess a quality which gave them an ability to produce earthquakes.
I don't think they were aware of what their actions were doing above ground, but they none the less seemed like the cause of above worldly seismic activities.
And all this time we thought it was tectonic plates shifting and crust fractures.
What fools were we?!
This seismic activity seemed to be linked to their emotions and also punishment of one another.
We witnessed one who was punished by a tap on the forehead, another who was angry and beat his chest.
Being from the world above, we were somehow physically connected to these earthquakes, we felt and saw shockwaves radiating out form these beings like ripples in a pond.
Although being in this world they were somewhat reduced and more like the force felt when a vehicle goes past you causing a wave of air to momentarily move you off balance.
I guess the intensity of these was indicative of the depth of emotion or the severity of the punishment.
This was a wintery world very similar to ours.
It was always dark, but was lit up by electric lights and reminded my of a nocturnal European winter.
Cold, still, the darkness punctuated by various luminous sources.
The inhabitants were also able to shift and imprison consciousness into other objects.
For example, a bus was a conscious being and its life and purpose revolved around doing bus things, like picking the inhabitants up, moving somewhere and depositing them.
At one point our group had lost the female and later found ourselves being followed by a bus.
It turned out that she had been discovered and committed some punishable act, resulting in her consciousness being imprisoned in the bus to serve out her time serving other inhabitants.
At another point the four of us hid on top of a lift.
Myself up on some framing and the other three below me on top of the actual lift.
When the lift went to the top we climbed out through a hatch in the ceiling of the lift shaft.
The lifting of the hatch happened to cause some inhabitant in a wheel chair on the floor above to crash and land some distance from the chair.
He looked very distressed and in a lot of pain.
Naturally I assumed it was from some injuries and pain he had incurred as a result of the unexpected crash landing.
I asked him if the pain was coming from this body part or that one, what was causing him the discomfort?
To our surprise he informed us it was due to wheelchair withdrawal symptoms.
It appeared that he and the wheelchair were somehow connected and two parts of one being.
So we quickly put him back in it.
Maybe the wheelchair had some sort of consciousness as well, who knows?
We were on the run and didn't hang around long enough to find out.


Sometimes, the dreams are so intense that you wake up and have to almost pinch yourself in order to check your head and make sure you are where you think you are.

During the day, the brain waves can turn into tsunamis and you find yourself on a rollercoaster ride that you don't know you actually got onto and have no idea how to get off.
Eventually it comes to a halt and you have an opportunity to gather your senses and composure.
Just long enough to get on the next sideshow alley ride.
Oh look! There's Sideshow Bob!

Having an afternoon nanna nap ( due to my intensified physio program ) I woke suddenly.
No particular reason, no nurses or visitors or even dinner arriving.
My eyes cracked open rather quickly and my vision was filled with the most amazing rainbow outside.
Well, I guess it had to be outside didn't it? Duh!!
My square window was displaying the first rainbow I've seen in a bloody long time.
I didn't realise it initially as I made a half arsed attempt to roll away and ignore it.
I was more upset by the fact my snooze was rudely interrupted by some insolent optical illusion!
But I rolled back over and it was still there.
Rainbow.
Pretty.
Pretty rainbow.


I think I'm going m m m mad sah!!!


.

Hello.
Who are you?
No, I mean, who are you really?
Ever asked yourself that question?
Ever answered it?
Honestly?
Are you the sum of your possessions, achievements, experiences?
Or are you the sum of your qualities and flaws?
Are you the principles you live by?
Are you simply some ethereal customised model of a base unit?
Or are you a genuinely unique and individual being?
Are you spiritual or religious or non believer or atheist?
Do you believe that we come from dust and to dust we return? I find this one suits both the religious and the non religious amongst us as that's one thing they both seem to agree on.
Whatever the answer or conclusion, have you ever come to a satisfactory answer?
I'll leave you with that one for a while, shall I?


On a less contemplative and meaningful note let me fill you in on the last few days in the exciting daytime soap opera that is The Bold And The Zuba, Days Of Our Zuba or Zuba's Landing.
Take your pick :)
I think I like the last one myself.

Friday night Rino, Mum, Alicja and I went to see a movie.
I can't actually remember the last time I went to the picture theatre, and that scares me.
We saw Kenny and it rocked!!!
It's a great Aussie mockumentary about a bloke who works for a corporate toilet rental company and the abuse he cops from punters, clients, his ex wife, brother and father.
And yet he retains a certain dignity and pride, which eventually pays off.
Rino and I saw the test screening of it back in my former life and it was even better now that it's finished and polished up.
It has absolutely genius comedy moments and one of the best endings ever, which put you in real danger of irrigating the theatre seats.
The owner of the real company is a bloke who used to have coffee and breakfast in the same café as us, before we all embarked on our daily employment duties.
Highly recommend it to everyone!


Saturday ended up going to Geoff Cerni's birthday party.
Geoff was on the Australia Day ride to Jindabyne with us ( see January and February in Archives ) and came down to Tassie with Gino and I about a year or so ago.
He still reckons the Tassie trip was one of the most enjoyable trips he'd been on and I can see what he means.
We spent about 10 tens days enjoying the roads, scenery, tourist attractions and my mates' Scotty, Wolfy, Kim and Trent's hospitality.
Camping out generally in beautiful and sparsly populated spots, with fire cooked meals and Cascade beer is a really nice thing, eh?

I managed to keep myself nice and only had a few drinks of Cascade Red, which my dad had dropped off to me earlier that day along with some beautiful Tasmania abalone.
mmmmmmmmm....... YUMMO!
An interesting sort of party from my point of view as among the guests were some rehab. veterans, both of whom I'd met previously.
One from a car smash and the other a motorcycle rider.
One of them is a policeman, who since then sees the whole recovery in front of the people he extracts from cars or scrapes off the roads.
The rider was asking about the staff here in the Epworth and whether they're still there.
We swapped stories and opinions about the nurses and the general Epworth experience.
It was very much a case of exchanging looks and anecdotes, only those who had experienced would understand or appreciate.
All the pain and suffering stares back at you through their knowing eyes.
Like looking into a mirror and feeling the now familiar variety of physical pains, aches, pangs and soreness knocking on your body, inseparably bound to the emotional hammer striking at the armour of your character.
Repeated blows testing, probing for points of weakness, relentless in their frequency and irregularity.
Constantly offering the temptation of the easy way out, the surrender, the giving up of hope and determination.
Experiencing life through this emotional kaleidoscope and trying to see a clear path towards the end point is not easy.
But the other thing you see staring back at you is the dedication, resilience, dignity and courage it took for them to get through their recovery and how much these qualities had grown during that time.
And probably the biggest and most important one is empathy.
This quality is heightened during the recovery process and aids in attaining a better understanding of other people and their circumstances, lives and tribulations both in the hospital and outside environments.
Recommend taking one dose, daily.
If empathic pain persists, then you're on the right track.

Sheesh! I'll stop banging on like a mad person about this crap as for you, it probably holds about as much appeal as finding yourself in the toilet of a truck stop roadhouse and discovering the lack of paper AFTER having made your deposit, then remembering that you have your favourite monogrammed handkerchief, which your deceased grandmother embroidered for you especially, in your pocket.

Many thanks must go to Robin for her wonderful non hospital food, it was delish!!

And so, a good night was had by all....





All the photos taken that weekend were done in 'bulb' mode, meaning you estimate how long the shutter should be open for and hold down the button appropriately.
I also had a bit of a play with Photoshop to get some interesting effects.












Don't know what I'd do without my camera now!


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The last week I've been trying to forget about today's appointment.
I kept telling myself that there is no point worrying or presuming any outcome.
And I was right, as there absolutely nothing to be gained from this.
I couldn't just stop thinking about it though, anymore than someone in custody awaiting sentencing can stop thinking about his or her upcoming stint in the slammer.
And so today came.
As the appointment was at the ungodly hour of 9am, I had to get up early, shit, shower, shave and eat breakfast prior to being once again unceremoniously loaded into the transporter and whisked away to the Alfred.
A near disaster was avoided in the nick of time as I nearly left without any reading material.
Knowing how long these short appointments take ( usaully half a day ), some semi light reading material is absolutely essential if major frustration and impatience is to me avoided, as these can easily lead to more patients in the trauma department.

After a fair old wait, I was asked to come into the examination rooms by a nurse.
After another wait a doctor came in to see me.
He spent a short amount of time asking me about my injuries and I couldn't figure out why as they were all there written down in my history in front of him.
He was then interrupted and informed me that he'll be right back.
After yet more time having elapsed, another doctor comes in and start talking to me.
I had to ask:


"Who are you?''


"Oh, I'm Doctor Esser." came the reply.


Oh that's good I thought, could've been some strange bloke eh?
He then instructed yet another doctor to examine me.
So this third quack starts asking me the same questions about my injuries and I started thinking.
They have my history in front of them, a great big inch thick folder.
Can none of these people read?
Do I really want to be treated by illiterate dcotors?
After a while, the second and third doctors start discussing me and my injuries.
And all the time Dr, Esser is yawning like a Guantanamo Bay detainee after a few days sleep deprivation.
And then the crunch comes.


"We're going to have to go in and drill."


So there it is.
Whenever they decide to do the surgery, there'll be another six weeks of non weight bearing on my right leg.
So no parole for this little black duck.


Oh, my cellmate had a review today as well, he also didn't get parole and is possibly looking at more surgery.
So I guess I'm not the only one.
Me thinks there is something in the water in this room.


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"I only put sunscreen on the burnt bits." - one of the nurses, in reference to her continuing solarium attendance and the resulting lobster impersonations.


A couple of nights ago I met an interesting chap.
He's pretty old, some claim he came out here with the first fleet and can remember when Columbus discovered the Americas.
He still works with his son in a business that produces distress flare components and trims for Toyota Camry interiors.
He spoke of racing at the Isle of Man Tourist Trophy before the war on a 350cc Norton and how he was on fire watch in a factory making components for artillery in WWII when it was bombed with incendiaries, forcing him to leap across to a neighbouring building at a height of four storeys.
He later moved to Australia and has been running his current business for 35 years.
He's in here due to some complete imbecile running into him, fracturing his neck.



Remember the motorcyclist I met last week in the Alfred, well he's moved in a couple of doors down.
He appears to be in fine spirits and adjusting well to the better grub and nicer surroundings here at the Epworth.


Having a bad hair day is everyone's right.
Although I can't imagine my cellmate having one of those, considering the amount of bathroom products at his diposal.
That's my stuff on the left ( minus the hair brush ) and his on the right.
To be fair, I do have a can of deodorant, comb and a tub of cream in my drawer.




Having a bad body day is indeed an unusual thing and a privilege reserved for those with battered ( and I don't mean rolled in a floury dough ) bodies.
My cellmate had one of these today and it required a sensitive, subtle and contemporary kind of approach to snap him out of it.
After all, we are talking about a modern twenty seven year old metrosexual male, having trouble dealing with the hand he was dealt this particular day.
Dealing with any bureaucracy is as frustrating as trying to find a 100% beef cheese burger in India, at the best of times.
But when it involves your bodily health and rehabilitation, it can be even more infuriating.
So, there was some shoe and clothing throwing, the 'drawing of the drapes' ( a ritual performed by cellmates when all the curtains around the bed are drawn in order to shut the world out ), and sulking for an hour or two.
In order to make life easier for everyone, I managed to coax him out of his shell, into some clothes and down the pub so we could have a couple of beers and indulge in that age old pastime of watching people's cars get towed out of the clearway zone.

There we are, enjoying a couple of cold ones, waiting for the inevitable 4:30pm car clearance, when we spot the ward's two team leaders walking down the street.
Now these two, from my experience, appear to have limited personalities and are made of classic manager material.
It might sound a bit harsh, but in the near five months of my residence here, I have not seen anything to convince me otherwise.
As they walked back up the street, the male mouths something through the window.
Not being able to decipher his gesticulations, I motioned for him to come inside.
That was when he delivered his silly little barrage regarding his duty of care, his preference for us not being in the pub, etc.
What a load of SHIT!!!!
Honestly, we aren't on any drugs which could be affected by alcohol to the point that they're not effective anymore.
And as far as I'm concerned, a bloke's mental health is pretty bloody important, especially if he's been stuck in a hospital for five months and it can be maintained with a couple of cold ones and some live comedy.







That's the despondent owner of one of the cars, note slumped shoulders.
He walked up and down the road a couple of times, checked the ticket machine and the clearway signs, the realisation of the truth slowly washing over his face all the while.
It must be a terrrible feeling when it's happening to you.



After all that, I was joined by Gino, Rino, Alicja and Mum for some lovely pub fare and a few laughs.
It was a darned good thing and a nice way to finish off the day.





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On Saturday, I happened to spend some time in the nearest pub to my place, The Lidhurst Hotel.
It's an awful place and the only time I go there is purchase some beverages of the alcoholic variety.
It consists of three sections: the TAB ( where you spend your wage or pension on horses and dogs ), the pokies ( where you spend your wages or pension on electronic poker machines ) and the bottle shop ( where you spend your wages or pension on alcohol, which you can drink in the comfort of somewhere other than this god awful pub ).
I met Cam and Brenton there for a beer.
Cam was indulging his gambling bent by betting on number one in each race.
A unique if highly unsuccessful method of betting on live horse racing ( there was also computer horse racing, and it's beyond me why anyone would want to bet in these digital pots of glue ).
The first thing you notice in the TAB section is the high proportion of older ethnic men with really bad fashion, gold chains and hair cream holding their 'comb over' hair styles in position.
There are also some younger ( middle aged ) ethnic men and these also have bad fashion sense ( black suits with a black skivvy just never cut it in Milan, or anywhere else for that matter ), gold chains, but more hair.
Then there's the very young ethnic men who also have bad fashion sense, wear gold chains, but cover their hair styles with base ball caps.
A thin spattering of non ethnic bogans completes the demography of the TAB patrons.
These 'people' will win and lose their money with varying frequency and in varying quantities, but no matter how much money they have, they still fail to exchange this legal tender for better clothes and hair cuts.
Whilst smoking, drinking and gambling they will attempt to vocally communicate with the horses and jockeys through the many television screens hanging off the walls.
When they lose, they make their displeasure widely heard throughout the pub and punctuate with profanities.

Right next to this section are the poker machines.
Here, the population contains an equal number of men and women........with bad fashions and bad hair cuts.
Here though, there is no conversation between humans or humans and horses.
Instead all you hear is the sweet comforting murmur of electronic buzzes, bings, glissandi and the occasional clatter of $20 worth of coins paying out ( which is probably a sixth of the total amount spent by the 'winning' gambler that day ).
Although I haven't witnessed it myself, I have been told by a casino emplyee that these gamblers will sometimes relieve themselves on the stool in front of their favourite poker machine and sit in their own liquid waste.
Such is the power if the lucky 'poker' machine or the 'inevitable' win.

Combined with the bottle shop, this hotel gives so much to the community.
It gives the sad fuckers a sense of purpose and a sick kind of security blanket.
It gives them excitement and heartbreak.
It's in constant production, pumping out misery, depression, sadness, hopelessness, suicide, etc.
Not to mention the contribution made to the many families.

As I was crossing the road from Mars's record shop after a couple of quiet beers, I started to get a hint of worry that I may not get into the pub in my wheelchair.
But then my anxiety lifted when I realised that this hotel doesn't discriminate like many other shops and venues I've tried to enter and is actually designed to cater for the disabled.
How else are they going to blow their pensions?


Later that night I was taken to a house warming party in Northcote.
Pretty everyone there was on some sort of drug and I with my morphine tablets, fitted in quite well.
The only difference was that I could actually hold a decent conversation and not stare blankly at others after being posed a question.
For the majority, the guests were your typical dreadlocked, urban drug fucked hippies.
You know the ones who "....don't take pain killers and stuff", but are quite happy to ingest anything if they're told it'll get them high as a kite.
On display was a classic example of hippy passive aggressiveness.
There was a lovely 44 gallon drum in the backyard with treated pine nicely combusting away, when one of the chemically altered decided that it would be a good idea to burn the mermaid.
The mermaid on top of the shed, belonging to the ecstasy laden hosts, being half a mannequin with some sort of tail attached and painted in white and silver, was thrust into the fire.
And before long there were protestations against this clearly pointless exercise.
My main concern was that it was going to stink even more than the treated pine, but the host's sister was more worried that her brother might want to keep this mermaid abortion.
Anyway, after the owner of the now medium rare mermaid was informed, the passive aggression started.


"Ohh man! Why did you that? Why did you put her in the fire man? You shouldn't have done that man. Ohh no......."


Of course this was said with the tone of voice only available to those who have committed to forgetting the best part of the adult lives by keeping up a constant and steady stream of chemical ingestion.
Not to worry, I'm sure he forgot his distress soon enough.

I must be fair though, not everyone was that out of it and there was a nice vibe to the party .
There were also people playing guitars and mixing up some chilled beats on the decks.
My friends and I eventually made it home and after playing some late night vinyl we crashed out.

Sunday was spent suitably recovering and visiting Keli's new place where I met his new chickens, Wings and Drumsticks.
Keli has really taken to his new egg layers quite keenly and does spend a fair amount effort discussing their antics, egg production and general avian issues.
Cam however occasionally takes offence and points out that Keli moved into a house with a chicken coop and a run already built, whereas Cam and Mick had built the coop and read '30 page books on chickens'.
Cam is especially proud of his newly acquired theoretical knowledge of how to repair an eggbound chicken and loves to describe it, whilst demonstrating the action after licking his thumb, index and middle fingers and making a ' human egg claw removal tool'.






Keli's son Jade with the new chickens. More fun than goldfish apparently!


Overall, a pretty good weekend, not too slow, not too fast.
I had to restrain my movements a bit due to having one operational leg, but I needed to get out of the damned hospital, especially since it might be the last time for a while.
Although, I'm back in the pool now every 9am.
My house doesn't have a pool.........
So at least there's some compensation.


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Oh I do love this theme park.
I was put through another giant donut today.
Had a C.T. scan performed on my hip / pelvis for next Friday.
As it turns out, someone had failed to communicate to me yesterday that my weight bearing status on my right leg / hip is now changed to non weight bearing untill further notice ( read next week's specialist review ).
Effectively, this means I can use crutches to hop around, but this puts a lot more pressure on my arms, shoulders and left leg.
This in turn causes more pain.
So I'm back in the wheelchair for now.
About as happy as a bastard on father's day.


On a brighter note, I cooked my first meal today in occupational therapy.
Normally you get an hour to do this, but for some strange reason I only had a half hour.
I managed to confuse the two occupational therapists as I was just getting some engredients that normal people wouldn't put together.
Apparently
I made a lovely mushroom, red capsicum, bacon, onion, garlic & baked bean sauce.
Added to this was a bit of olive oil, milk and spiced with hungarian paprika, terragon and oregano.
The pasta had an egg beaten through it when ready and all topped with a bit of parmesan cheese.
Pretty good effort for half an hour ( with a crap knife and a hand that doesn't want to wrap around it properly ) and four and a half months between cooking meals I reckon.
And three people, including a chef tasted it and gave it the thumbs up.
Pretty chuffed about that one.


I also spotted a tawny frog mouth owl in one of the trees who was gettin hassled by a crow today.
Pretty rare sight in general and especially in Richmond!


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As far as boredom goes, today contained absolutely none of it and in fact some truly bizarre things did occur.

It started off with a call from Ireland.
My sister ( worth clicking for some cool photos and interesting blog material ) filled me in on the trip around Ireland and Iceland and I learnt some new things like the fact that there are no trees in Iceland is because the vikings chopped them all down, not because it looks good.
It was really good to hear her voice as electronic mail just isn't the same is it?
I was so caught up in the conversation that I forgot the time and the fact that I had a trauma review at the Alfred at 9:30.
After scoffing down my corn flakes and maple syrup like a really hungry labrador, I was once again, unceremoniously loaded into the patient transporter by Dion the Kiwi and we took off.
At my review I was told that due to the M.R.I. results I will be having another scan.
This time it will be a C.T. scan of the hip area and I am booked in to see a hip specialist for Friday next week.
Don't know about anyone else, but to me that's not exactly the best news one could hope for.
If it's all roses, then why do I need to see a hip specialist, eh?
Anyway, no point worrying about it until next week I figure.


Seeing as I had some time to kill before my meeting with the lawyer, I popped into the newsagency and bought a photography magazine.
After a chicken schnitzel roll, some interesting photography reading and a couple of hours at the cafe, she turned up.
We had a pretty enlightening chat about things legal in relation to me and then she took off back to whatever legalising she had on.
Must admit this Chilean woman seemed very experienced, and honest ( if you can say that about a lawyer ) and has been working with the Motorcycle Riders Association for ten ears, so she appears to know what she's doing.
I guess time will tell as to what the outcome will be.


After my little 'Law For Dummies' episode I headed for the intensive care unit.
I had recently been informed of yet another unfortunate bloke who, whilst minding his own business, was very abruptly removed from the motorcycling / road user population.
This bloke really got a raw deal.
He was riding home from a Occupational Health and Safety course when a car travelling in the opposite direction decided that it didn't like being behind a truck and started to overtake it.
The biker was suddenly faced with a road full of truck and car.
He had Buckley's chance of getting out of that one in one piece and ended up having an offset head on with the car.
The side of the car was opened up like a sardine tin and he ended up appropriately banged up on the road.
Funnily enough, the driver did ask


''You orrite mate?''


No shit, he actually said that!
After joking with the paramedics and the copper ( he knew these blokes) he ended up at the Alfred where he had marathon surgery performed for something like twelve hours or more.
Mick Dabbs had been to see him and informed me that the poor bastard would like to see me.
I decided that he could probably use a little orientation in regards to his suddenly different state of being.

When I visited David I didn't know what to expect really.
I knew he was pretty bad as he'd lost and arm.
I didn't know how I would react, but I figured I should just try to treat him like any other patient I'd come across.
After introducing myself and shaking his remaining hand I noticed that he had a photography magazine lying on his table.
I couldn't help but pick up mine and show him.
We talked about the big bang theory.
That sudden full body knock that can only be experienced by people like us, explosion casualties and maybe rugby union players.
This, our motorcycling and the fact that we'd both been suddenly lifestyle challenged produced a kind of instant mutual liking and respect.
That was admittedly a very strange feeling and a good ice breaker and made me feel a bit easier about the whole meeting.
He seemed to have a really positive attitude about him and to me, it felt a bit like looking at myself four odd months ago.
I also got to see what a vacuum dressing looks like as I never saw mine due to all the bandages.
His was literally stapled to his stump and on show for entire the world to see.
He knew that he had a long road ahead of him, but like myself, also had an ignorantly overoptimistic view, or expectation of recovery.
I admittedly have two arms but our remaining injuries were similar in nature, if slightly different in severity.
He too had a fractured pelvis, fractured legs, left shoulder injury and probably fractured right forearm, wrist and fingers.
Difference was, that after a few days the right arm was amputated as it didn't have a great chance of being anything resembling useful and was also dragging him down.
As soon as it was amputated his recovery really accelerated and he stabilised.
He also seemed to have a pretty unharmed head, neck and spine.

Anyway, I felt I had an obligation to let him know that even though he's keener than a computer nerd in a whore house, his recovery will not be 'standing in twelve weeks' and the like.
I had to tell him that he's about to get on one of the most intense and testing roller coaster rides ever invented and that he should never lose that 'roll with the punches' attitude.
I told him that I'm aware of how clichéd it sounds, but it is all true.
Every last word.
And the reason I was telling him was because no one told me and I wish someone had.
I hoped that instead of putting a dampener on things I just managed to inject a bit of reality into his head space.
I told him that he'll have a jag load of little firsts and goals along the way to 'standing in twelve weeks' like the first shower, first arse wipe, first sit on the side of the bed, etc.
These will be the little rewards / encouragements along the way as he regains his health and dignity.
The long term goals will or won't be achieved, but the main thing is to just take each little step and move onto the next one, and so on.

I had just finished the audio book trilogy and left it with him as it's a nice distraction from everything else.
You can close your eyes and lose yourself in it and sometimes you really need that.
Good thing he likes reading and fantasy like this particular audio book.
I left him my phone number and told him I'll visit next week when I see the hip specialist.
And then I left.


There's always someone worse off than you..........


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I've finished the Philip Pullman trilogy: His Dark Materials.
Ok, ok.
So it was an audio book, but they take time too you know!
I was originally given it by Rai, when I was completely incapable of holding or reading a book.

The end is nigh, but the boredom persists.
In a relatively short time my hibernation will end and I will be going home.
A different person.
Better?
Maybe, but different. ( I guess it all depends on if you look at it in physical or psychological terms )
In order for me to do that though I have to step up my physio a bit.
Last weekend's sojourn at home really demonstrated how completely unfit I am and how little endurance I have in regards to remaining and moving in the upright position.

For the mean time, I have to be content with making little observations about my fellow inmates and the screws.
I've found that you can tell if a minor offender like a hip or knee replacement recipient is really having a go in physio, because their ancient buttocks start talking.
If the exercise is rhythmic type like lifting your leg repeatedly, then you get a series of little flatulent sighs of exertion.
If however the exercise is of a strength type nature, the result can be one long 'can't hold it any longer' or 'not again' anal monologue.
Sometimes I fear the monologue will turn into an anal vomit, but thankfully this hasn't occurred in my company.
Yet.
Occasionally they indulge in a little anal conversation whilst parading with their Zimmer frames in the hall of the ward.
I must point out that while this is not strictly restricted to the elder prison population, it is most common amongst the blue rinse set.


The screws however, have kept themselves amused by fucking with my cellmate's head.
First they tell him:


"You should get out and go down to Bridge Road or the pub with your mates or something."


And then tell him off for coming back a little pissed.

I don't know.
This place just sucks.
There's no other term for it.
I know that it's necessary, but the novelty wears atom thin after four and half months.


But you do get the occasional gold nugget like my cellmate's description of him trying to stand up.
You must have read about my previous experience of this and the analogy of looking like a newborn antelope.
His analogy was:


"Shakin' like a dog shittn' tacks."


It's moments like that, which make these incarcerations bearable.



I know it's blurry but the taxi was moving, and I just like the effect of it.
Taken leaving the photgraphy course on Saturday.


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