MOOMINS M.C.

Friday was a mile stone in my road to recovery.
Two actually.
I finally managed to ride a bicycle!!!!!
I'd bought one back in November to strengthen my legs and build up some semblance of fitness, but firstly wasn't allowed to use it according to my rehab doctor because of the danger of falling off and damaging something.
I adhered to this advice for some time and when the day came that I was allowed to ride, I found I was too shit scared to get on the damned thing.
There is a bike path near my house, but it requires riding along some roads to get to.
Having a clear understanding of what motorised transportation can do to a rider kind of put me off.
The bike path is a shared walkway with all sorts of people / children / dogs on it.
The lack of strength and control in my right leg conjured up all sorts of images of making emergency stops because someone's unleashed dog ran out, then putting down the right leg, before becoming horizontally intimate with the earth with a little help from our friend gravity, resulting in a return trip to hospital.
Well all that's changed now.

After a night at 'a place that sells good beer' a bunch of us decided to go back to the Casa del Pollo Polvoriento for some vinyl playing and more beer.
The girls and Gino went back in a cab and I decided to keep Keli company as he walked his bike back.
Keli, his bike and I have a history.
Before the crash there was many a time when we would take the bike home after a night at the 'the place that sells bad beer' taking turns as passenger or rider.
I had a 100% crash rate and Keli's was a little better, so the next day we would wake up sporting some bruises and abrasions.
They were never serious crashes, just the type that would make you laugh if you saw one passing by.
Hitting a rubbish bin here, just plain falling over there, etc. we'd go down easier than a drunk poof on ecstasy in a gay nightclub toilet.
So, back to Friday night.
Keli in his drunken state suggested we renew the tradition and that I jump on the back of his bike.
I, in a moment of sheer genius and clarity suggested HE jump on the back and I do the riding.
So there we were, caution to the wind, Keli holding the bike upright as I attempted to mount the thing.
It took a couple of tilts at it, but eventually I found myself atop the well abused machine with Keli on the back parcel rack.
All went well really, my legs were used to the cycling motion from physio exercises and the act of keeping the bike upright, on the straight and narrow seemed to be going ok.
It all came back to me just like the proverbial 'riding a bike'.

We took a little side street with only one car on it and then the footpath along a busy main street.
The footpath was probably more of a challenge to ride than the flat road, but hey NO CARS!!!
At one point we were approaching an Italian club with a half dozen pot bellied middle aged man congregating at the entrance.
Realising a stop at this moment could be ugly I decided to give them some warning of our impending fly by, throw caution to the wind ( again ) and just keep on pedalling.
Not being able to find the bell I started making beep beep noises like the Road Runner from the cartoon and was soon joined by Keli once he realised I had absolutely no intention of stopping.
The beep beeps became gradually louder and more frantic as we got closer but thankfully the middle aged pot bellied Italian men stepped aside in that nonchalant manner that can only be done if you're a middle aged pot bellied Italian.
Not once did they stop they're conversation or drinking / smoking, just watched us pass by with the look of indifferent curiosity usually reserved for one legged seagulls flying by.
We made it!!!!
And not one crash!!!

Pretty stoked I managed to face my bicycle demon as well as finally breaking my two up pissy riding crash record.
Thank goodness for beer.........


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Sometimes I wonder why I am so sore and feeling rather less vital than normal.
First and obvious answer comes from one of the voices in my head:

"Coz you got bitch slapped by a semi trailer ya crazy monkey!!"

But on closer inspection I find that I do actually pack a fair bit into every week.
Maybe not as much as some people, like looking after a family of six kids and what not, but for my limited amount of energy I have enough on my proverbial plate to make resisting turning to the vegetative state more than a challenge.
On top of my 3 days at work ( picked up an extra half day as of this week ), my two half days of physio and hydrotherapy, the bits of extra physio I personally engage in ( like walking around taking photos ), the obligatory trips to the pub ( I may be sometime ) there's also the juggling of appointments, chasing hospital staff regarding progress of reviews, social outings, entertaining Snorkmaiden, etc......
My levels of energy have returned to something fairly close to pre smash levels, but the pain factor is a noticeable drain on that.
After a big weekend involving watching the Rugby World Cup at the pub on Saturday night and a trip to the snow on Sunday it's no wonder I'm feeling a little rooted today.


I haven't been to the snow in a long time and at one point entertained thoughts of taking my ski boots along, you know, just in case I had the urge to strap a pair of skis on and hurl myself down a mountainside.
Thankfully I remembered my mate Rob's experience last year and was promptly reminded of the potential of another helicopter trip to the hospital.
Instead, I chose to take the kinder option of driving 3 hours each way, through some pretty twisty mountain roads, walking / stumbling around the snow and alpine topography, lugging a back pack with two cameras, throwing snowballs and fighting gusting gale force winds.
Took Teh 'Hoff for a walk in the snow too, hope the photos turned out!
The snow was a bit skanky, old, dirty and a bit wet, but hey it was still snow!!!
All good fun, if a little draining and rather painful on the arse.


















Medically speaking, I finally had my review with the plastic surgeon and her opinion was that she will not replace the muscle graft as it's not viable and could possible cause more harm than good.
She will however be able to cut the motor nerve to the graft, which means I've just picked up a 3rd operation.
Doh!
This had me thinking that I will be able to have the metal removal done privately and therefore very soon.
That was until I spoke to the orthopaedic surgeon, who said that he will require a plastic surgoen to lift the graft in order to access the plate in my lower leg.
So it's back onto the trauma waiting list and that means waiting another 6 - 8 weeks.
Double doh!!
This threw me into a mild state of anxiety as the annual Melbourne Cup Camping Extravaganza will be around that time and I haven't missed one yet.
Here are some photos from last year's trip.
Either way I plan to get the surgery and the trip done, time will tell.....

I also saw my pelvis surgeon today about the pain in my arse and he confirmed a couple of things for me.
1) The pain is definitely coming from the pudendal nerve which was a resulting side effect of the surgery.
2) The only option for possible relief would be to remove the plate in the pelvis and the surgery involved there would be as extensive as the one to install it in the first place, with the very real possibility of causing more nerve damage.
So I just have to put up with it and hope the pain will decrease over time, which it has been to a certain extent.
Triple doh!!!


I went to a comedy showcase last week to watch 6 new up and coming comics.
I find these kind of events much like going to see new bands, it's all very hit and miss.
2 of them were pretty good, 3 average and one crashed and burned on stage.
He was a black American and all of his routine was black comedy: lots of 'niggers', 'brothers' and 'ass' and generally aimed very much at a black audience.
Problem was he was in Australia with a primarily white audience.
I love black comedy like Murphy, Cosby, Chapelle, but this fella's jokes were pretty lame on any level.
His comedy did not involve metabigotry, it just sucked.
He might as well have been an Iranian telling jokes about his uncle's goat incident in the desert last summer to a room full of Inuit seal hunters.
He and the audience were so far removed from each other culturally that it was about as funny as seeing your brand new puppy's entrails pop out from under the tyre of a passing bus.
The unfortunate chap was treading water from the start, eventually choked completely and left the stage.
I think the audience was quietly glad and relieved it was over, a bit like when someone really unsavoury is trying to make conversation with you in a pub and eventually leaves you alone.
I must admit that I do enjoy seeing someone who is very cocksure and full of themselves look bad, and this bloke's ego was bigger than the stage or audience could accommodate.


On a funny note, I gave the Hens of Hell some left over vanilla and whipped cream slice, that was left over from heat 4 of Roast Off II.
N. cooked up some kangaroo and it came out just divine, don't know what she was peaking out about really.
Great country Australia where you can eat both of the animals on the coat of arms, name another country that has that dubious distinction!.
Anyway, the chooks went to town on the slice like it was Captain Sparrow.




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After rooting around like and old moll at a christening the Alfred Hospital has finally come through with the goods!
All the telephonic harassment has paid dividends in the form of a call from the plastics department informing me I have an appointment on Monday with Dr. Cleland in her private rooms.
This is a darned good thang as it means I am no longer going through the public system and being dealt with privately, that should speed things up a little.
Hopefully after Monday's meeting it won't be too much of a wait to get back on the chopping board.
I've also made an appointment with my pelvis surgeon as my arse has been killing me for the last few days.
Before any wild assumptions are made about my sexual orientation and night time activities I would like to remind you of the real reason for the pain.
No idea what brought that on, maybe my new physio program, doesn't really matter as I have had just about enough.
The pain is intense enough to not only stop me concentrating at work, but also very draining physically.
I'm hoping the good surgeon can shed some light on the problem and maybe come up with some solution to alleviate it.
If it's nerve related, which I suspect it is, there probably isn't much that can be done, but I gotta try eh?



A few days back I walked across the road and didn't wait for the little red man to turn green.
As a result two coppers on the corner accosted me.

"Excuse me sir, are you a visitor to our country?"

"Umm, no. "

"Where are you from?"

"Melbourne."

"Where about's?"

"East Brunswick." ( I refrained from giving the Eastside hand signals at this point )

"Why were you crossing on a red light?"

"Umm, I'm running late for rehab and I saw no traffic so I crossed."

"Well what would have happened if a cyclist had come through and hit you?"

At this point I had to really resist the temptation to tell him that by my reckoning it would hurt a hell of a lot less than being hit by a semi trailer.
I instead opted for a more apologetic tone and massaged his ego by telling him that yes, he's right and no, I won't do it again, blah blah....

"If I see you crossing the road on a red light again I'll have to book you ok?"

"No worries mate."


I was walking through town the other day and ran into about a dozen or so police horses at the very same spot.
Geez, they're really serious about this J walking business eh?
It appeared they were involved in some sort of training exercise.
Being the kind of helpful person that I am, thoughts ran through my head as to how I could assist.
Ideas of putting a hoodie on and throwing cans and bottles were rejected due to the police having very long and painful looking sticks in holsters on the saddles.
Dressing up like a rodeo clown was out of the question because I look rather ludicrous dressed as a clown and it might result in the catchment team form the local psych. hospital rocking up to take me away, so soon after being cleared by my psychologist!
I wasn't about to give up my metal cutlery privileges that easily.
Walking down the street with a placard would have been rather futile as there's nothing sillier than a one man protest, except for maybe a bum full of Smarties.
In the end I resigned myself to taking a few photos and crossing the road when the little man turned green.

I would like share with you a little about my hydro therapy sessions.
Since July last year I have been going to the pool.
It started off 5 days a week, eventually down to 3 and I've been doing twice a week for the last 2-3 months.
I generally bring in a CD to help me along, anything from Classical, Jazz to Cypress Hill or Nine Inch Nails.
Initially hydro was a way for me to practice walking with the water taking up 80% of my bodyweight plus various range of movement and strengthening exercises.
For a while now I've been using my time there to relax my body and do some stretches after intense physio sessions.
Incidentally, I've just started a new physio program which is a lot more intense and I will be receiving a right royal flogging in there from now on.
Getting back to the pool.
I find it very relaxing now, especially doing laps under water and above.
It's the closest to snorkeling I get nowdays, except the sights aren't so pretty.
There are some differences between swimming at the beach and in hydro.
You don't swim between the flags, more like between the band aids.
If you happen to get a mouthful of water in the sea you get some salt, a bit of sand maybe and possibly some bits of seaweed, all good.
If you get a mouthful of water in hydro it's likely to be bits of flaking skin graft and chlorine.
Mmmmmm yummy.......
The motion of the ocean is replaced by someone next to you flailing about performing some exercise or some such thing.
Instead of seeing wonderful seaside views and sea creatures you get to see all those scars and deformities that patients usually have covered up.
No sand, broken sea shells and sea plants just hygienic uniformly spaced and coloured tiles and stainless steel.
It is a bit of an equaliser though as no matter who you are and what your injuries are all you can generally see in the water are the heads, sometimes a bit of upper body.
Oh, except for Jason who's a dwarf and the whole pool is a deep end for him.
Sometimes we just float in a corner somewhere, being sore and discussing everything from the mid east problems to more deep and meaningful topics like girls and stuff.
I have been half heartedly campaigning for an espresso machine and or bar to be installed pool side, but alas for all my lamentations we are still drinkless.
Later in the change rooms you are likely to hear things like "FAAARRRRKKKK!!! What happened to YOU!?" as someone notices another patients injuries.
I get changed, pull my CD from the sound system and carry on my merry way.
And so the wonderful aquatic experience ends for another day.

Just a quick update, so as promised here are some photos from the portrait shoot: