A focus - on what I CAN do

I've been told bike riding's completely out now by three medicos.

No wheels of any kind is frustrating as hell, and certainly impacts on lifestyle ... but I figure keeping focus on what I CAN do is important to get through these next few months.

Started back at much needed yoga this week with Karen, start cello lessons in a fortnight, will pick up the guitar again too with Tim.

... and I can take a slow walk by the dam with Emma's D200 and find magic in the duck feathers ...

New fear flavour - born of 'negative'

Here's a correa in my front yard this afternoon, a delightful little local - one here long before we Anglos shipped in the cats, rabbits, foxes, pinus radiata and the daffodil bulbs (shooting to its left).

Being in its company under the canopy of my grand old friends the messmates and peppermint gums - there was a comfort of sorts (... things don't make as much sense to me in the garden as by the sea, but I know I'm torturing the ocean voyage metaphor. So now why not mix metaphors too, gardens and ice cream stores ...)

I'm starting to think fear has 32 flavours.
I've tasted possibly six these past weeks.
Yesterday afternoon a new, intriguing one. It's neither bitter nor sweet and, bizarre, born of the word "negative".
I wouldn't have thought at the start of all this that any negative result could be a scare.

... except that this one means they're clearly now out of ideas of what to test for.

So, I don't have Whipples disease according to Sydney's Westmead hospital. Sure, I'm happy about that - and still very happy about the negative result to tumours of any flavour.

BUT WHAT THE FUCK IS IT STOPPING ME FROM SWIMMING, DRIVING, GOING UP ON A FUCKING LADDER TO CLEAN MY FUCKING GUTTERS!?

They'll do another MRI in six weeks to see if it's grown, shrunk or stayed content.

And in the meantime, whatever colony of beasties it is still resides in my brain quite happily wrapped up a sleeping bag of my own foam cells, minus the 15 per cent gob extracted during surgery.

"So, the thing that made you drop, pass out completely and go blueish for four minutes, look stoned out of your mind and talk shit for another 10 minutes before ending up in the emergency unit ... ummmm, we don't know. And see you in six weeks. (And in the meantime sit on the couch - safely- because our lawyers advise us to advise you to do fuck all)."

Fear's something of what's going on (and that's been more Aperol and soda than straight Campari since we've been talking infection not tumour, more star-anise infused than fistful of fennel).

Not sure what flavour this fear is. Haven't worked it out. I think it's got a tang about it - an anger.

Correas in close to solstice afternoon light help.

Given that quite a few of these postings so far have been ventings/explorations of fear, this quote strikes a chord lately, and the correa sings it in chorus:

"It has been said that our anxiety does not empty tomorrow of its sorrow, but only empties today of its strength."
-- Charles Haddon Spurgeon

winter wattle and a proverb

If you want to be happy for a short time, get drunk.

If you want to be happy for a long time, fall in love.

If you want to be happy forever, be a gardener.

- Chinese proverb

learnings

I think I remember from a cackle 10 years ago or more that my dear friend Luana's first words were "Hey Charger!" - that 1970s vehicular tribalism with the V for Victory sign out the window as two (no doubt purple or otherwise orange) V8 Chargers roared past each other at 30 miles over the speed limit, their moustachioed drivers lounging as movie stars.

Well, there's a very different club or tribe to which I seem to have gained membership this past few weeks: it's acknowledgment is there in an eye sparkle, a knowing ... and always a smile.

Its members have been there.

They know.

And they gleam for each day.

A friend and club member took me aside for a second just after dinner the other night and with a Spielberg spark in her eyes, index finger on my sternum - and beautiful smile - made me vow:

"never forget what you have learned"

Some of that learning is here in a slice of this morning's walk: we'd have had 15mm of rain last night, temp down to about zero, snow down to about 500m and we're at about 340 - real winter stuff.

And there is no grey about any of it ... much, much green.

'Rare' but no name

... nothing.

The trip to hospital was a complete waste of time. In an unfortunate communication stuff-up, nobody rang us to say the visit was unnecessary.

Spoke to a doctor I've never seen before, who was making it up as he went because the only information about me he had was what I could read from his screen: 'work in progress'.

I'm not a Category 1 patient anymore and the shift is quite obvious.

They're still testing in Sydney - something 'rare' (I liked 'exotic' better).

It was never going to be as easy as "you've got this, we're going to nuke it with this, bend over".

Possibly another two weeks.

They're building the suspense nicely. Fuck it.

Direction finding duck ...

Leaving for hospital in about 2 minutes ... trying to enter that scary shithole with a mental picture of Leunig's Direction Finding Duck at the bow, the harder part is having a Mr Curly smile about it all ..

View D

But wait there's more - neglected to include View D of the fine Bevknits crew neck T:

Obviously taken after he'd belted the old bloke for letting fluffy off the chain. He looks well pleased with himself for the right hook.

... but he could have sucked his guts in a bit.

Who farted?

This afternoon is the next instalment: pathology results from the range of 'exotics' they've been testing the blob for.

Scared shitless of course.

But I'm hoping that whatever they say it is - and how they're going to treat it - will at least give some sort of plan to how I'm going to live and work the next half of this year.

From what I gather treatment could range from a couple of pills, yet another needle in the arm, a program of radiology or a drenching gun up the arse (thanks to Gill for the Gippsland farm girl's solution).

There was a time - backpacking days - when moving in a very general direction was fine, somewhere within about 120 degrees of a sortakindamaybe destination, and if the next 'occurence' threw that course off 40 degrees, a laugh and a jar of the local brew would generally be enough to adjust the sails.

That was before self employment, or maybe I'm just no good at it now.

Doctor won't allow a jar of brew just now - and even under normal circumstances, it's 8.40am and it wouldn't be quite right - but a laugh does help ...

I came across another Op Shop gem that Emma scored on our hunt the other day: 'Bevknits' Pattern kit # 6002 for Men's Shirts, Sweaters and Cardigan. Gold!

Bevknit recommends reading their Space Age Sewing book (enquire at your nearest fabric store) and, for best results, remember to set your sewing machine to 'Supermatic stretch stitch'.

Emma truly has the eye when it comes to a 7 op shops/one morning adventure ... it's clear they really splashed out on modelling fees here, though the page designer probably didn't need to use the shot where the two golfing buddies were discussing who farted.