MOOMINS M.C.

Chickens: Still alive and suborbital, helmet tests inconclusive, chickens love red capsicum, no escape attempts or human attacks of late. ( suspect golf club approach worked )

Melbourne Cup Camping Trip: only 3 more days to go before we find out if cripples really can camp, fish, sleep in hammocks without falling out and cross uncharted territory using nothing but crutches, wheelchair and some willing and able assistants! If there are any incidents it's good to know I'll be going straight to hospital the day after we get back anyway.

Operation Hip To Be Square: only 8 days to go before yet more metal is inserted into my body and therefore more morphine. ( recommended listening - Sister Morphine by the Rolling Stones )

Arse Bruise: Still there, still sore.

TAC: Finally got some payments off them after the 8 week stuff around due to lack of medical certificate.

Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance: Nearly finished, only 30 pages to go. God it's like chewing on a really tough bit of gristle.


.

Had my first proper fall on Saturday night, a right proper crash landing in the kitchen.
I am now sporting a lovely bruise on my left buttock ( I figured the left side will probably take the hit better than the already and still broken right side ) and it is mighty tender.
Oh well, at least the pain is nicely balanced between the two halves of my pelvis now.
Not bad really I figured, 7 and a half months it took to finally come crashing back down to earth


My sister's taken off back to Cork after her surprise 2 week visit.
And a damn fine time it was catching up with her eh.
Being able to talk to her face to face and not over some telephone line really felt good!
Before she left, she told of a band called snowman.
They happened to be playing on the night she had to fly unfortunately, but I went along to check them out and was thoroughly impressed by their tight and entertaining show.
The music is hard to describe, but energetic, manic, creepy, dynamic are some of the words that come to mind.
I found out my sister had met the bass player some years back and that she is Maja's cousin Olga.
The last time the three of them were together was in Iceland.
Bloody small world isn't it?
It's a shame the band is from Perth as it would be good to catch them more often.
I wonder what made them call themselves Snowman?
I mean, there isn't a lot of snow in the Perth area really is there?


It was also a good chance to practice some rock photography.
hehehe ;)

















Now I'm just counting down till the weekend and the following "Operation Hip To Be Square", which will hopefully enable me to walk on both of my legs instead of just one.


.

It just about 1 week to go till our annual Melbourne Cup Camping Extravaganza and just under 2 weeks till my next surgery and I haven't come up with any mascots for the trip or a name for my next operation.
I'm thinking "Operation Acetabular Spectacular" or "Operation Hip To Be Square", not decided yet.

As for the camping trip mascot, we had Percy the 22 kilo rare breed sow, which we spit roasted last year at the week long festival of Oddways At Otways Trotter Tickler Camping Extravaganza and I don't know how we're going to come up with a mascot of a standard that reaches the now seemingly unscalable height to which the bar has been raised.
I did suggest we take the Hell's Hens with us, you know on a leash like, so we can have fresh eggs, but the boys steered me away from that by pointing out the fact that we'll be in the Alpine National Park and foreign non native fauna is generally frowned upon.
And Cam doesn't want chicken shit in his car either.
We might take some dead chickens and cook them over the embers Argentine style ( kind of looks like a crucified chook next to a fire ).




Keli is kindly lending me his hammock so I will have something to sleep on, a little hard getting down onto and up off the ground at the moment.
Actually it's impossible to do that without resembling a World Trade Centre Tower.
As for getting back up, well, I haven't been in that position yet and don't really want to be.
I think I'll actually spend a fair amount time trying to coax the aquatic intellectual equivelant of the chook to put my hook through its mouth so I may hoist it up out of the tranquil watery home it has spent its life in and into my frying pan.
Seeing as I am the only one to have caught any fish in the last 3 Melbourne Cup trips ( a piddly little rainbow trout that I threw back in disgust ), I may be in with a chance.
I've heard that fishing, like pool, can be aided by the consumption of beer and I feel compelled to prove this theory.
I will of course have a lot more time to sit around rather than scaling mountains, exploring shorelines or doing those camping things like gathering firewood and stuff, so there will be plenty of time to research this.
Time to really test my piscatorial skills.
Should be a rather relaxing trip I think and just the tonic the mind, body and soul need to fortify them against the return to hospital the day after the trip.


.

Went to trivia night again last night again.
Bec, Graham and I won!!!!
Amazing what the power of three brains, in total concentration, minds empty of everything except the voice of the quiz master, can achieve.
Well, it wasn't exactly such a Zen quiz experience, but we did alright anyway.
And we scored free beer as well!!!!
Woohoo!!!


One of our chickens' eggs have got dimples and the like.
We don't know what's causing it and are scared that one day we will find a golf ball in the nesting box.
I knew there was something strange about those hens.
Maybe all that talk about the 5 iron has had an adverse affect on their egg production.
Or maybe she's just doing it to freak us out a bit?
Either way, it's not what we envisaged happening on our little dirt farm here.
I mean, we want the chickens to be happy.
Yes, they need to have a little bit of fear in their lives to keep them on their toes, but I think Cam might have overdone it in putting the fear of the golf club into them.
Or maybe they're trying to fulfil their ambitions of flight?
Granted it would be an assisted launch, but hey flying's flying when you're a flightless glorified reptile with feathers and the brain the size of a walnut ( and that's being generous ).
They may well be the Orville and Wilbur Wright of the chicken world.
I wonder if anyone's ever sent a chicken into space.
I know there's been a dog and monkey, but does the humble chook have aspirations of space exploration?
I might put a call through to Kim Jong Il and see if he's got any spare 3 stage rockets we could possible strap one of our ambitious hens to.
Oh, I suppose we'll have to conjure up some sort of flight suit and helmet for them too.
Who would have thought, our honourable chicken comrades, bravely and valiantly orbiting earth, putting their lives on the line for the glory of all gallus domesticus everywhere!!
Won't have to worry too much about food for them, apparently someone's already onto that.








.

Labels: space chickens

Seeing as my sister is complaining about me pinching her stories, I'll let her tell you about the other barbeque we had yesterday.
Typical bloody journo!
I will instead crap on about myself for a while.


I would be interested to know how many people out there, as a percentage of the great unwashed, ever bother to contemplate, let alone check, their breaking point.
One of the things I'd learnt during the post big bang period is that I'm finally starting to get a clearer picture of how my brain / mind / character operate under stress and where or when I can expect to reach my breaking point.
Now before anyone makes some smart arsed comment about my brain actually operating or the obviously literal pun available in regards to my breaking point ( that means you Mick D and Mick D! ), let me clarify what I mean.


There are various types of characters out there and they all have their own way or method of dealing with stressful situations............or not.
For the sake of keeping things simple I will use some generalised examples.
If we were to look at say, someone being tortured or imprisoned, then we would see what I mean.
Some would reach the breaking point quickly, others would take longer, some would reach it in their heads and not let on physically for much longer, others go quietly, others scream and yell.
Comprende?


Let's think of it as a graphic representation where the vertical axis is the mood or morale of the person and the horizontal one is time.
So, we could say that breaking point is when the measure of the mood or morale hits the bottom axis.
Therefore some people's graph might be a steady decline to the bottom, others might stay pretty flat for a while and then suddenly drop, and then others might just go up and down for quite some time.
My graph would look like something like this:
Steady at the start, slowly starting to wave up and down a bit, a big vertical spike straight down and then just before it hits the bottom it plateaus out for a short time before spiking straight back up and kind of staying around there.
I don't know what happens after that as I haven't gone that far.
Yet.


I remember being on a 3 day bushwalk in the south west of Tassie with a mate of mine.
We were walking in on the first day, making the summit of Federation Peak the next day and walking out on the third day.
Sometime around lunch on day 1 my right knee started playing up.
It didn't stop until a couple of weeks after we'd got back.
By the end of day 1 I was in agony and basically lay there like a dumb bondi cigar that's been washed up onto the beach, trying to rest it up while my mate set up the tent, cooked the food, etc.

The next morning it felt a little better, but I knew that the summit was going to be a killer, what with all the 3 steps up and 2 steps down the multitude of ridge lines that lead up to it.
We made the summit and back and again my mate cooked dinner while I tried to rest the knee.
I'd tried strapping it one way, then the other, it made no difference at all.

The 3rd day, walking back with the now lighter pack I finally cracked.
I couldn't see the wilderness for the beauty it portrayed.
It was just downright sadistic as far as I was concerned.
All I wanted was someone to come in and concrete all the bog holes that sucked my boots in and tried to pull the knee apart, chop out the tree and their roots, remove the rocks, or bring a helicopter and get me the hell out of there and back to civilisation.

After the mental dummy had been spat, I got over myself and got on with the job at hand, getting back to the car.
It took me and extra 3-4 hours to walk back out even with the lighter pack, an improvised staff in my hand to assist me along the long path back.
Step after step, breath after breath, wince after wince I eventually made it back.

Looking back on those kinds of experiences and my latest stressful exercise of convalescence and rehabilitation I have a much more crystallised notion of how far I can push myself and how much I can take before cracking.
And that makes it so much more manageable as knowing how you will react to something enables you to prepare yourself for the inevitable, deal with it when it comes and get on with your life.


When was the last time you were tested or tested yourself?








.

So much for the barbeque season.
The Clan Morley and Clan Kaszubscy barbeque was on today at the house of Brian and Barbara.
The scheduled offerings of burnt meat to the gods was not enough to stave off the anger of Zeus.
It was cold and rather miserable so the entire affair was transported indoors.
A noble and worthwhile decision, if it were not for the 90 year old Afghan rug on the floor of the studio.
This aged tapestry had surely witnessed many a feast in it's time, but nothing could have prepared it for the assault dished out today.
Brian and Chris's expert handling of the wood fired barbeque produced much meat of the bovine and avian variety that was cooked just so, as well as a burn on Brian's thumb due to the tongs being in too close a proximity to the fire.
Good for us, but apparently didn't quite come up to Chris's standards.
As soon as he'd filled his plate and sat down he threw the whole lot, butter side down, onto the antique fibres.
Beetroot, sausage, steak, salad, asparagus, bread, etc now adorned this fabulous piece of Mazar craftsmanship that had managed to survive the British, the Russian invasion, the telly ban and of course the U.S. led coalition of hooligans.
Out of support for Chris, we all then proceeded to turf various foods onto the said rug.
Poor Barbara was running around with a rag trying to keep up with the constant cascade of tucker, which was now coming down from all directions.
Somehow in the process, the red wine managed to stay in the glasses provided.
The food that didn't end up as underfoot decorations went straight down our gullets and filled our cavernous stomachs.
And might tasty it was too.
;)


.

I think my head is going to explode.

There's so much stuff to do when you are suddenly and without warning transformed into a statistic.

At this point I would like to mention that my best mate was killed 9 tears ago, in a very similar collision to mine.
Indeed it was with a truck, the difference being I came out of it in one piece and he in three.
Ever since then I've heard him whispering in my head "Just coz it happened to me, doesn't mean it'll happen to you."
I kept this little mantra with me at all times and every time I had a close call ( which wasn't that often really ) from which I successfully got out relatively unscathed, it just strengthened the power of that affirmation.
It became so strong that I didn't even consider that whilst "....it might not happen to me....", there was always the possibility of having an off, surviving, but with who knows what kind of trauma, brain injury, amputation, disability, etc.

And so the day came when I became a road trauma statistic.
I remember thinking a few things at the time.

1) " Oh feck! So this is what he must have felt just prior to unexpectedly departing this dimension and becoming a memory."

2) "Phew, got away without becoming a truck bonnet ornament."

3) "Oh, feck! The trailer!"

4) "Ok, so it didn't happen to me, but what about all this?" ( as I mentally diagnosed the various broken bits and pieces in my body, whilst doing my best impression of a speed hump ) "You didn't mention any of this!"


So now I have to deal with things one should never have to deal with normally.
Things like lawyer's letters asking for money so they can get medical records, filling out admission papers in order to confirm surgery appointments, hassling TAC for payments because some slacker doctor hasn't bothered to send them a medical certificate, twice, etc.


It helps to take my mind off these things with distractions like Quiz Night at the Comfy Chair for example, which is where my sister, Bec, and a couple of other blokes Grahame and John went last night.
We did alright, won a jug, and second place $20 drink card.
We had a moral victory though, as the team that beat us was twice our number.





.

Funny period this waiting for surgery.
I have a lot of time on my hands and am finally reading all those books people gave me when I was in hospital.
Funnily enough, most of them seem to be about motorcycling.
Just started Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance, interesting read so far.
Hopefully it ends better than the last one.


This is quite a philosophical time for me.
Time to evaluate life options, ponder the new views I have on life and people, try and figure out what I will and won't be able to do when I'm fully recovered ( I will never be 100% again, but hopefully close ) and get a sun tan ( my pale hospital body is loving the vitamin D doses ).
Seriously, it's quite pleasant lying on the couch in the backyard with a book, with the native birds singing and flying about, as well as those bloody annoying pigeons, which know no other song other than that flaming cooing they repeat like a broken record.
Death to the rats of the sky I say!!!
I'm sure they're in league with the crazy chickens and are trying their best to wear me down psychologically.
I don't know what the word for bird phobia is, but I think I'm starting to develop one.
Can't relax too much though, just in case the diabolical hell's hens decide to launch a surprise attack or escape or what ever their little reptilian brains can come up with.
If that occurs, I will be forced to commit myself to perpetrating some sort of act of violence that would send the RSPCA around in a flash.


My sister came around yesterday and helped me decrapify my life.
As the handy man is fixing the wall in my room it was a good opportunity to move a lot of crap out and sort it proper.
It was good to go through years of accumulated crap and divide it into piles to keep, throw out or give away to the op shop.
Still have more crap to go through, but it was good to start the spring cleaning process.


.

These surpirses just keep on coming.
Had another surprise tea incident with my sister, when she plonked herself onto the couch causing a storm in my tea cup, which inevitably ended up in my lap, down my groin, etc.


This morning I managed to finish off Ghost Rider.
It was a really strange way to finish a book, both for me and the author.
Just as the tale is rolling along with more of the travelling and grief and all that, he suddenly finds true love, gets married and lives happily ever after!
All in the last 5 of 460 pages!
As for me, this bizarre literary tactic was accompanied by Cam playing some ancient recording of The Wizard of Oz, which he proudly held up as an op shop bargain find last week.


"Follow the yellow brick road. Follow the yellow brick road. Follow, follow follow, etc........"


A most freaky combination.

Then later this morning I received a phone call from a mate of Taswegian extraction asking me where in Brdge Road ( rehab. hospital ) I was residing.
I informed him that I was in fact now at home on my temporary Permanent Vacation.
So he drove up to my house and picked me up.
We then drove to Bridge Rd. as I had physio there today, had a coffee, a beer, caught up with some gossip from him and his womans.
Turns out they were up here for a wedding and seeing as we didn't have too much time to catch up at the rally they gave me a buzz.


So, I've decided that when my sister is around, there will be no tea involved and also that Ghost Rider has one of the most abrupt endings I've ever witnessed.
Apart from that trip up to the border on the 18th of March.


.

So there I was lazing upon the couch, trying not to move too much or rapidly, so as not to disturb the beer in my stomach, which had just been polluted by some baked beans and eggs with sour dough rye toast.
In order to occupy my poor old brain that had spent all morning trying to find first gear in a box full of neutrals, I'd decided to attempt to read more of that fascinating book Ghost Rider.

I had received a phone call from my mum eariler asking me if I will be in this afternoon.
I think I groaned or something similar, as a sign of acknowledgement and acceptance.
Not much later she arrived and told me she'd left something in the car.
Upon her return I thought I'd finally done it.
I'd finally gone stark raving bonkers
In front of me was my mother, but she seemed to have suddenly lost about 30 years or so.
Then I came to the realisation that I was not certifiable, that was my sister standing there in front of me.
Bloody glad I was lying down when that happened.
It would appear that she'd secretely jumped on a flight from Cork in Ireland, told pretty much everyone except me and rocked on up to my house.
We celebrated with some traditional Clarence Street salted tea.
Everyone has at some point made this special tea due to the indistinguishable salt and sugar containers.
That was the second surprise for the day.

I am really looking forward to her 2 week stay here and the chance to catch up in person.
She's definitely my sister though, she polished off a bottle of white wine by herself.
Now that's how you deal with jet lag kids!!!

A couple of things I forgot to mention in the last week or so.

Went to the Moroccan Soup Kitchen on Sunday with Mum and Alicja.
The food was as good as I remember it pre big bang.
No alcohol or meat, but plenty of really tasty food.
And good company.


Yesterday I hopped onto a tram ( something about trams that's really cool ) and paid mum a visit.
On the way back, I hopped off early in order to check out a shop on Lygon Street.
I got off the tram through the front door, next to the driver / operator.
As I'd hit the road a crutchin', the bloody tram took off.
Now after gathering my senses and performing a general pain / function check I thought to myself:


"What a prick!!!!!"


Well, more stated it out loud than thought really.
He'd clearly seen me hobbling off the tram, hop along the road next to the tram and just as I got alongside the front of the bloody thing, he steps on it.
Somewhere in the following second, I was clipped somewhere on my right side and the back pack and spun nearly off my crutches.
Some quick reflexes and probably that survivalist in me, made sure I stayed upright and out of the way of the rest of the tram.


What is it with transportation?
Does it have some hidden agenda against me?
I mean what's next?
A plane crash or boat sinking?


.

Reading a book called Ghost Rider at the moment by the drummer from Rush.
It was sent to me by a good muso mate who lives in Queensland now.

This fella hit the road to recover after suffering major emotional and mental trauma.
I on the other hand, am recovering from major physical trauma after hitting the road.

We are similar yet very different in our distress.
He calls himself the ghost rider because of the ghosts he carries with him.
I on the other hand could call myself the ghost rider due to the fact that I should probably be one.

I'm half way through the book and as far as I can tell, this bloke is doing it tough.
Very tough.
I do wonder what conclusion he'll come to in the end.
I don't know what conclusion I'll come to, but it sure as hell is gonna be well thought through.


For now, all I can do is kill time, my temporary Permanent Vacation.

.

Dang chickens got out again.
Cam found them wandering around this morning, looking a bit lost and confused.
I reckon they must've been out getting on the piss last night and came home to hide back in the chicken pen before we all got up and noticed anything was wrong.

I'm sure they're planning some sort of avian revolution or something equally ludicrous.
The thing is, as crazy as that sounds, I wouldn't put it past them.
You've got meet our chickens to understand.
They break all chicken rules, they have no comprehension of authority or the fact that they could well become roast dinner very quickly, thanks to a handy little 7 iron golf club we have in the garage.

Oh well, as long as they keep laying an egg a day each, they're safe.
I do worry sometimes that one night I will wake up and they will be there...............sitting on the end of the bed...............looking at me with those murderous little chicken eyes.....................with the moonlit glint of the knife tip just poking out from underneath one of the wings.
I would hate that to be my last memory.
Shit I didn't survive getting all pranged up by a semi trailer, only to become the victim of a couple of homicidal hens hell bent on destroying the human race!!!


I forgot to mention the demise of our little bunch of nutters in the rehab hospital.
There is only one left, my old roommates Mark and Damian left today.
Only David remains.
Also, my ex manager, Scott, joined us for farewell drinks on Monday.
I mean ex as in, he resigned on Saturday.
I did enjoy working under him as he actually wanted to do things right and I liked the way he operated.
He was also one of the very few people from work who bothered to visit me at all, let alone on a regular basis.
Now I am not an arse hole, nor someone who went out of their way to annoy people, so it can't be that.
This is one of the reasons why I'm not all that keen on my former place of employment, or more to the point the people there.
Considering I worked at all three locations over the last 3 or more years, I've met pretty much everyone who was worth meeting ( or otherwise ) that has been there at the time.
This whole experience has really shown me where my colleagues' values lie.
For example, the bloke I worked with for 8-10 hours a day in the same room, similar age, also a motorcyclist, rang me once while I was in hospital.
To ask me how to get the radio going on the internet.
Nice bloke hey.

I will miss Scott's entertaining emails that he would send to Mark and myself, in order to put a smile on our dials.




.

I wasn't too sure what to expect on Saturday when we went to Mars's 30th.
After all my old band would be playing without me or the drummer who played with us all that 7 months ago.
I was meant to have a jam and just didn't know what, if anything, my little traumatised fingers would be able to do.
As it turned out I was very rusty, in both hands, but especially the right one with the two broken knuckles.

Either way, we had a good time and the all the musos that played were great, with the exception of Mad Dog, who unsurprisingly managed to spill beer down the organ, rendering it a large assembled pile of junk.


"Why is there sparks? Is there meant to be sparks coming out of it?" - Mad Dog


Not to worry though, the boys soon removed the ex organ and replaced it with the dodgy Wurlitzer from down stairs.
That's artistic integrity for you!!!
It took approximately an hour for my old band ( with new drummer and organist ) to actually play the first song all the way through.
No surprise there really.
Still, a good time was had by all.
Here's some photographic records, mind your heads on the experimantal shooting.






Monday, I spoke to the specialist's secretary regarding the date for the surgery.
A pencilled in 8th of November is when I can expect to be leaving home again for another ride on the chopping board express.
Oh well, gives me a month to kill some time, drink some beer, do some crack ( juss kiddin ;) ) and continue with the tedium of physio and hydro therapy.
Not really going anywhere forward with that, more just keeping things moving until post surgery.


.

'
The Decision is now made.
I will officially be going in for more chop chop action.
The middle aged specialist reckons this is only the second time he's seen this sort of thing where the pelvis just hasn't united at all and the only really viable option is to slice a one and a half foot long hole up my right side and put in a metal plate and bone graft.
Hopefully within 3 or 4 weeks or so I will back on the chopping board again.
Of course there are risks involved, such as making the avascular necrosis in the top of the femur worse, in which case it's a hip replacement in 2-3 years.
I don't think it'll go that far though, hopefully.
He did stress the importance of not smoking in regards to the femural bone graft taking.


"I did crack a few times whilst drinking beer, but generally I'm not smoking since the smash nearly seven months ago."


His own words were:


"Well, you can do crack, drink beer, but smoking is completely out."


So there you have it kids.
Finally I'm getting somewhere with this damn bothersome hip.
And the morphine withdrawal is going alright.
A week after it started I finally managed to get a decent nights sleep.
There is the obvious increase in pain, but at least I know what I'm working with now.
Anyway, the pain can never been anywhere as bad as that 18th of March.

Never.

Good news is I'm getting a wheelchair next week and that will make life a hell of a lot easier.


Last night was drinks for my good mate Keli's birthday.
A good old session at the Empress Hotel where they had some young kids belting out all the glorious 80's metal you could stand.
Just after midnight we took some mates back to our place for some more drinking and playing of records, very loudly.
I mean the drinking and the playing.
Poor old Gino, I believe he had a 4am start to catch a plane to Sydney, and Mick didn't get much sleep either apparently.
Mick reckoned it must've been about 20 people or so.
We didn't tell him it was just 7 eh?
I eventually called it quits as I was stuffed due to spending 9 hours in two hospitals, 1.5 of that waiting for a damn taxi that was booked by the hospital!
Just no bloody luck with these cabs!!!
There were some really bad choices of music too and the record player in its protestation, bent and broke the stylus.
Well, we think it was the record player anyway, don't blame it really.
I mean who's idea was it put on Paul Simon anyway?
If it was Graceland I could understand, but that god damned hippy music......... it's just not my gig.
Keli was suprisingly vertical for the most of the night until we got home and then it didn't take long before he was his usual self.
Vertically challanged, banging his head into the table ( twice ), crawling around underneath the table, chewing holes in Cam's trouser leg whilst underneath the table, hugging everyone........... just his normal self really.
Damned crazy Fijians!!!



So this saturday has been mainly about relaxing and recovering in order to attend the birthday bash of our local second hand record vendor, Mars, who was one of the singer guitarists in my band Stirling, before the smash.
Looking forward to having a jam with them again.


The chook battle rages on...........so far we're barely holding our own.
The hens pulled a great escape stunt again.
Yesterday, they got out and severely damaged the young vegie garden that's growing in the backyard.
No one knows how they managed this feat.
And today they attacked Cam's foot, rushed him when he was trying to take a photo of them like he's some paparazzo and were also caught trying to hotfoot it out onto the street!
These things are the avian version of the devil incarnate.
You almost need a 7 iron when you set foot in the backyard.
Don't ever turn your back on these two!!!
They are like a cross between MacGuyver, Steve McQueen and Count Dracula!

'
It's been nearly a week and only now am I beginning to feel semi normal again.
I repeat semi normal.
As normal as you can feel withdrawing off morphine with a broken pelvis.
The last week hasn't been easy by far, last night was my first half decent sleep
I am fortunate enough to have a fantastic support network and my housemates have been really great, especially Cam who's done everything in his power to get me through this period of adjusting to life at home and with a clear head and body.
Well, clear of the morph anyway.

It is nice to be able to play the records again and I think I've played Stevie Wonder to death.
And the chickens are happy......... they must be because they are living in the Hilton of chook sheds.
And they get some beef occasionally, turns out they're quite the carnivorous types, can't get enough of it!
Two eggs a day is proof enough I think.






Yesterday I was coming back form my hydro and physio therapy on a 30 degree day, couldn't help but get dropped off at the local.
It's been so long since I sat outside there and had a beer with some mates on a balmy evening.
Fan-bloody-tastic!!





Tomorrow I'm off to see the specialist again.
I really am hoping he will be able to come to some sort of final decision as all this hobbling around with a busted pelvis is really about as much fun as being in limbo can be.
If I can just get it through his head that I'm over the last surgery and just want this fixed for good.


My sister sent me an email with an interesting link.
You should check it out.
Anyway, what ever problems or whines I have seem pretty pissy when compared to the courage of these two.
Here's the link to the story story.


.

Hey kids, I'm back.


Little word of advice: don't go cold turkey off the morphine after continuous 6 month use.
Not good.


You may be questioning my sanity and asking why did I do that?
Well, since my sudden discharge from the hospital I found myself without my wheelchair.
Now as I'm experiencing some technical difficulties with my walking leg / knee and lower back, I didn't want to have a heightened pain threshold, which could potentially cause more damage and problems later on.
I was hoping to get off the morph in hospital, but the stoopid doctors a) recommended against it and b) didn't give me a chance due to the sudden booting off the ward.
Good news is I may be getting a wheelchair as of Friday which will definitely make life easier.

Currently I am facing a pile of paper work to catch up on, still have to dispose of the bike and am starting outpatients physio and hydro therapy.
All good fun.
Not.


I also went for a short tram ride on Sunday with Cam to pick up his car and to see if I can cope with it.
On the way back we cruised through Fitzroy and Northcote to pick up the lawn mower.
Here's some photos from the trip.

Firstly I must thank everyone who helped me during my stay in hospital and to all those who have been reading my some times self centred rantings about mad ward mates and the general goings on in the hospitals.


Six and half months into my rehab. and I think I may have finally cracked.


Being at home was never going to be easy, I knew that from the start.
I’d heard the many horror stories from ones released.
It took a whole hour for me to get out of bed, shower and get dressed, quite normal I’m told.

Saturday was grand final day here in Melbourne and my housemates had taken off to bbq’s and what not to engage in the downing of copious volumes of beer and the spurring on of one of the two teams involved.
I had opted to stay at home, get a decent sleep in ( it’s nigh on impossible to get a decent night’s sleep in hospital ) and have a crack at the showering caper.
After taking my self out to the back yard to lie down on the, I for some inexplicable reason started to get a feeling of immense sorrow.
I got a slight touch of it on the Friday when I came home and didn’t think much of it.
On Saturday this feeling returned with a vengeance.
I somehow felt that everything was so distant, so unattainable, so bloody futile.
The reason for this remained unattainable to me as well.
The poster in the loo of the Tassie wilderness didn’t look beautiful anymore, it looked down right foreboding and dangerous.
The book “For The Term Of His Natural Life” ( a convict who’s is wrongly accused of murder is sent to the penal colonies on Tasmania ) came to mind and struggled to imagine how someone with a fractured pelvis, let alone all my other injuries, would’ve coped or been treated.
Would they have cracked at this point as well or later?
I guess I was attempting to cheer myself up by comparing how easy I have it at the moment as opposed to those poor wretches living there or being imprisoned on that Island.
It didn’t work.
It just depressed me even further.

The neighbours, whom I had not met before, popped in to invite the household over for the footy bbq.
After all the usual what happened to you questions and answers they told me of their three motorcycling mates, one broke a femur, one broke his back and is a paraplegic and the other one who was killed.
It still didn’t make me feel any better.

Mum came around at one point and we had a cup of tea, rounded up the two chooks into their pen and she later gave me lift to Watkins St to the bbq.
By this stage the footy had finished and only the half / incompletely drunk conversations whirred around me.
I couldn't tap into the cheery mood that was surrounding me at all.
I couldn't tap into the normal social engagement.
Totally isolated.
I felt myself sliding deeper and deeper, not even the presence of my good mates and their normally hilarious opinions and bullshit could make a difference.
I finally reached a point where I had to take leave in the toilet and have myself a good old fashioned cry.
You know the snotty nosed variety and all the trimmings.
I had experienced that kind of sorrow before, usually when a close one had died, when my first girlfriend dumped me, etc.
This time there seemed no particular reason, but it was just there, as was the feeling of being utterly useless and insignificance in my current state of disrepair.

I just wish that the powers that be, would operate on the damn thing and leave me to my 8 or 10 weeks of walking around on one leg so that I may once again resume my bipedal rehabilitation.

I know I am extremely lucky to be in this state and that I may not have had the use of these hands with which to write this.
Or I could have been paralysed from the waist down and been able to write this after all.
I could have lost an arm or a leg, or both.
This all doesn’t seem to make it any easier.

And you thought it was all fun stories and hospital anecdotes eh?

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