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Fork! I’m Fifty! Shits, Pits, Bits and Tits.

There are so many things that give me the shits nowadays. I was either extremely tolerant or superbly ignorant – I can’t decide which and having to make a decision is giving me the shits. So, I was both. I feel a distinct lack of patience toward those who are not patient – this paradox may be blamed on hormones or peri-menopause or menopause – or to rephrase, I think of it as an intolerance for the over-abundance of pernicious dickheads.

Top of the ‘Knobby Knob Head’ class are the tailgaters who insist on humping your bumper bar with their grill. What is that? You’re listening to Smooth FM, singing along to The Bangles, overtaking a semi-trailer, going five k’s over the speed limit. Living on the edge. When a knobby knob head in a four wheel drive with a shiny bull bar races up behind you, coming closer and closer at speed. 

Watching intermittently in the rearview mirror, you try to concentrate on driving past the double-trailered semi without veering off the steep shoulder as Cowboy Prick Features tries to push your car along whilst intimidating a poor little old lady. Well, a middle class, little old lady. Okay! A middle class, little old woman. Right!! A middle class, little woman. Happy?

It is not my road. It is not your road. The road belongs to everyone. It is to share. Not scare. Knobby Knob Head Prick Features! (Note: the terms ‘dickhead’, ‘knobby knob head’, ‘cowboy prick features’ and ‘knobby knob head prick features’, or any combination of the above, are not gender specific. I use these terms for all genders.)

Secretly, I can understand why someone would want to tailgate me – I do lunges, I do squats, I do a 6k walk most days. It is possibly quite a tidy tail: not that I’ve seen it recently, as one has lost the flexibility to turn that far to view it in a mirror. Yes, delusion is part of aging: I have a fine piece of tush, or would have, if it wasn’t now for its distinct resemblance to an elephant’s behind. So there are no excuses Cowboy knobby prick knob features!

Sharing top of the class honours are the absolute imbeciles who mistake my blank look and speechlessness as interest in whatever excrement is coming out of their mouths when actually I don’t give a flying cow-pat and don’t want to waste forming another wrinkle on such dick-wads. Sufferers of verbal diarrhoea; chug on some Hydralyte. Stat. Oh, but wait. Perhaps they don’t know they have shit vomiting out of their gob. I am just the person to help with some self-awareness. Shut. The. Fork. Up.

Not professing to be the world authority on excellent conversation, I do understand and occasionally practice the fundamentals: engage, talk, listen, respond, listen, engage, talk, listen, respond, listen, interrupt, change the subject and, if you’re not interested in the conversation, whip out your phone and pretend you are: a) responding to an urgent email; b) looking for a specific photo of whom or whatever is boring enough to end all further interaction, or; c) important and walk away to take a call.

Seriously, how can you not know that talking about the same thing over and over again without taking a breath and without taking any notice of the person or persons you are supposedly interacting with is rude, boring, tedious, prosaic, selfish, boring, boring, boring, disinteresting and forked. Worse still is when you finally do stop talking and then you whip out your phone and pretend you are: a) responding to an urgent email; b) looking for a specific photo of whom or whatever is boring enough to end all further interaction, or; c) important and walk away to take a call. What the fork? And that wraps up the ‘shits’ part of this chapter.

Pits, bits and tits are high maintenance, way too high maintenance for this little earth mother wannabe. In my thirties – when I was vain and a working professional – I had laser hair removal done on my pits and bits. Booked in for the five sessions (apparently hair grows in four stages and the fifth session is for luck though more likely profit), I was told by the beautician during my third appointment that she would be on holiday for the next couple of weeks. As things were looking nice and tidy, I was not concerned.

When she returned from holiday, she called to say that she couldn’t make the fourth appointment because she was moving. Hmmm … things are starting to look a little un-kept. Finally, she stopped returning my calls and I have a bikini line that looks like a balding porcupine. Oh yeah. It hadn’t all grown back as I had had three sessions. Therefore I have a quarter of the original hair growth in my pits and on my bits. Still. Yep, once bitten twice shy for this little balding hedgehog. I shave now.

Ah tits: the banes of my existence. I am a small person, in every sense of the word. My many nicknames have included: chipmunk, shrimp, shorty, midget and pain-in-the-arse, which is due to an auto-response disorder from being small; kind of like short man syndrome. So getting my first bra at the same time as my younger sister who, it turned out, actually needed a bigger cup size, did wonders for my boob-esteem. The boob fairy hated me or needed to be sacked for doing such a shit job.

So my little mozzie bites took refuge in the A-cup, size 8 bra where they grew like little mushrooms in the dark to graduate to a B-cup approximately four years later. Not even time-lapse photography would have captured the growth. The big girls, who were owners of substantial mammalian protuberances, were relentless during high school’s grooming and deportment elective when our measurements were taken. Little did I know, and, be careful what you wish for.

Fast forward to being pregnant and wowsers! Overnight (and time lapse photography will support this) I grew a huge pair of breasts. I could hardly stand without toppling forward they were so big. They looked like watermelons on a post; rockmelons on a stick; oranges on a toothpick: they were enormous. I had gone from a small B-cup to a D-cup: from a size 8 across the back to a size 12. It was all fun bags until the milk came in.

Just when you think your skin won’t stretch any further, it does … to a DD-cup. In fear of falling on my face every time I stood up, I had to hold my breasts to walk anywhere. They were oozing over the sides of my hands (which are small), seeking refuge under my armpits, covering my entire torso, preventing me from seeing any part of my body from the chest down. I had one very lucky baby.

When I stopped breast-feeding, my boobs turned traitor, packed up their sustenance and left the premises. What remained were two shrivelled sacks of skin with a striking resemblance to two lightly fried eggs thrown at a wall, the yolks pulling everything down as they slide to the floor. I could roll these puppies up. In fact, I did, how else would they get in the bra? They were accomplished escape artists: no bra could hold them. Houdini tits. To make life much more fun, enjoyable and interesting, the more weight I put on, the lower the twins drooped.

Drum roll please … I had a breast reduction. Ta dah! Best decision I have ever made. Remove the excess skin. Reposition the nipples. Pull every back up on to the chest. Stitch them up. Buy some beautiful, sexy bras. Et voila! I am woman, hear me roar! It may sound vain, but I don’t give a fork. I can wear shoestring straps, strapless clothes, bathers – yes, I could have worn all these things before but I wouldn’t have because my tits were disgusting, and it’s what I think of my body that matters to me – though now I am looking down the barrel of tuckshop arms/chicken wings/wind sock arms so the skimpy clothing days are numbered.

It has been eight years of bliss with my new boobs and I only wish I had done it sooner. And, to date, they remain hair free! Which brings us to the final item on today’s venting list. Da da daaaahhhhhh! Facial hair. What the fork is that about?! One stray hair that serves no purpose but delivers a new level of self awareness if one forgets to pluck that sucker! 

Of little comfort is the fact that my peers are also slaves to the stray facial hair. Mine shoots like a prolific weed. Erupting forth from above my lip, slightly to the right of my philtrum. Within minutes it has sprouted. Unlike the ‘normal’ facial hair, this baby is as erect as randy teenage boy eyeing off an apple pie. It is as hard as a nail, as black as my mood and as long as my little finger! (Slight exaggeration.)

Even though it is plucked with regularity, it insists on taking up root approximately every six weeks: little exhibitionist! With any luck, the little upstart will take lessons from some of it’s eyebrow cousins and lose the will to take root once plucked. Though it may follow the example of other eyebrow hair traitors and turn grey, and long, and curly, and … GAH! I have pubes on my face! (Only when I put my glasses on though.) (Fork! I’m Fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! The Blind Leading the Blind.

If memory serves me correctly, it was a Jeffrey Archer novel. Actually, it could have been a Ken Follett book. No wait. It was Peter Fitzsimons. Was it? Umm … could have been Matthew Reilly? I’ve sacked my memory! Whatever the book was that I was reading, it was so good that I remember every word: not. Obviously. Nothing against the authors: everything against my memory.

Actually, I do remember the storylines for the books of the above authors: a family who own a shipping line build a cathedral whilst exploring Antarctica where they are nearly eaten by polar bears and saved by a scarecrow. Yes? Sorry, I should have said ‘spoiler alert’ or some rubbish.

So, I was reading a book. It was dark, therefore night. It would have been a paperback, as it was ten years ago and before I jumped over to reading only e-books. There would have been a little reading light attached to the book so I could read without disturbing hubby. Reading, reading, happily reading: put bookmark in position, close book, turn off light, go to sleep.

The next night: pick up book, turn on light, open book at bookmarked position, reading … trying to read … rub eyes … the print is blurry … rub eyes … the print is still blurry … what the fork? How am I supposed to go to sleep if I can’t read first? Nothing against the authors: everything about relaxing an over-active brain before attempting sleep. Plus, I have always read at bedtime or was read to. It is a well-formed routine repeated each night for over fifty years, which is more than 18,000 nights of reading, people!

So, of course, I wake hubby up to inform him of the impeding drama. Being a non-reader, he rolls over and continues to focus on perfecting his snoring. Okay … so, I pick up the book, adjust the light, bring the book closer to my eyes and squint. No, that is worse. I move the book away from my eyes. Further, a little further, just a little further and squint. Ah ha! Yes, I can make out the words! Yay! I read for a couple of minutes, put bookmark in position, close book, turn off light, go to sleep.

Next day, I have an optometrist appointment and, lucky me, am the proud owner of my ‘first’ pair of readers. Hang on a second. (Not that you can or would want to. What? Hang on a second. Huh? It is physically impossible to hang on to a second. Oh. I know what you are thinking … it is also physically impossible to hang on to a minute. It’s a saying, so I’m writing it. At your peril. Fork off. Oh, okay.) Just a cotton, picking minute! Did you say ‘first’ pair of readers? How many of these reading glasses will I need?

That night I read comfortably until I turned on my side. The nose piece on the glasses was performing amputation surgery on my nose, the arm on the glasses was stabbing into my head and dislocating my ear, the lenses had shifted and would have been positioned perfectly if my eyes were located on the bridge of my nose and over my left ear: this was not working. I was stuck reading whilst on my back, juggling the book between my hands when one hand tired.

There is a problem with a well-formed routine: it is very hard to change it. Very! Hard! So off to the optometrist the next day for a pair of glasses with soft, bendy arms, lighter lenses, a flexible nose piece and to hand over my first born child. Oh yes, this aging thing is expensive. Ka-ching, ka-ching.

My younger sister uses me as her personal crash test dummy. ‘So, in eighteen months, I’ll need glasses. Sure, I can prepare myself for that. Thanks for the heads-up Sis.’ That’s what I’m here for. Glad I could be of assistance. Where’s my crash test dummy? I want my 20/20 vision back! Wahhhhhh! So, reading by candle light and torch light throughout my early years would have had nothing to do with this, right? Blindingly obvious.

What I have learned is that no matter how hard you try, you’re arms do not grow longer as your eyesight fails. However, using my phone to read I can increase or decrease the font size as necessary, it is backlit, I can adjust the brightness, it is small and convenient, and most books are available as e-books. Whilst I miss the smell and feel of a good book (that sounds a little wrong, but fellow readers will understand immediately), I am grateful for this technology.

I’m on to my tenth – could be eleventh or twelfth – pair of readers now. Each pair a reminder of my failing eyesight. I have a pair of glasses stashed away in each room of the house so relying on an unreliable memory is not needed. I have single lenses, bi-focals, multi-focals, multi-focals with glare protection, multi-focal sunglasses, and still cannot stand the fact that I need to wear them in order to see.

I have a theory: as we age, our eyesight fails so we don’t see what is happening to our bodies. But because we’re so curious, we had to invent mirrors and glasses. And poof! Now we can see what the hell is going on with our bodies as we age whilst we pay for the optometrist and his progeny to travel the world.

When last at the optometrist, he informed me, ‘your eyes are showing very early signs of glaucoma’. Brilliant. Am learning braille. I’ll be able to read my body bumps: no guessing what they will reveal … ‘what the fork!’ (Fork! I’m fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! Fat, Fat and Back Fat.

The day I walked up the stairs and three minutes later my wobbly bits were still wiggling from side to side like a successful panna cotta, was the day I decided to tone up. Fluctuating between being active and impersonating a vegetable, I was back to being active, however healthy veggies are for you.

My relationship with food and exercise is one of those which could be classified as ‘on again / off again’. As a child I was very active, cycling everywhere, walking to and from school, exploring around the neighbourhood, tadpole collecting, tree climbing: all very challenging when one’s legs are as short as mine were … and still are.

I was a good eater of most foods; particularly peanut butter and jam sandwiches on fresh white bread, divine. I did not, and still do not, like to eat kidney, liver, and tripe – perhaps it was mum’s cooking (sorry Mum) or perhaps it was because it’s offal – an unsolved mystery which has been officially closed.

Playing school and club netball as Centre position kept me fit and mum cold on Saturday mornings (sorry Mum). I played netball until I was 16. Then … I stopped to do a school play, became too interested in boys and took up anorexia followed swiftly by bulimia. Now, that says a great deal without me having to type a copious amounts of words. Binging and purging continued until I was 20 and fell pregnant. (Another mystery – how does one ‘fall’ pregnant. ‘I tripped down the stairs and next thing I know … I’m up the duff.’ A ponderous use of words.) Back to having a bun in the oven … Ah yes, the old cliché, good Catholic girl gets knocked up, as it has been for centuries.

Having a child was the best thing I have done … so far, and I am over half way: it could possibly be the best thing I have done … ever! Being responsible for a little human, what they eat, what they do and building the foundations for the person they will grow into is a parent’s purpose. And though I started out with parental training wheels on, I ate better, have a healthy relationship with food and, best of all, produced a lovely human.

I took up dancing in my mid-twenties: chassé’ing, jeté’ing, plié’ing and grooving through to my early thirties, then came squash, Pilates and walking, running, cycling, swimming, training for an Ironman, and a physical, sweaty, outdoor job – the old body complaining so much by now it hardly seemed fair to keep ignoring it. Over the years a couple of kilos had taken up residence predominantly on my legs, bum, hips and boobs: no relationship whatsoever to the amount of wine being consumed or the congratulatory baked goods, of course. This I could handle.

Never having been overweight and now relegated to the bench for the foreseeable future, I set the land speed record for turning toned muscle into flab and stacking on more kilos than a bulk-buy spending spree at the butchers. No surprises when excess skin started climbing out of undies, bras, jeans and socks. (Not really socks; it just sounded good.) Couple that with the food allergies, bloat and an insidious thing called vestibular migraine, et voila! We have all the ingredients for the perfect cheesy melt-down.

So, externally I looked completely healthy (unless I was wearing a bra, a fitted t-shirt and jeans) but internally I was messier than a teenager’s bedroom after a sleepover with no parental boundaries. Looking in the mirror when naked was avoided like a snotty-nosed toddler with a stinky nappy. Looking in the mirror with just bra and undies on was doable, though only after buying bras and undies three sizes too big and tucking all the excess skin under the fabric. Fork the face-lift! I needed a body-lift!

Fat fingers. Fat thumbs. Rolls of skin gathering and unfolding over elbows and knees like a Shar-Pei dog being blow-dried. Bending over while wearing clothing with a waistband was like putting a sock on a balloon full of water. Solution? Loose clothing, elasticised waistbands and cotton Lycra tights. Ironic, wearing active-wear when completely inactive. I resembled a half full water-bed bladder. Relieving the pull of gravity on my body, I kept my hair long and wore it in a tight ponytail.

Let us not forget back fat. Back fat: a phenomenon common to women in their fifties. Stealthy in appearance, its modus operandi is to creep up on its victims from behind, attach itself barnacle-like, and spend the rest of its life cycle avoiding captivity. Left alone and free, back fat is quiet and comfortable; like a sleeping baby … in a sling … attached to your back. Woes betide if you wave or raise your arms above your head. Unforgiving in its wrath, back fat will whip around and bitch slap you in the face. Hard. Twice. From each side. It is not your friend.

Fat is subjective. Only you know how you feel. Not really. Nearly every woman over the age of fifty (except Elle and Demi) feels the same way toward fat and flab. Fat is forked. It isn’t as though contending with aging is painful enough. Nope, throw flab at us too. We can take it. We’re big girls. Exactly!

When having a fat day, I don’t talk about it. I am sick of hearing ‘but you’re not fat’ when I have handfuls of the stuff oozing out from bra straps, undies and waistbands. I don’t go outside on windy days in case I open up like an umbrella, am caught by the breeze and blown away; last seen floating over Antarctica. Picture a jib on a yacht before and after the wind catches it … yep, exactly. Tucked away neatly in its cover, it looks petite and svelte but when it’s uncovered and exposed to the elements – poof! Puffer fish! (I have the scales to back that up.)

Considering the options available to me – eating copious amounts of gelatine to firm up this soft, wobbly panna cotta; growing my hair long and wearing it up in even tighter ponytails; walking on my hands for the rest of my life (boobs would flop over my eyes restricting vision); surgery (never again) or exercise … hmmm, a little option paralysis happening – back fat bitch slap – I opt for exercise.

Some online shopping for a full body fat reduction suit, aka Lycra active wear, and a pair of comfy runners, I’m psyched to get started. All that stands between forking off the flab and me is a permission slip from the healthcare professionals who benched me. Flashing some over-enthusiastic wobbly bits at them may speed things up.

It won’t happen overnight. In fact, it may not happen. It is only theory at this stage. Though the thought of firmer thighs glimmers like an oil slick, enticing me to give it my best shot. I know loosing weight is harder as you get older, possibly because resisting dairy is harder as you get older. The incentive is there though. Every time I walk up steps or get bitch slapped in the face by my back fat. (Fork! I’m fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! Scales and Blisters.

I am a stomach sleeper: a lover of pillowed pressure on my stomach, chest and face. Currently, I sleep on the right side of the bed. For some reason, known only to my subconscious and Freud, I will always choose the side of the bed furthest away from the bedroom door; regardless of how far away the nearest toilet is.

With my left leg slightly bent, my left foot standing sentry outside of doona and furry blanket cover regulating temperature, my arms bent underneath my chest and hands crossed, my face turned to the left snuggled into the most comfortable feather pillow on the planet, allowing the coolness of the cotton pillowcase to sooth me, I fall into a content sleep.

This is after the routine squirming, turning, pillow pummelling, throwing covers off, pulling covers back on, smoothing out a small wrinkle on the pillowcase, smoothing out a large crease in the sheet, turning on to my left side, rolling over on to my right side, pushing the corner of the pillow under, tugging the corner of the pillow free, straightening my left leg and bending my right leg, straightening my right leg and bending my left leg, turning on to my right side, repeat the leg straightening and bending and alternating. Think fish out of water. (A fish doesn’t have legs. Shut up. Oh, okay.) Think worm out of soil. (Um, a worm doesn’t have legs. Shut. Up.Oh, okay.) Think woman in her fifties trying to get comfortable!

One morning I woke up itchy between my breasts. I scratched at the itch without opening my eyes thinking, once scratched, the itch would go away and I could return to sleep. Before my brain had registered, I had scratched the top off a small lump, which erupted in fluid. What the fork was that? My eyes were open now. I panicked, thinking I’d scratched a mole, turned on the light, threw my glasses on my face and investigated.

There nestled in between my boobs were a dozen or so blister-like lumps and one red sore gooey with fluid; the lump I’d scratched. What the hell are those? And why are they so itchy? I went to the bathroom, showered, deodorised and sprayed perfume in the usual places. Screamed when the alcohol in the perfume made contact with the blisters: in the manner of Macaulay Culkin in the aftershave ‘Home Alone’ scene and put some fatty ointment between my breasts – my husband had used this ointment to relieve blue bottle jellyfish stings so it should do the trick.

Within the next hour there were blister troops spreading out under my boobs and were sending lookouts to reconnoitre the area above them. It has to be heat rash. We live in Queensland. It’s summer. Yeah, it’s heat rash … So, why haven’t they sprouted before now? Hmmm … puzzling. The blisters now come and go like the seasons. Regardless of weather, heat, cold, perfume, clothes detergent, soap, lotions, alcohol or lack thereof. Hmmm … puzzling-er.

Around the same time, or perhaps quite a few years earlier, I can’t remember: I’m fifty. (Am I? Yes, fifty-four actually. Fork! Yes! As I was saying …) Some time previous to the blistering appearance of the blisters, as I was pulling my undies down – there is a definite theme here – my fingers grazed some rough skin on my outer thigh. It was (and still is) the size of a five-cent piece, is slightly raised and feels rough; like well fried fish skin. Scales! I have scales! More ‘what the forks’ were internally asked. Another theme.

Thinking the scale was a one off and possibly an age spot or sun spot or whatever the fruit-loops the spots on the skin with no melatonin are called, I didn’t give it much thought; unless I was pulling down or pulling up my undies. That is until over the next few years another one appeared. And another. And another And another. Bringing us to present day and I am a fish! I have a scale on my upper right arm, the odd one or three on my shoulders and back, plus one which makes sporadic cameo guest appearances on my right calf. Occasionally, when I’m just about to shed, these little scales become itchy. I scratch them and they come away in dry, scaly clumps and bleed. It’s a win/win outcome.

Now, as I am of the go-to-the-doctor-for-pain-only persuasion, or unless I need a doctor’s certificate for flu or the like, the following may upset you. Warning. Warning. Cover your ears! Read the following at your peril. Seriously, you will be shocked! I do not prescribe to regular vag scrapes, boob presses, mole checks, blood tests, et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseum, fortes in fide, ad hoc, carpe diem. I know, I know. Scandalous! I hear ya though I don’t agree with ya! Not one to jump on a soap box (neither able to nor inclined to) and wax scathing about the health industry, we’ll just have to agree to disagree and … you were warned. Plus pap-smears and mammograms were obviously invented by sadist penis owners (just ask yourself how they find testicular cancer – not a sandwich press in sight!). And, I abhor needles.

The above has nothing to do with Dr Google though. Curiosity is how we humans developed. That’s my excuse and I’m sticking to it! So, I researched. (Another theme here.) Like a Spanish explorer sailing the seven seas; surviving vicious storms, dead calms, sea sickness, the odd burst blister between my boobs and a couple of bleeding scales. Land ho! (Who are you calling a ho? Oh, for forks sake …) I find that I am an excellent surfer. Gnarly dude, totally righteous. We interrupt this story to do a quick Internet quiz. Stayed tuned.

Eureka! (Or for those younger than 50 – Wahoo!) I have the answers. I am all knowledgeable and worthy of a Nobel Prize. A trophy? A medal? A sticker? How about a smiley-face stamp? Nothing? Really? So, after some self applied back patting … Food allergies! Eat eggs: break out in itchy bitchy blisters. Eat wheat: grow scales. So it’s off to the doctor for a celiac test. What the fork? I love eggs on toast! (Fork! I’m fifty!)

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Fork! I’m Fifty! The Great Gush.

Cramp grips my guts with Schwarzenegger-in-his-weight-lifting-prime hands, squeezing tighter and tighter, forcing the blood out at a rate reserved for an arterial bleed. My pulse has broken into a sprint; my heart is dancing a jig and the temperature of my body races to dizzying heights.

Throwing back the doona and furry blanket like thirsty Aussie blokes with cold beer, peeling socks off as quickly as professional chefs skin potatoes; the flannelette pyjama top (my favourite green ones with purple puppies) is unbuttoned and thrown to the floor as if on fire, and menstrual blood gushes out of me like being in me is the last place on earth it wants to be. Well, hear hear blood! Hear hear! Arny squeezes tighter, juicing me like a ripe orange. A blood orange. Fork!

I walk with my legs clenched firmly together, taking tiny steps, bent at the waist, hands rubbing stomach. Where did I put the ibuprofen? Where did I put the pads? Where am I? Why can’t I see anything? Woken up by my traitorous body with such suddenness in the very early hours of the morning, I forget I am staying with my sister on the Sunshine Coast, sleeping in my niece’s room, my belongings in bags and a suitcase against the wall, which I promptly walk into. Memory restored. Let there be light.

A pad is grabbed as though it’s a raft and I’m shipwrecked on a deserted bloody island. Boy, do you have your work cut out for you my super slim wing-ed pink friend! We make our way to the toilet. I turn the light on and look down, expecting to see a scene from the ‘Cannibal Holocaust’ movie. Nothing. No rivers of red contrasting against the green of my puppy PJs. No big, fat, juicy, leech-like clots oozing down my ankles. What the hell Schwarzy? Then, I pull down my pyjama bottoms and undies and sit on the toilet. Hasta forking la vista Baby! Armageddon in my Bonds.

Periods in your fifties are like a box of chocolates; you never know what you’re going to get but you know it’s going to taste like shite because you ate all the nice chocolates in the period pre-cursor to the period. Just when you think it’s safe to go back in the water, you leave a blood trail so long and pungent sharks nudge each other, wink and congratulate themselves on not having to work hard today.

Bloody hell! Exactly! We are talking blood flood … of biblical proportions (not that the bible would give any insight on the subject of death by menstrual bleed, it was written by a bunch of blokes – even if they did wear dresses). Blood all over the crutch of my undies with dotted blood ellipsis intimating ‘but wait, there’s more’. And … there is. Up the back of my Bonds. Up the back of my puppy pyjamas. Between my butt cheeks. Up my back. How does that even happen? Flashbacks of changing ripe green, lumpy crap-filled nappies with pooh escaping from the rear exit and the fruitlessness of asking that same question. With a bucket load of self-pity, I clean myself up as best I can with toilet paper. It’s okay, I tell myself, just put on a clean pair of undies and sleep in those and a t-shirt; you’re too hot to wear pyjamas anyway, despite the temperature being six degrees Celsius.

That is when I remember … I washed all my clothes earlier in the evening, before drinking too much of whatever that fizzy pink wine was. I have no clean, dry undies. FORK! FORK AND KNIFE! FORK AND KNIFE AND SPOON! Then I think to myself; if this is what you’ve done to yourself, what is the bed going to look like? Fork, fork, fork! With disgust, loathing, gagging and zero dignity, I stick the pad on the blood soaked Bonds. Could this get any worse? Ah, yep!

Move over Francis F. Coppola, there is a bloody menstrual woman entering stage left who eats horse for breakfast. (Gag: no she doesn’t! I know, it’s a little creative licence. Did you do a test for that? For what? For the creative licence? No – accompanied by a withering stare …) The crisp white Egyptian cotton sheets, which can count to 1,000, will never be the same; ever, ever again.

(Yes they will: Sards is great. Shut up. Oh, okay.) In my blood stained undies and with the pad with wings (as useless as the flightless emu’s) laying between me and the great gush of the twenty-first century, – absolute faith is placed in the branding offering security and confidence for the next few minutes, hopefully five – I strip the bed.

Knowing full well that no amount of praying, luck and wishful thinking will alleviate the fact that the massacre-worthy amount of blood will have seeped through the sheet (which can count to 1,000), onto the mattress protector (which should be renamed), onto the mattress: I pray for luck as I wishfully think, ‘Gee, I hope it hasn’t gone through,’ and begin to peel back the doona. OH MY PURPLE PUPPIES! Where the forklift truck is the ibuprofen?

This is proving to be a costly exercise. The government officials who decided to add GST to sanitary products rub their hands together, gleeful with their genius and thankful for their penises. New undies, new Egyptian cotton counting sheets, new mattress non-protector, new mattress, new puppy pjs, more pads with big-arsed butt crack covering wings. (Just purchase incontinence pads – undies and pads in one, more economical, and you can get the ones that won’t give you visible panty line. Bugger off. Oh, okay.)

What do you do when you are weak from lose of blood, exhausted from Arny mincing your guts to steak tartare, fed up with hearing the verbal diarrhoea oozing from your inner voice, hung-over from drinking too much pink bubbly stuff, tired as it is the middle of the night and traumatised by the carnage? You say ‘stuff it’, down two ibuprofen which could no longer avoid detection, climb into bed, pull the doona and furry blanket over yourself and promptly go to sleep. (Fork! I’m fifty!)

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How did I get here? Part 2

We had a deadline to meet. Spouse was moving interstate to start the new job in April. We had to have the interior painting of the house near completion by then. We had two weeks and yes, we were painting the place ourselves. Why wouldn’t we? We love painting. Right? Don’t we? Well, yes … when we’re able to function.

Maybe it’s caused by … Or perhaps it’s to do with … It’s probably because of … We eat healthily, we exercise regularly, we rarely drink alcohol, we are non-caffeine drinkers, we are non-smokers, we live in the country with an abundance of fresh air … what could be causing the VM?

Because straws were being clutched, one had assumed the vestibular migraines were triggered by hormone fluctuations as there had been synchronicities with cycle / migraine / hormones previously. So, after discussions with a doctor of the female variety, thought to try hormone replacement therapy. This would definitely fix one! Ah no. (It may have worked if one had bothered to read the back of the packet for the correct sequence in which to take the pills …)

Feeling completely useless does not sit well with one, particularly when there is work to be done. So, the first step to overcoming the Vestibular Migraine symptoms (also known as episodes): stop hanging on to everything when walking. Yes, the motion sensors (eyes) send repeated ‘danger danger warning warning’ messages to the brain which releases the adrenalin valve and floods the body with panic, but by focussing on one point and walking slowly toward that point, things can be reprogrammed with perseverance.

Step two was to focus on one small task; walking to the bathroom or getting dressed without holding on to anything. These were very small, teeny tiny baby steps but they did move one forward; within hours one had a paint brush in hand and was focussing on cutting in around the lounge-room walls. Day one of dizzy rehab was a success; two hours of doing something constructive with no episode – yay! Day two, three hours, another success. Day three, four hours, and the ladder climbing was not a good idea – who knew? A major episode ensued lasting over thirty hours.

Start again. Baby steps, and no ladders. Rehab and reprogramming were working. By the deadline one had been episode free for five days – success! The painting was almost done. Ladders had been climbed. The drainage had been fixed. The new bathroom was being built. The cure for VM had been found. Spouse could move interstate to start the new job less worried, coming back each fortnight until the house was sold.

One forged ahead, painting the nook, painting the kitchen, painting the new bathroom. No episodes for days. Life was good. Life was grand. All drugs were flushed down the toilet before open home inspections after Easter. One was headed to an annual music festival in Byron Bay with a girlfriend. What could go wrong?

Da da daaaaaaahhhh … Where is the worst place to be when having a VM episode? No, not a hospital. A music festival! And there were four days of it. One was devastated. One thought one had found the cure. One loves music. One had spent some dollars on the ticket and accommodation, and had driven for the first time in months. One spent the next four days having the worst time at the music festival one loved and had been going to for ten years. One was done.

One was assaulted by five mammoth migraines and VM episodes; one after the other. Smash! Crash! Bam! Take that! And that! The complete and exact opposite to a multiple orgasm. Furry Shitzus! Perhaps it was caused by stimuli; noise, light, movement? Maybe it’s from … Or it was because of … Ah, we’re back to that old chestnut. Queue the nausea drugs, the HRT (taken correctly this time) and the rehab / reprogramming. Oh, and days, weeks, months of having the house look pristine at all times – blah, blah, blah – and Spouse in one State and one in another (in both senses of the word ‘state’) – blah, blah, blah-hitty, fuzzy sheet ballasts blah.

July: the house was sold, the garage sale held, the downsizing done, the worldly remains packed, the car filled, the people moved, the episodes like the tides. Though on the plus side, there was a physiotherapy practise specialising in VM close by. Appointments were made and treatment was had. C2 and C3 move over to the left putting pressure on nerves in the spine causing the VM. Yay! An answer! After eight visits, one was VM free … again. Wahoo!

Months passed and things settled. Some freelance work, some exercise, some job hunting, some South African holiday planning, some music producing, some writing, some cooking, and no more drugs. A visit to the physio on the rare occasions episodes reared their insidious heads. Months passed … and then in May, for reasons unbeknown to anyone, it was back. 

C2 and C3 were on the move and were not coming back! Physio did not work this time around. Episode and migraine, migraine and episode; days spent in one’s dark and quiet bedroom, getting up only for the bathroom and physio appointments. FRENCH FRIES! FRIED CHICKEN! FRISKY TURTLES! FURRY SHITZUS! FUZZY SHEET BALLASTS!!! It was hell! But never fear – one’s quest for answers had not been extinguished. Hope flickered like a torch with a near-dead battery.

Research! In between battering rams of migraine and episode, one picked up the laptop and went to work. If physio worked initially on C2 and C3, perhaps C1 is misaligned which is pushing those two left? Ah ha! One was on to something. Atlas Orthogonal. Appointments were made and treatment was had. No more migraine! Wah-the-forklift-truck-hoo!

Now, for the episodes. We’ll fix your little red wagon train caboose thingy magiggy! Whilst researching C1 alignment, one came across some information on TMJ (temporomandibular joint) – the jaw bone’s connected to the skull bone, the foot bone’s connected to the ankle bone, let’s hear the word of the … hmmm … – one had been noticing soreness on both sides of one’s jaw, so one thought: dentist. 

Appointments were made and treatment was had. Apparently one is a grinder (Well, thank-you. I do like a good dance.). A teeth grinder. (Oh. Um. I still like a good dance.) One had ground one’s teeth down so much one’s bottom teeth were touching the top of one’s top teeth. That is not supposed to happen. Anyone need a human pestle and mortar? So, after two very long appointments, four fillings, bite balancing, teeth whitening and splint (mouth guard) fitting, and the selling of the three children and two kidneys (we’d already sold the house, remember) …
One: ‘Huh?’
Spouse: ‘Definitely in the wrong profession!’

Which brings us to mid-August. The episodes are gone. The migraines are gone. The splint is the miracle cure! Yes, yes, we’ve thought other treatments were the miracle. And one should not get one’s hope up too high. Fast forward to late September and the splint is still staving off episodes. To give the splint (nicknamed Slob) credit; no other treatment would have worked on our South African holiday – with the African massage received on safari, the hours and hours of flying, the various beds and pillows slept on, the rubber necking when sight-seeing.

Slob is a miracle! (Queue bright rays of sunlight and angelic choirs.) Back to applying for jobs …

(Ed note: Vestibular migraine is awful, insidious, vicious and relentless. Being on the receiving end, I can only describe an episode as feeling as though one’s body is going into shock, a sensation sustained for hours and hours on end. It plays havoc with thought processing, attention, memory, functioning. Having it for months on end does impact on mental health: feeling depressed, anxious, stressed and/or helpless. What worked for me may not work for you, but keep searching for relief: it is absolutely worth it.)

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How did I get here? Part 1

The last eighteen months have been lived on a roller coaster. One of those rides with a long, slow, mountainous climb ascending to a small peak, with a second of reprieve to catch one’s breath, followed by a blood-chilling, scream-emitting, bone-crunching, headache-inducing descent into hell when the car crashes off the tracks and one is thrown headlong into an uncertain future, mistaken for a milli-second as the ability to fly. Dag nab it!

Without going into detail … No, where is the fun with no detail? Here cometh the detail. It all started in January 2017. Pack down for the southern hemisphere’s largest festival was in full swing and, being project manager for the site art and decor, one’s right index finger was on the verge of a severe case of RSI from all the pointing demanded of it. Day three of pack down, sitting in the accountant’s office going through invoices, and the room starts to spin.

Spin, spinning, spinnetty. Rumpelstiltskin would have been impressed with all the spinning. Kylie would have sung a song about it. It was as though, after months at sea, one had stepped on land. Weird. One was sent home though resumed pack down after a couple of days of the world spinning around. (Which it does. What? Spin around. What? The world spins around. Oh right, of course.) Well, after a couple of days of one’s world spinning around. (Happy? Yes.)

Fast forward to two weeks later, and queue spinning again. This time it hit as one was getting out of bed. Holding on to every wall, chair, door, and surface to move from the bedroom to the bathroom was not ideal. Having a shower was a major feat; dressing, a wobbly tap dance; walking, ah no. Dizzy when opening one’s eyes. Dizzy when moving one’s head. Dizzy when closing one’s eyes. Dizzy when sitting still. Dizzy when standing up. Dizzy when laying down. Dizzy when walking. Dizzy when not walking. Dizzy!

The next day, everything was ship shape. For an hour or so. Walking the dogs with Spouse (stage-name) and bam! Dizzy. And not only dizzy but nauseous (possibly because of the dizzy?). All energy was drained from one’s body like an unblocked downpipe. Every sound was amplified, even the wing movements of tiny flying insects. The bells of St Clements rang with gusto in one’s ears. And who turned the sunshine up to glaringly, blindingly bright?

One was trapped inside for the next few days with a cacophony of noise, light, dizziness and a general feeling of having not fared well after a few rounds in the ring with Mike Tyson. Spouse had been wonderful; helping with every movement, function, activity usually performed by oneself, though even the patience of Saint Spouse was wearing thinner than the latest panty liner.

Spouse: ‘You’re going to the doctor.’ 
One: ‘Nah. I’ll be okay. It’s possibly labyrinthitis. I’ve had that before.
Spouse: ‘You’re going to the doctor. You may need antibiotics if it’s an inner ear infection or labyrinthitis.’
One: ‘Alright then. Just for you. If it is labyrinthitis, I’ll possibly have to have that test to confirm it.’
Doctor: ‘It may be labyrinthitis. You will need to have that test to confirm it.’
Physio: ‘It may be labyrinthitis. Let’s do that test to confirm it.’
Physio: ‘So it’s not labyrinthitis. Get yourself back to the doctor.’
Doctor: ‘So it’s not labyrinthitis. Get yourself to hospital.’

The worst place to be when one feels unwell is … hospital, in one’s humble, dizzy opinion. The noise was relentless, the fluorescent lights were blinding, the tests were endless and the snoring! Sleep depriving! After five sleepless nights, every test imaginable (including CT Scan and MRI), and now being on a first name basis will all the hospital staff, it was official: one was completely healthy.

One: ‘Huh?’
Spouse: ‘Huh?’
Doctor: ‘It could be migraine.’
One: ‘Huh?’
Spouse: ‘Huh?’
Doctor: ‘It could be migraine. You have a history of migraine so it’s probably that. You can go home.’
One: ‘Huh?’
Spouse: ‘What the frisky turtle?’, with a little bit of ‘I’m in the wrong profession,’ thrown in for good measure.

Second opinion time.
ENT Specialist: ‘It could be either MS, Meniere’s Disease or Vestibular Migraine. You will need to have a test (and hand over your first born child as it costs a bomb).’
ENT Specialist: ‘The test results came back, though they are not conclusive. It could be either MS, Meniere’s Disease or Vestibular Migraine. Here have a script for Maxolon and Valium. Oh, and you have the hearing of a young child.’
One: ‘Huh?’
Spouse: ‘What the fried chicken?’, with a little bit of ‘I’m definitely in the wrong profession,’ thrown in for good measure.

Third opinion time.
Neurologist: ‘It could be anything. Sit over here and I’ll do some tests.’
One: ‘Okay.’
Spouse: sits quietly observing and thinking ‘Yep, definitely in the wrong profession.’
Neurologist: ‘You have Vestibular Migraine. Here’s a script for anti-depressants which will help and you’ll be on them for the rest of your life.’
One: looks at the Neurologist as though he is a life form vomited up from the centre of the earth covered in green bile and pustulating boils.
Spouse: pays for the consultation, drags dizzy partner out of the office and says ‘So, what would you say if I decided to change profession and became a doctor?’
One: looks at Spouse as though a life form vomited up from the centre of the earth covered in green bile and pustulating boils.

One does not do pills. One does not do doctors. (Well, one would if Spouse was serious about pursuing a career as a doctor. Which Spouse wasn’t. Thank goodness, as that would mean changing one’s beliefs. Back to the story…) One does natural. One does healthy. One does research.

Thrown into the mix, because life at that time was not challenging enough – as a couple, we had made some major decisions over the previous months after a job redundancy – March is here, Spouse has a new job and we’re now looking down the barrel of selling our beloved house, Matilda, an interstate move and one had to resign from the treasured project manager position with the southern hemisphere’s largest festival. Oh, and then there was prepping Matilda for sale; painting the inside of the house, fixing the drainage outside, putting in a second bathroom / laundry downstairs … easy things like that.

Whilst Spouse was interstate sorting out new role things, with some help from one’s sister who was sent to babysit (and with no help from the Valium or anti-depressants), the patootie was researched out of Vestibular Migraine. It could be caused by … or it could be from … maybe it was because … Ah no. There is no known cause and there is no known treatment. So it’s goodbye to the straight and narrow, and it’s hello to migraine-headachy, dizzy, sicky, sound sensitive, light avoiding, listless, ears a-ringing, non-driving, hermit couch potato.

Who are you calling a spud? This little french fry was quickly losing patience with VM. 

Part 2: coming soon.

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Cat pooh, dog pooh and all things do do

It had rained for days; at least six in a row. Things were soggy, on the verge of boggy and the pool nearly broke its banks. The outside dogs were inside not wanting to go outside. The inside cat was inside not venturing anywhere near the outside dogs. 

Whilst harmonious is the wrong term to describe the household over the wet patch, a routine of sorts began to form. Morning: let dogs outside to do their business; empty the buckets catching the deluge in the outside sleeping area for the dogs; feed said dogs; dry dog bedding, if required; move the dog bedding (large, awkward and cumbersome) from either outside or the entrance hall into the family room; observe the dogs chasing the cat; watch the dogs sniff everything to locate the whereabouts of said cat; observe the dogs give up in frustration, do laps around their beds and fall into rapturous, blissful, snore-filled sleep; watch the cat sneak out from hiding, curl up on her blanket and thereafter spy on the dogs.

An hour later, repeat the morning routine except for moving the dog beds. And, hit repeat for the rest of the day interspersed with either dog demanding to be let out for reasons sent telepathically (followed by big brown eyes looking up as if to say ‘And you think you’re more intelligent.’). Why they could not synchronise their outings will remain a mystery.

The challenge was to accomplish anything else whilst the two canines were awake. Actually, the challenge was to accomplish anything whilst they were awake or asleep. These two suffer from chronic FOMO; walk past them when they are obviously enjoying the Land of Nod and their eyes fly open, their heads go up and they are fully awake and alert for the next adventure. These guys are twelve year old golden retrievers; veritable puppies.

‘Oh, she is going to hang washing on the line. Let’s go!’ and out we all go to the undercover clothes line, where they lick bird droppings off the decking boards – cannot miss out on that. ‘Oh, she is vacuuming the floor. We’ll help by chasing the cat around so she can suck up even more fur.’ Then there’s ‘Oh, she is going to do some exercise. Let’s help her by sitting on her lap / laying by her side / rolling on our backs / taking up the area she just cleared to do Pilates / all of the above. She is such a silly woman. She can get all the exercise she needs by patting us!’ Anthropomorphising? Just a little.

Needless-to-say, when the rain stopped and the sun came out, the opportunity was seized. With gumboots on feet and shovel in hand, it was time to walk through the mine fields and clean up the dog pooh. 

The area the dogs are usually contained in, when outside, is located around the swimming pool; with a large, tiled area covered by clear, plastic roofing (which leaks more than a colander) and enough grass to comfortably allow the two dogs space to poop for a week – if the pooh is not cleaned up after a week, the dogs run out of room to poop and deposits will appear in unexpected places … We clean up every week.

It usually takes about 15 to 20 minutes to clean up the dog pooh … today, it took over an hour. One did not allow for the change in molecular structure that constant rain can elicit on a turd. Mushy … Squishy … Sticky … Stinky … It was everywhere. Trying to get the shovel underneath a piece was hard enough but then lifting it up without it breaking up or squelching all over the grass and blade – bleh. And there absolutely was a gag a minute.

After persevering for 61 minutes and not even attempting to pick up the turds resembling chocolate lava cake, the hose soon annihilated the cakes left in the rain. Shovel cleaned, gumboots washed, back inside for some peace and quiet.

It starts to rain again. Heavily. Dogs are let inside, again. Dog beds are brought inside, again. Dogs chase the cat, again. Dogs cannot find the cat, again. Dogs settle into their beds and feign sleep, again. A good opportunity to get some ironing done … Hmmm …

The cat’s litter tray is barricaded in a corner, behind a foot-stool, an ironing board and a small table as the dogs have a tendency to eat the pooh of other animals: rabbits, sheep, horse … oh yeah, these guys are disgusting!

The iron is turned on, the ironing board is moved to allow room to walk behind it, the television is turned on and some coat hangers are required from the wardrobe in the bedroom.

Seconds … I was gone for seconds! What do you do when you find your female dog standing behind the ironing board, head in the cat’s litter tray, chomping down on cat pooh? Gag, of course. Which scares the dog. Pooh sprays across the floor. More gagging. Dog steps in pooh sprayed on floor. More gagging. Dog drops more pooh from it’s mouth. Queue more gagging.  And, supersize that order of gagging, because who has to clean up the mess?

I kid you not. That was my day yesterday. It was a shit day though quite a bit was achieved … the dogs’ teeth were cleaned, their mouths disinfected, their bodies disinfected, I was disinfected, the floor was disinfected, the ironing was eventually completed, the cat was disgusted and looked at me with big green eyes as if to say ‘And you thought you were the intelligent one?’