Corporeal Contraptions

At the risk of the blog turning into a Medic Alert memoir, when I was lying down in a stranger's room with only my knickers on, my mind invariably started to do an anatomical audit.

"Are you OK," the doctor asked in a kindly voice.

"Yep, it's nice and warm here and I can't feel a thing."

"That's good. If you're comfortable, I'll leave you here for ten minutes; come in and check on you and leave you for another ten if that's-----"

WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP WOOP!

My blanket slid to the floor and the acupuncture needles in my ears and head waved in the breeze as I  sat up in shock. "What the hell is that?"

"Oh, not to worry," he said, waving it away. "It's the annual testing of the bomb shelter alarms all over Switzerland."

"Ah," I said, lowering myself back down, trying to ignore the wedgie I'd just given myself.

He popped a couple more needles into each wrist. "Actually, right now would be the perfect time to attack us as we'd all shrug our shoulders and think it was just part of the process."

I decided it was appropriate to pick out my wedgie right there and then even though he was still in the room: no-one wants to be caught in dodgy underwear during a surprise missile crisis.

Back to the body catalogue.  Today it was tiny pins all over my body, but what else do I rely on to survive?

Anti-depressants. It might seem an oxymoron to have to take a tablet to make me feel like me, but they work. So I will.

Weird Achilles heel protector sock bandage thingies. It's only my right Achilles that keeps playing up, but the doc says I should wear them on both feet. With a sewn in heel pad and tight sausage-shaped compression doo-whats-its that push against the muscle, I'm struggling to stay in my shoes. So far though, they're working.

US, English and Australian-sourced packets of painkillers for Mr Migraine's increasing number of unwanted visits. Note that there's nothing from Switzerland. The strongest stuff you can get from the chemist here is Panadol with caffeine: not a good option at night time.

The long-serving mouth guard, cleaned regularly with thrush, sorry, Swiss 'Candida' brand toothpaste.  This passion killer and lisp-inducer stops me from cracking my crowns due to grinding and/or clenching in my sleep and more than once I've walked out the front door ready to take Milly for her morning constitutional before eventually realising that the damn thing is still in.  "Bonjour Kath! Did you win your boxing match?"

Hot water bottle, Arnica gel and a not-so-good imitation of Deep Heat creme. Neck aches and shoulder pain see these used more often than preferred. Love Chunks is often called upon to apply these various gels and unguents and they all seem to smell bad enough for Milly to snort and move to the other side of the room.

Nearly forgot the decade-old orthotics...  Transferred from running shoe to running shoe.  Had a second pair in bright purple but lost them along the way somewhere.  I assume they still work at, um, whatever it was that they were supposed to do back in 2003.

All of these help me stay upright, keep moving and complain (slightly) less, but here are the three essentials.

Love Chunks: eighteen years of marriage and still my favourite boy to hug, sleep alongside, talk to, make plans with and smell.  Tickly moustache, glinting blue eyes and kindness by the bucketload.

Sapphire; thirteen-and-a-half and growing almost visibly in front of my eyes, astounding me with life lessons learned, observations made and potential yet to be realised.

Sweet little Milly.  Nine years young and still the best working buddy ever; albeit with the worst breath. A privilege to have her in our family.

Chocolate, coffee and wine help too.

Flu face

Mr Migraine had decided to pay me an extra long visit.  This was an idea that had clearly occurred him during our 38 hour, door-to-door return journey from Australia to Switzerland.  Why not pop in to Kath's cranium when she's wedged into an economy seat and unable to breathe in the smell of aeroplane catering without an involuntary heave?  A quick vomit seconds before we landed was official confirmation of his calling.  

In fact, he then decided to stay with me another four days, twitching the 'Vomit NOW' nerve endings, punching the 'Diarrhoea A-Go-Go' dials and stamping on the 'Crushing Pain Behind Left Eye Ball' buttons like a river-dancing epileptic on espresso.

Love Chunks was supposed to leave for his much-anticipated skiing trip the day after we landed, but the dear bloke stayed with me for those four dreadful days until he was sure that I could keep food down and have the energy to take Milly downstairs for a whizzer before he drove off towards the alps.

A week later, he walked through the door, red-faced and sweaty but with chattering teeth. "I think I've caught the flu," he said, dropping his bags and falling into my hug.  "I caught it from Robyn who said she'd got it from Dave who blamed Kirsty, the new girl at work, who said that a fat guy had coughed all over her on the tram...."

Never mind, it was MY time to shine; to fufill the long-held potential of being a work-from-home Trailing Spouse who would not only expertly tend to the sick but also keep the home fires burning, nourishing hot soup on simmer, the infirm entertained, bills paid online and .... the dog from eating the used tissues.  

As Sapphire succumbed, my mothering skills intensified.  Vitamin C, sugar-free Strepsils and a blankie on the couch with her favourite movie on standby.  A hand wiping her sweaty brow and a comforting arm around her shoulders. "Let me slice some apple for you."

Flu, for me? Nah, mine was merely a scratchy throat and a few sniffles. I was made of stronger stuff.  My role was to soldier on, be vigilant and protect my dear, sweet family.  

In fact, it was time to test out the 'ol Achilles; see if my careful ministrations and months of rest had paid off.

It had. Six kilometres with no twinge at all!  I was so proud, my phone took a photo to commemorate the achievement.  LC and Sapphire weakly congratulated me as I skipped back into the living room, droplets of sweat pooling on the floor whilst blocking their view of the telly.  "I feel GREAT," I said, somewhat insensitively as my favourite boy and favourite girl trumpeted into their tissues and curled up into even tighter balls of misery.  "I'm so lucky that all I've got is a COLD!"

Until last Friday.  "Who allowed an elephant to sit on me in the middle of last night and why does it feel like a camel has taken up residence inside my chest?"

Since then, it's been a full-on flu infestation.  Unpredictable sneezes, phlegm-laden coughing, aching joints, toilet sweats, the occasional chuck up and a listlessness so pervading I need a lie down after getting dressed.  

There was a bonus, however.  My voice keeps disappearing, so LC and Sapphire enjoy a relatively peaceful home life, albeit with increasingly dusty floors and a Trailing Spouse likely to erupt with a moan that is impossible to stop if accidentally disturbed.

Milly was puzzled. Sure, it was nice to have everyone home, but instead of activity, socialising and walks it was a closed house, stillness and silence. Boooorrrrring!  Now with just the two of us, having a low-based IKEA bed means that she can leap up next to me and place herself just so along my side so that if my hand flops, it will kinda sorta be in the right position to give her a tummy rub.

After Sapphire returned to school and LC to work, I made sure that Milly's long morning walk still occurred. Even if it killed me.  My voice always escapes in the -6C temperatures, so furry face makes a split second decision. With those triangle ears, it's obvious that she can hear my attempts to call her, but she's decided to pretend that it's not the right voice I'm using and she can therefore enjoy some extra time making yellow snow and sniffing for squirrels. It is only when the frozen ground starts to hurt her feet that she decides that yes, she can hear me calling.  It's impossible not to smile at her reasoning.

Just as the indefatigable Flu kept on keeping on, Mr Migraine looked away from his other clients and back towards me with interest.  Why the hell not, he giggled.  When she coughs up snot, why not make sure that Gina Rinehardt's drilling inside her head for minerals?  Have a chuckle by flinging in a sly chunder and blurred vision just when she has a writing assignment due and solder the muscles at the base of her skull so that they fuse every time she stands?  Stomach pains and teeth that feel as though they're being boiled in water?  Matching the pain in her bones with ones in her jaw and forehead!  Yeah, go for it! 

And thus, I find myself still feebly fighting the two foes of flu and migraine, unable to give my attention to the TV, computer or book for longer than fifteen minutes at a time but thoroughly sick of lying in bed and feeling just how badly my toenails need cutting.  In my mostly-horizontal state I've mentally finished the novel; planned a second, placed unbeatable bids for three separate editing jobs, figured out how to make lamingtons for Saturday and researched three separate trips to Spain, Ireland and New York.  It's amazing what you can do with your nostrils plugged.

Wheat bags and whingeing

Yesterday morning I was on the 57 tram. Yes, the one that smells of BO and garlic sauce and has a higher-than-average number of fat men wearing tracksuit pants up to nipple-level and women with beards who mutter to themselves. I was contributing to the aroma with the sweaty fug of overheated wheat bag and sticky linament.

As the three-day crick in my neck ratcheted up to freakishly torturous levels of pain that made even blowing my nose a dance with death, I found myself joining the muttering women. However, instead of a beard I was fairly smooth-faced and yelped in agony instead of their low and quiet mumble as I realised to my cost that we use our neck and shoulder muscles to brace and steady ourselves every time the tram turns a corner or squeals to a halt.

Thankfully my involuntary outburst was not noticed by the nurse sitting next to me, lost in her "Tish-tinka, Tish-tinka, Tish-tinka' iPod world or the two bogans sipping from long necks and discussing why the Beastie Boys "still kick phargin' ARSE mate" in today's busy world.

I very carefully held open the reluctant tram doors and stepped down as carefully as a platform-stilettoed game-show hostess would a glittery ramp of stairs. Except that I blurted out "PHARK!" every second step. Each small movement was like being king-hit by a ninja bearing BBQ tongs but I continued to make my way, slowly, to West Melbourne. Turning right to check out the traffic meant that my reflection in the window of the shopfront opposite revealed a half-decent C3PO impression.

I was meeting my mate Sheelagh at the Asylum Seekers Resource Centre and did not want to ring her up and wimp out because of a bung neck. After all, they help people who have been permitted to enter our country as on a bridging visa, but are not permitted access to any government assistance. Therefore, no rent, no housing, no job, no food, no training, no help with literacy or negotiating paper trails, no transport no nothing. Flourish on your own or die in a ditch.

Sitting in the waiting room - furnished with old lounge chairs, wooden tables and local artwork, it reminded me of my old primary school. I didn't strain my neck to observe as much as I'd normally do, but could hear a new arrival being hugged 'hello' by a volunteer, and be heartily congratulated for winning a job as a cleaner.

I too was hugged hello by Sheelagh and winced. She and her boss Gavin showed me the kitchen, the food bank, language room, legal offices, job centre, work experience placement officers, fund raisers, asylum processing offices, boxes of nappies, wipes and blankets, medical centre, ESL classes and charity chocolate. Yes, I bought twelve blocks.

It was agony to walk around, dying to talk, observe and take notes but reminding myself to keep my head still and only smile and nod, smile and nod, smile and nod - NO, not nod - it hurt too bloody much! I should have been peeling potatoes, stacking tins, typing up CVs, listening to adults reading, updating a press release, tapping my chocolate buddies for freebies, selling raffle tickets, publicising their stories.....

The pain was making me nauseous. I held up a hand and said to Gavin. "Just tell me what you want me to do." I'd confessed earlier to the neck problem and he and Sheelagh had considerately found a table and sat opposite me. "We'd like you to write our newsletter for us if you wouldn't mind---"
"Done. Absolutely."

The look of relief on their faces merely illustrated how I'd have liked to have felt at that moment. We traded business cards, said our farewells and I again made my way - "PHARK!" - shuffling like an angry crab - "PHARK!" - to the tram stop.

My mobile rang and for the first time in recent memory, I managed to find it in time to answer it. Manny from the council wanted me to help him visit 27 schools in the valley to talk about litter.

Leaning against the timetable poll feeling myself starting to burn in the sun, I sighed.
"No, Manny, I can't do it."

He was momentarily stunned. His silence demanded an explanation.

"My project is for Flemington only, not the entire council boundary. I've visited all three schools here and honestly don't have time for more."

More silence. I know your game, I thought. Staying quiet isn't going to shame me into changing my mind.

"Manny, I've cricked my neck so badly that I'm chewing three caplets of panadeine without water right now; I've been at a centre that helps asylum seekers and refugees, have two paid articles that are overdue and need to get back home to prepare for a volunteer workshop at my daughter's school. I can't do it.....

.......oh and where is that information pack on the waste statistics that you promised you'd send me back in March?"

I shouldn't have said that, and apologised. He accepted mine and offered one of his own.

Back at home, there was an hour left before I needed to head over to Sapphire's school and teach week two of the Writing Workshop. The damn doctors' surgery was fully booked out.

The trusty wheatbag was nuked again and I sank into the lounge, leaving the blinds down and sweating in the darkness. A block of charity chocolate would give me the energy I needed.....

Shut the bloody door!

All youse non-Austrayan readers of this 'ere blog probably assume that our big bugger of an island is always hot, sunny and dry. To be fair, that assumption is mostly right, but we do have our four seasons like you guys do, just in the opposite order.

So while I'm reading your blogs about summer vacations, sunburn and strappy sandals, I've almost wrapped my legs around my tiny little oil heater as though I'm Julia Roberts doing the same to Richard Gere in the spa bath in 'Pretty Woman'. It's frickin' freezing here.















And don't just take my word for it. Even the foreigners from the northern hemisphere - hailing from much cooler climes than here - shiveringly agree with me.

Sarah, a Milwaukee native who learned from an early age never to go outside with wet hair or volunteer to shovel snowy sidewalks, was standing at the school gate the other day, clad in about three jackets, shivering in her shoes. London-born-and-bred Mick was next to her, waiting for his daughters to emerge; with Swedish Goddess Thorun shuffling rapidly from side-to-side and huffing warm air into her clenched fingers.

I ambled over and asked the most obvious, conversation-starter question that we say when we can't think of any other thing to start off with (and hate ourselves for our predictable lack of witty originality): "Pretty cold today, isn't it?" What an understatement: I had goosebumps on my flippin' head.

Thankfully Sarah is a kind person, and didn't roll her eyes. "Yeah."

Still mired in minus mental facilities, I stumbled on. "But hey, you guys are all from cold countries, so shouldn't you be used to this?"

They all politely swallowed their sighs and took the time out to explain it to me. Firstly, their countries have central heating as standard, throughout all of the rooms of their home.

Secondly they don't have vents installed near the ceilings that go directly to the air outside like we do.

Why do we? I may not have set the world alight with my scientific talents in high school, but I do remember that heat rises. If the heat then has to compete with an almost-ceiling-high vent that is directly bringing in freezing air from outside, we can safely assume that the vent isn't being particularly useful or helpful in this instance.

In summer time, yes. Or perhaps no. If heat rises then sure, we want to fling it outside, but if the vent brings in even hotter air from outside it's still being about as useful as a dry sponge in the desert isn't it, or am I not getting some vitally basic point?

Secondly, even their bathrooms have heating and warm towel rails. And by 'heating' they don't mean tepid old tastic lights beaming weakly down from the mould-speckled ceiling or a miserable bar heater up above the mirror (again with the heat rising issue - clearly not helping the poor nude sod standing on icy porcelain tiles several feet lower) either; they mean underfloor heating, a radiator, water proof carpets, cosy copper lined towel rails set to 'toasty'......

Here in Oz, most of us do a nudey-rudey Hop-Squeal-Scamper streak through our houses from the bathroom to the bedroom. For some reason, we all think that running through on our tippy toes will somehow make things easier and/or warmer for us and the added sound effects: "Oherr eek!" will help speed up our journey. With central heating, decent carpeting and a pre-warmed towel we'd be reduced to a languid stroll and a temptation to flash our partners and call out "Whoo Hoo, take a gander at these party pieces" before being told to leave the room and put something flattering on. I'm not sure that the overseas folk win this argument actually.

Mick pointed out that their toilets have windows that can actually close instead of permanently-open louvres. Yes, so do we - if you own a house that's younger than 1960, that is. The houses I grew up in, rented and bought all had 1950s style glass panels that were permanently fixed into the half-open mode. Not so great for privacy if someone wanted to use the hose outside nearest the window (extra echoing too, with all those floor tiles) and even worse for those 3am wee-wees spent gingerly lowering oneself onto the slab of ice that was once a plastic caroma loo seat whilst trying to keep the eyes closed and pretend that you were still asleep.

Torun mentioned their superior insulation. In Sweden they have insulation. Everywhere. Not just a few poxy old pink batts in the roof that are handy for rats and possums to eat and crap on, but in their walls. Plus double-glazed windows and lined floors.

We, on the other hand, either live in double-brick houses (moi) which do keep the heat out in summer for a few days, and the heat in during winter (for a few minutes after the heater's off). Brick venereal owners have an outer layer of brick and then some inner masonite that resembles a fully-plastered wall, but without the insulation, sound-proofing or expense. Add a lack of eaves, verandahs and a boxy second story and you have a home that needs 24/7 cooling and heating and has an energy star rating of minus three-and-a-half (or wait, was that for the movie 'Hey Hey It's Esther Blueberger'?)

Either way, if we're not blessed with energy-guzzling reverse cycle air conditioning, we have a gas or electric fire in the living room. This means that ever time anyone enters or leaves the room, the oldest person (usually the parent) automatically yells out, "Shut the bloody door! Were you raised in a tent?"

The room itself is usually furnished with at least two clothes horses crammed with damp socks, tracksuit pants (they shrink the dryer), school uniforms and jocks. Hopefully the jocks are placed on the wall side so that they're not the first thing that hits the visitors' eyes when they arrive. I've also been known to hang shirts over an exercise bike, door handles and the edges of bookshelves, and my mother has even spread out crockery in front of the 1975 Vulcan bar heater to warm up before serving dinner.

Thus, it is well and truly ironic that such a hot, dry and dusty country has winters that are even less pleasant than countries closer to the artic circle. And no, I don't know where we'd find the money to add in all the comfy extras that those countries have to make things easier unless beer, smokes, flex days, scratch tickets and pokies were completely removed from our culture.

In the meantime, there's only this idea.

After a lot of immature sniggering at Ray's Outdoors Centre - and a bit of explaining to Sapphire as to why I was taking a photo of a 'Dutch Oven Carry bag.' Hell, it looks as though it's even shaped to fit my two overly generous arse cheeks in.....

........ and I thought it was perhaps the cheapest way I could improve on home heating. Not sure that Love Chunks agrees with me.

Maybe we're all better off hiding under the doona and staying there until spring comes again.




















Please shut the door on your way out, 'Kthnxbye