Stuff and nonsense

O weekends how I love thee…mainly because I actually get something accomplished. Would you say 2/7 of the week spent in bliss is enough to constitute happiness?

Had three lots of swing dancing aerial classes today. The instructors make everything look easy and graceful – flip, flop, fly, into the air she goes! Great to watch, but actually executing it yourself…

One of my consultants had a theory – people generally fall into 2 categories, a “balance” group (eg. able to surf/skate), or an “eye-hand coordination” group (eg. plays tennis, hockey). Since I tend not to freak out when someone puts a racket in my hand, I like to use this theory as an excuse for why I find it impossible to slide down stair bannisters and why tandem bike rides = terror. What’s probably more true is that living with two of the most paranoid people on the planet has turned me into a very, very cautious kid. Throwing my body off into space at the mercy of gravity and torque is indeed a scary concept (my coccyx is still wincing at the memory of last year’s “landing”) but if and when the move comes off cleanly…victory!

Afterwards Hc and I went to King’s Park to snack on brought sandwiches and canned tuna as is typical of the cheap-ass student lifestyle. The late afternoon sun softly lit up our picnic spot, laughing children played with their families in the distance – and then in a flurry of feathers and wind, a kookaburra swooped out of nowhere and stole Hc’s sandwich right out of his hand. Wtf? It just stood there, not even a foot away, smugly eating the sandwich, didn’t even care that we were hollering obscenities and throwing bits of cucumber at it.

As an aside, when I went down to Harvey I would be woken at an early hour every yay-or-so morning by what I initially thought was someone throwing bricks into my flyscreen. Silence…then CRASH! and I would stumble from bed, bleary-eyed, thinking the house was under attack. After consistently finding 3-5 kookaburras sitting on the fence outside, and no human presence, I concluded that the kookaburras were dive-bombing the house for the sole reason of annoying the hell out of me, and that they are indeed evil spawns of Satan come to wage war on the world as we know it. Hc always suspected that theory of mine was part of a larger delusion, but he’s conceded that I was initally correct. Well, either that or we’ve got a bad case of folie a deux*.

* folie, madness + a, between + deux, two. Two individuals with a close association sharing the same delusional beliefs or ideas simultaneously. (“2 pals who are both nuts”)

Transperth, why must you continue to antagonise me so? I plan my journeys >12 hours in advance. I own every conceivable timetable there is to own. I get to my bus stops in time. I wait patiently there for you on the chilly mornings-before-dawn with the dew creeping up the hems of my trousers, slowly rising to meet the wet rain that has soaked through my shirt. Why did you make me take 1.5hr to travel from Shenton Park to Freo today?

I am SO buying a car next year.

Did you know that it is actually very tricksy trying to put clothes on someone with kyphosis*? (this, btw, is not an allusion to my sex life. Not yet, anyway…we’ll see in 60 years time)

I’ve been contemplating whether or not to post up some poetry. I’m fully aware that it would be the most pretentious, artsy-wannabe, “I have feelings”-teenage-angst-crap thing to do, and unfortunately this awareness makes it no less a transgression. Also unfortunately, it’s my blog and I’ll Rhyme If I Want To.

A classic passage from HHGTTG:

“Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe. The second worst is that of the Azgoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem ‘Ode To A Small Lump of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One Midsummer Morning’ four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthhos is reported to have been ‘disappointed’ by the poem’s reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelve book epic entitled My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and civilisation, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain.

The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England in the destruction of planet Earth.”

Ms. Jennings has nothing on me. So my sincerest of apologies in advance.

—

*Kyphosis: abnormal curvature of spine; see Hunchback of Notre Dame.

- or is it?

But the week’s brightening up. I got to meet up with my 2 (out of 3 I think) beloved lab workers, one for an extended chat (and despite our numerous differences, it struck me how strange it was that we share so many similarities – I guess no matter how hard you try to deny it, the people you connect with are the ones in whom you recognise part of yourself) and the other in a celebratory gorging of trashy Woolies raw oysters in a dark carpark (that sounds bad, but no innuendo intended, really). I got a few rounds of inspiring squash after wanting to give it up after last week’s lag. And I bit the bullet and made a make-up appointment with the cosmetics lady in preparation for Med Dinner, which is not hard to do if you were any other normal female, but someone failed to pass on the gene to me that makes you feel natural in lipstick and heels. Don’t get me wrong, I’m a creature of vanity, but the thought of having a stranger close enough to see my pores and rub pigments into my face makes me break out into a cold sweat. What doesn’t add to my confidence is that 99% of the cosmetic ladies themselves look like crackwhores. In them I trust.

Two v funny things that were said to me by an Astute Friend:

1) Getting into and doing med is like a little kid who, instead of buying lollies, has saved all his money and put it in a jar so he can buy his favourite toy. Finally after a number of years, he buys the toy – but finds out it’s actually crap. All those years, the kid could’ve bought the yummiest lollies around but now all he has is a piece of junk.

2) Me: Whose smart idea was it to make med the Holy Grail of TISC preferences?

Him: Asians.

*Warning. Bad quality bitch and moan post ahead. 

Not a fantastic day. Here’s why:

• Predictable grilling, barbequing and shish-kebabing of self by consultant as is the norm for Tues mornings
• Met a fairly innocuous lady who has a 50% mortality risk if she has cardiac surgery, and probably a 1-year 100% mortality risk if she doesn’t
• My registrar snapped a suture and lost the end somewhere in the vicinity of the patient’s heart
• Some total creep stole my umbrella from the staff room (never assume doctors/nurses/allied health members are honest) on one of the wettest, windiest days in recent memory. I hope it rains shitloads on your wedding day, you prick.
• I have had no decent human contact today (not entirely sure if meeting the Slacker counts) and hence am confined to bitch and moan about it on a blog.

Yes, it’s Saturday, which = see the old folks day. I don’t necessarily look forward to it during the week but once I’m on the job I can block out the rest of the world and pretend to role-play an ultra-competent, ultra-confident HACC worker, for the most part anyway. Feeling useful is such a basic and desperate need. The fix I crave that I fail to get out of med is thankfully present on my Sat morning rounds. Once upon a time I was, effectively, “laid off” because all the clients on my list either died or went to some other service (no it was not as a result of my actions). After my boss hung up on the phone, I felt my world had caved in around me. Yes, that period didn’t last long (and I got a new shift within a fortnight) but who would’ve thought that a few hours each week would contribute so much to one’s sense of self-worth?

My clients are all, in their own way, endearing (seriously. Endearing is not a euphemism for incontinent). Because I’m so fixated on myself, occasionally they lead me to think about what might have been if I had my own grandparents. Of course I had biological grandparents, but not the grandparents my clients are: the slightly quirky patriach/matriach that likes cuddling their new-born great-grandchildren and has only a vague idea of who their grandchildren are, but love them and dote on them and brighten up when they visit. My own grandparents may or may not have been similar, but I never knew them, never grew up with them. I didn’t grow up with any extended family, and it makes me ponder – how much different would life be if I already had my own small community at birth? Would I have been a better-adjusted person if my favourite uncle (who to me represents what my own father isn’t) was around to bridge the gap and give me the male role-model I so lack? Would I be better equipped to deal with such a scary world if I had cousins and uncles and aunties to interact with and to help me shape my self-identity? Oh god yes, it would have been different. Immigration will help you find new possibilities, but you leave the old possibilities behind as payment. Of course, conversely, more relatives around may not have been helpful – maybe I would have just been stranded with yet more dysfunctional and potentially destructive people to have more fractured, twisted relationships with.

Today one of the ladies, who usually can’t remember my name or any other distinguishing features about me, recalled that I was crap at ironing. Note that I have only done a small amount of ironing for her and it was at least a couple of months ago. Her sentiment, however, is quite reasonable: I am crap at ironing. I like to practice a homeopathic form of ironing, turning the iron on to the coolest heat setting so that only the slightest warmth escapes the metal. Sure I don’t burn my clothes, but my shirts have more wrinkles than you can poke a stick at. Anyway, it all illustrates the point that one should not underestimate old people and their memory, even if it is super-selective.

My granddad was a tailor. If he was around, I’m sure that in the least, I would’ve learnt how to iron.

Man, I got slammed today…as if I wasn’t feeling fragile enough. My consultant likes to ask myself and Other Slack Student questions during his clinic, and sure we’re rusty, but no matter what we do we can’t seem to jump through the right hoops. Answering questions in med is a bit of a game, one in which I spend a disproportionate time on the losing side. Not only do you have to get the right answers, but you should also answer them in some kind of categorically logical fashion and exude confidence at the same time. After my consultant was done with me this morning, all I wanted to do was go drag my useless carcass off to lie in a dark, solitary hole.

Interesting info of the day #1: Mycetomas are balls of fungus which lie in cavities of lung tissue, usually seen in sick patients with crappy immune systems. If you tilt/shake patient whilst taking a X-ray, you can see the ball move around in the cavity like a beady eye! (Coooool…if it weren’t for sick, neutropaenic* patient that is)

Interesting info of the day #2: Even though they make for spectacular X-rays, it’s not a good idea to play with an “unloaded” gun unless you want to run for the Darwin awards. Believe me, someone found this out the hard way recently.

*Neutropaenic – with a low white cell count, generally in people with buggered immune systems

I think I’m in love…this man looks like Aragorn with a guitar…

…he has a drummer that looks like Gandalf but that’s more disturbing if anything.

For more hot pictures, ladies (or open-minded men) visit http://www.timchristensen.dk/honeyburst/media/ and listen to “Whispering at the top of my lungs”.

This is beyond a joke. I woke up before dawn so I could sit and pretend not to fall asleep in yet another meeting of the surgeons and cardiologists, only to be told (again) by my resident by 10am that there was nothing to do on the ward.

After a piss-weak attempt at study, I thought I’d let Delia Smith teach me How To Cook. I dunno know about this lady. She freaks me out with her penchant for lamb’s kidneys and her pronunciation of ‘yoh-gert’. And I don’t know why she thinks it’s necessary that she show me step by step how to cut garlic, even the most incompetent adolescent boy I know (my brother…haha jk, he’s actually not too bad) can figure out how to stick a knife into a clove. Are you always suspicious when English people try to make ‘authentic’ Asian food? (perhaps this is not the best example, but try the ‘laksa’ at RPH…puke…celery and cashews in my laksa, you blasphemers!!) She’s so damn English, with her endless puddings and clotted cream. Personally I think she needs to get laid, fast.

There’s a gay man vs. menopausal grandma on Wed nights (Cook and the Chef) that’s semi-enjoyable but I think it’s back to Nigella and her soft-porn ways for me. Besides, that way I can be the lazy cook I am: “mix store bought hummus, Greek yoghurt, olive oil, and there you have it!”

Saw an Old Friend the other day.

It was great. I do superficial corridor conversations with finesse. But sit me down with a group of randoms for lunch and the facade falls apart at an exponential rate. Anyway, Old Friend does not imply an Old Friendship. No, most of the friendship gave up long ago. Everything was smooth sailing, until – BOOM! – gone for no particular reason (none I’m aware of), and you wonder if you dreamt up the whole thing in the first place. It makes me wonder how people can just cut you out of their lives as if you were no more than an overgrown toenail. Or a piece of unnecessary dead skin. How callus of them? a-haha…oh geez. Afterwards it’s the same questions: was it me? is there some part of me they find offensive? why?? and those niggling Dependant traits come to the fore.

It’s little wonder that these days I have a quiet calculator running in the back of my head: “Is the payoff worth it if I invest x amount of effort into this relationship?” I wish I didn’t have to think that way, but past experience has conditioned me to think in cost-benefit ratios. Well, I don’t necessary think that of all of them. And maybe that’s the true test – if I have to keep running equations then something probably is off-kilter.

There’s a Crowded song and Neil sings “when friends come round you might remember and be sad/ behind their eyes is unfamiliar”.

Sometimes I feel surrounded by strangers.