Really useful engine.

It had been bugging me for weeks. Ever since his first presentation as I ran through the first of many monotonous consent forms. So practised now at the list of anaesthetic risks that I can actually be thinking of something else completely as I prattle them off, interjecting occasionally to emphasise the rarity and to mention the modifiable risk factors. I had been admitting him, running through the presenting complaint, the medical history, the surgical history, the social history, the smoking history and it niggled away. In that way that something you just can't pinpoint rankles.

He went home after that presentation with the mystery unsolved. No matter how hard I thought about it I couldn't work out what it was that his voice reminded me of. I would have conversations later about his surgery to remove half his liver and the chances that this surgery would be curative for his metastatic cancer. It would bug me as we bargained and rationed his blood tests because of his needle phobia.

I'd walk away from his bed after ward round as we discussed management trying to work out where it came from. But it wasn't until I had the conversation with him about the abandoned surgery and the massive problem we'd found intra-operatively that I realised where it came from, and I had the uncomfortable desire to laugh as I realised his voice was a perfect match to Ringo Starr's narration of Thomas the Tank Engine.

It was Thomas and James that I conversed with for the next few mornings, as we sorted things out, organised for the oncologists to drop by. Sorted more things out, and I made excuses to drop by and see how he was doing. Such is the nature of dealing with favourite patients. And it tickled me always, his accent, reminding me of whistling, cheerful, cheek engines.

But when I went in to see him this morning it had finally dawned on him, the reality of his situation, of his shitty prognosis, of the mind that is young but a body that is literally crumbling. And he voiced what I'd known since the beginning, that he was going to die, and it was not going to be far off in the future. It was bright outside, one of the first days to truly brighten up the world after a week of mist and drizzly Winter rain and I knew something was wrong as soon as I saw him brooding in his chair, the curtains drawn around, shutting out the light.

I asked what was wrong, and he told me, simply, that he was pissed off. And he was, with every right to be, pissed off. Impotently with a body that he can't fix, that will give out, and in his Fat Controller's voice he lamented to me that he'd just had enough. His bright blue eyes not meeting mine. His affect defeated, his body slumped in his chair.

And it felt so wrong. As wrong as it always does, when you're privy to the worst moments in someone's life. But more wrong too. We'd been chums for the last few weeks, there's always been a twinkle in the eye, as if laughing over some secret joke, a jollying along in what was undeniably a shitty situation. He lost his humour, and in watching him, I lost another crumbling part of my faith in the rightness of things, magical thinking dying its slow uncomfortable death.

And tonight I said goodbye as he got ready to go home to his family. Joking about breaking out of hospital to start living again, even though we both knew he was going home to die. Feeling that keen of emotion behind my sternum as the tears glistened in his eyes as they met mine. Feeling beyond useless and struggling as my cheeks flushed red against the urge to hug him to me, like he was my grandfather instead of yet another patient that I cared too much about. Failing yet again to be objective and indifferent.

Trudging home in shoes that pinched in the dark, thinking of his Ringo Starr accent and my inability to not care before determinedly wiping the death out of my body and replacing it with violent life instead. Filling myself with it until I forgot another day where I held hands and wiped sweat away while listening with my stethoscope, pushing cannulas into arms with a calm skill that would amaze even myself 6 months ago.

Standing in the shower, washing the rancid sweat of a heavy day from my body and feeling the numbness swamp. Paying my indemnity insurance and swigging ice cold vodka that clings to my lips and my teeth. Feeling that prickle of consciousness that comes when I need to escape.

And wishing I didn't understand death like I do.

Moral Absolutism

Wooo heavy topic for a Tuesday night I know, but I was struggling for topics and this one worked.

If you'd asked me 10 years ago, there were quite a few moral absolutes. Relationship absolutes, ethical absolutes, universal rights and wrongs. I was always able to see both sides of the story, but when it came down to it, things were either "right" or "wrong". Although I could see the shades of grey, there was still room for black and room for white. I expected to be challenged by this as I grew older, but never thought that the arguments would come from within.

It's not other people that challenge my view points the most, it is myself. Conflict on issues that 10 years ago were not an issue at all. Because when you make something black and white, it's pretty easy. You pick your team, and then you barrack for them, regardless of bad seasons, injury, illness or seductive advertising.

But what if you don't pick a team? What if there are no teams, just every man for himself, all willing to go to their own boundaries with no reference to yours? Where do you decide is the absolute line? What will you never do when no one else is there with you at your line, but either held back miles ago or fading off into the distance?

What do you do when the one you love has one line, but yours isn't there? What if those you admire most are far off in the distance while you're already feeling murky? It's something I struggle with daily. On a personal level as well as a lofty, intellectual level.

I kind of miss having a team.

Unsettled

I am, as has been pointed out sometimes, someone who sways between moods. I'm ambiently happy, but I swing between gloriously euphoric and melancholy. I've learned to embrace this and just go with the flow. On the days where the sadness starts to swell I don't sit in the corner and rock, but I do allow myself to take things quietly. I withdraw a little but try not to completely shut everyone out. I ignore housework and talk as little as possible.

On the days where the pendulum swings towards the Gleam I try and harness it, breathe it in, divert it like a golden river into channels in the reservoir in my brain that craves ecstatic highs. I can be equally selfish in both extremes. Sadness because I'm protecting myself and happiness because it is so hard to share, not everyone follows the Gleam.

At either extreme I crave music. Matching lyrics and chords to my emotions, letting what I can't say flow out with each chorus. It's my release, my catharsis, my language. I don't often sing along, I just let it absorb through my skin, into my blood. It's how I cope, how I stay balanced.

But some days I can't find my balance. I turned 28 on Thursday and ever since I've felt wobbly. I don't know where it's come from but it's pervasive. My dreams, oh my God the dreams, I wake up and my heart is racing. So intense they take my breath away. And I can't find my music. I can't find my outlet. I'm trying to write it but the words won't come.

I got really quite intoxicated on Saturday night (The Possum happily will take a bottle if a boob is not on offer) andn felt relaxed for the first time since Thursday, my skin stopped crackling and my keel stayed even. But vodka is not a solution I'm willing to embrace. I need to find my music, and relax and unfurl.

I'm not sure if it's some sort of "nearly turning 30" issue or something else. I just feel jumpy. Like a cat before an electrical storm. If you stroked me now there would be sparks.

If I can walk tomorrow I shall be very surprised

Terribly dull post ahead written solely for my own benefit...

In order to take my mind off of a myriad of things, I have been going back to the gym possibly earlier than I should have after being sick. I say too early due to the startled and somewhat disgruntled looks I get from those around me as I hack away after each sprint on the treadmill etc, but now that I am no longer (at least in mind) the fattest person at the gym their looks matter little.

I decided to push myself hard today, doing both cardio and strength training, and have worked out some massive deficiencies in my health and fitness. For one the strength in my triceps and deltoids is practically nonexistent. I was doing chest presses and after 20 reps it felt like the acid build up would eat right through my arms until they fell off. I struggled my way until 50 reps and just about cried for the last 3. The military presses I tried after had my eyes smarting so much I barely reached 20.

My back and shoulder fitness is OK though and I was able to complete a full set of reps of lateral pulldowns. Similarly my legs are very strong and I was able to do interval squats and leg presses for over 100 reps without feeling too fatigued. I am a little worried about strain on my knees in my aged state, but I really do need to do a bit more just for stability of the joint. We live in a 3 story house so I do lots of stairs both at home and at work out of necessity so I'm not hugely concerned.

My abdominal fitness which I worked so hard at after the Monkey was born to try and get rid of the muscle separation and help my back has started to go downhill rapidly. Tone is gone, but more importantly so has the strength especially in the lower abs and the transversus. Side effect of that is that my posture is off which adds to the backpain.

On the plus side though I can do a crosscountry ride comfortably and it's my usual start to a workout being as it gets both my heart rate and core temp up a little, I then do a 20 minute interval run/brisk walk after reading about the benefits of interval exercise on cardio fitness, then finish with some strength based exercise. One thing I haven't been doing is stretching and I really need to get back into pilates and/or yoga.

My plan for the next month or so is to concentrate more on strength training because it's something that has always been easy for me (and I'm an insta-rewards kinda girl) with specific focus on my core strength. To round that out really really need to go back to pilates class, because aside from pushing me harder than I would go myself, it's good for meditation. And after a month I'll reevaluate.

I'm just not feeling good about myself at the moment, I'm hoping that a daily rush of endorphins and lactic acid will push me over the line.

Drowning

It wakes me, sitting on my chest. Thick and dark and heavy. My breath is short and not deep enough. But I can't inhale properly. It's there, on my chest.

It's 4am. I went to bed after midnight and stared into the darkness. I should be asleep.

It's cold, but I am hot. Its weight is pushing me down and holding down my arms.

I am claustrophobic and the weight on my arms pulses cortisol, the hormone of stress through me. I panic and struggle, finally sitting up, but it is still there, still stopping me breathing.

Each breath gurgles, as if the air is too thick. I inhale sludge into my nose and mouth, down my throat and panic some more as I gasp and more of it fills my chest.

My hair is in my eyes and I wonder at why I care when my chest is bursting. Snakes of sludge now sliding into my belly squirming over eachother in a serpentine orgy.

I make it to the bathroom sink, still pinned, still full of sludge,and vomit copiously, mucus and green bile, until my abdominal muscles lock painfully in spasm, bent over the sink, eyes bloodshot, chest still full and heavy.

The thickness travels further, into my spine, shocking each nerve root as it climbs steadily until it swirls heavily in my mind. I see the flashes as it lazily tumbles around in my eyeballs, still gasping for air, bent over like a woman 3 times my age.

I get in the shower, cold at first, the water heating until it is almost scalding and shiver under the spray. The sludge begins to wash off of me, until I am clean again. Tears streak the mud on my face until it is clean too. The rivulets of water running to the corner of my mouth salty. The snakes are still there, still jostling for position, still making me squirm. My hands are shaky and I wonder at the tremor.

I get dressed, black agent provocateur underwear, fishnet stockings clipped high on my thigh. Below knee sensible black wool skirt. Tailored blue shirt. Covering them until I look sensible and plain aside from the 8 inches of visible stocking clad calf. Hair scraped back into a pony tail, errant fringe tucked behind one ear. No make up. Still can't wear the crap even though I know I look better if I do.

The blackness is still covering my face, even though it is light now. Still breathing underwater.

I can't do this any more. No more months of this. More exams, more assignments, more deadlines, more nights lying awake with my brain racing then waking up too early facing the cold.

But I have to. A song starts whirring around in my head. The snakes bursting into spontaneous harmony. A stupid song. An offensive song. Around and around and around it loops like a record player jumping over a scratch but it makes me laugh. So I head out, drink diet coke with freshly brushed teeth and grimace, and plod through another day. With this as my soundtrack. WARNING DO NOT CLICK THE LINK IF YOU ARE EASILY OFFENDED!

I may be fucked but at least I can still laugh.

Diary of an exam day... Part One

Part One

Wake up at some ridiculous hour when dawn is merely a purple smudge on the horizon with your heart pounding in your throat as you desperately run through lists. "Puerperal pyrexia, indications for empirical treatment, Oh God what is the dose of erythromycin and when do you use 3rd gen cephs instead of your bog standard Keflin? Should I mentino erythema multiforme if not prompted? Frig frig frig". Jump out of bed when heart rate reaches unsustainable levels and continue insane muttering under breath while getting undressed. Get in shower, 5 minutes later after repeating algorithms for imminent eclampsia remember to turn shower on and flinch at the cold water before remembering to turn on the hot...

Lather hair in time with chanting syntocinon indications for induction and augmentation of labour. List reasons for trace decelerations on CTG monitor as rinse hair out. Condition hair while thinking of 3rd stage of labour checklist and chant some more about remembering to apply suprapubic pressure as you apply traction to the cord while exfoliating face. Rinse hair and promptly vomit in shower from sympathetic overdrive. Brush teeth, remember to consider dental implications in pregnancy and drugs and doses for vomiting in pregnancy. Turn off shower.

Wrap up in towel and shiver for a while, waiting for brain to catch up. Think about rhesus iso-immunisation as you dig through the clean laundry pile for underwear looking for specific confidence and asset boosting items. Iron shirt while trying to remember at which stages Anti-D shots need to be administered. Pull on favourite fishnet stockings while considering whether compression stockings are a good idea in the puerperal period. Put on knee length pencil skirt and write note on wrist to take in pencil and paper.

Vomit again. Refuse breakfast from Lovely Husband. Play with children while thinking of intubation of the neonate and trying desperately to remember ET tube sizes for gestation. Fail, hyperventilate some more.

Look at shoes on shoe rack - confidence boosting awesome looking favourite stilettos or flat sensible shoes? Decide sensibly on flat shoes and kick self all the way to bus stop that didn't choose favourite shoes. Then remember that can't remember all the tests for HELLP and forget all about shoes. Notice too much attention is beign given at busstop, realise that a) muttering like cray lady and b) that laptop bag against thigh has caused knee length skirt to ride up to above mid thigh and am showing far too much fishnet covered leg. Blush furiously while tugging down skirt and try and remember protocols for abortion/miscarriage.

Stop at 7-11 on way to connecting bus and buy large energy drink. Sugar and caffeine hit empty stomach already swirling in acid from sympathetic overdrive and get absolute rush of brain activity. Use it to advantage as considering antenatal emergencies. List indications for caesarian section in time with footsteps. Get to connecting bus stop and remember to breathe. Catch connecting bus and allow self to be distracted for a while by random shop fronts in the Valley consisting of sex shops/strip joints and Vietnamese grocers. Suddenly feel hungry for yum cha. Stomach gurgles threateningly in response. Lose desire for yum cha.

Get to library for last minute swotting, start effectively for about 45 minutes before need break. Peruse such intellectual websites as I Can Has Cheezburger and GFY. Write in blog. Calm down a little. Then notice time, hyperventilate some more and go back to researching betamethasone doses and tocolysis.

Obsessively look at watch and laptop clock. Compile list of possible scenarios for upcoming practical exam and worry that voice is going to completely fail me.

Finally get to time when required to present to examination room... pack up strewn library gear, buy second large caffeinated beverage for the day and trudge toward impending doom while smiling politely at little old ladies and sick children and wishing I really really had worn my stilettos. Pull skirt back down to appropriate length and just breathe.

Crash and Burn

I'm so tired and so stressed. The house is in a state that can only be described as condemned. The kitchen is buried in a pile of dishes, the lounge room is being overtaken by the clean laundry pile and any and all carpet is covered in a fine film of children's toys and accessories. The beds are unmade and the dirty clothes pile having secured the laundry is staging a coup on the rest of upstairs.

In the middle of the chaos the girls are currently screeching because The Monkey has the particular piece of junk mail that The Elfling *wants*. WANTS for the mere fact that The Monkey has it and she doesn't. The Husband is currently curled in the foetal position on his computer chair occasionally yelling at the screeching children, but mostly huddling down and wishing he was on one of the ski fields that he's perusing to forget reality.

Then there's me, similarly huddled into a corner of our once treasured couch. A red, simple, but comfy and attractive couch that was the first bit of furniture that we owned together that wasn't a hand me down. It's not even from Ikea. I say once treasured because its corduroy like texture which once made it interesting and nice to look at now harbours thousands of unidentifiable stains, pen marks, crusted bits of banana that I can't scrub out thanks to said texture.

I'm feeling tired and harrassed and nauseous and trapped. Caged and cagey waiting for the migraine that has been threatening me all day to hit. Feeling the pit of my stomach somewhere around my ankles, and having difficulty breathing. Knowing I'm going to fail my exams tomorrow. Knowing that I suck as a mother. Knowing that in the last few months I have been a terrible wife. Trying to breathe through it all and get back to normally serene me and not making it.

Freefalling, panicked and jittery. Wishing I could take some sort of sedative that would allow me to sleep instead of lying awake until the wee hours and then waking before dawn. Trying to play with the girls and not get irritated when they trash the room that I've just managed to tidy. Trying not to yell at the Elfling when she pushes herself into my space, her hands or a book or a drink in my face, bodies climbing on top of me and making it even harder to breathe.

I love them so much, but for this one week a rotation, I wish I lived in my own apartment, away from anyone wanting to be near me or touch me or talk to me. Where if I don't want to eat for 3 days and mainline caffeine then that's fine and I don't have to prepare food for anyone else. Where if I go to bed at 3am I don't have to answer to anyone, and if I need to sleep until 9am the next day then that's fine too. Where if I clean up a room it STAYS BLOODY CLEAN.

There are very few times that I doubt my decisions that I've made, to get married and have children so young, to do it while I'm still studying. But in this crazy period I wish I'd been selfish. I wish I was alone. I wish that I was unattached and had no strings or responsibilities. I wish my money was my own. I wish I could go to the gym right now instead of waiting for a lasagne to cook and encouraging the girls to eat it before having to bathe, dress, cuddle, brush teeth and hair, read books and tuck in.

I wish I could hear silence right now, or my Matrix CD, or Radiohead, or the Verve instead of the freaking Wiggles and occasional screeches.

I wish I could just breathe.

Sore and ouchy

To be expected obviously but it still hurts. I am not sure whether I was riding the bike correctly yesterday because it feels awfully like I've been ridden for an hour instead of the other way around.

But, and this is the insanity that is me, the burn in my abdominals at the moment is fabulous. Even though it hurts to do stuff, like breathe, it's almost pleasurable, because every time it twinges... I feel good. I am reminded that I worked hard, and I'm more determined than ever to keep feeling this good. I think of how good it feels to have my back in perfect alignment with no pain, of how strong it is, and how much improved my flexibility is. And it's all good.

For once I don't actually give a stuff about my weight. Now that I'm well and truly within my healthy weight range again it's just not my focus. The focus is on feeling strong. The flow on benefits are just so impressive, from my mental clarity, to my physical strength, to my emotional wellbeing, to the fact that LH appreciates the benefits... All positives. The fact that going to the gym is a time and a space where I can be completely anonymous and can set my own pace, to not have any demands placed on me aside from my own, it's just a natural high.

So my goal for the next week is to get myself up there at least 3 times, plug into the looping porn music channel (seriously omg some of the film clips - no wonder some of the men are running so fast/grunting so much) and run/cycle/lift/stretch until all of my stressors are trickling down my arms and mopped up by my coconut scented towel.

I hurt

In lots of places right now.

At uni the topic of the week is neonatal death, compounded by my meeting women who have experienced it. I've also had the unwanted experience of dealing with women who are pregnant but whose babies are already known to DOCS. These babies will be abused. I want so much to take them home with me, into our messy, crowded home where they will never be hurt. I am also attending an infertility clinic so that I can deal with women who want a pregnancy and a baby of their own so badly and by nature of them being there have a lot of hurt.

I hurt because a friend who I have grown vrey close to is completely ignoring me and it is mostly my own fault. I hurt because I can't fix it, especially if said friend will not let me even apologise. I don't know if friend can accept apology anyway... there are some lines you're never allowed to cross.

I hurt because I feel like my brain has been violated. I never let anyone in there, past any of my walls. I don't open up (this place doesn't count :p) and I never let anyone make me vulnerable, but right now I feel like I'm splayed open nailed to a telegraph pole for everyone to gawk at. Those bits of me that I never let anyone see have been scooped out and dumped on the ground as worthless.

I hurt because I am confused and I hurt because I want what I can't have, as has been made abundantly clear. But for 5 minutes in there I saw a glimpse of the stars and wanted it so much I could taste it. I think it hurts most because I will never see it again.

This is harder than it looks...

My day in point form
5am - wake up have shower
5:15 - get dressed
5:25 - make breakfast and eat/feed most of it to the Monkey
5:40 - brush teeth
5:45 - watch bizarre right wing American presidential candidate on early morning news program while waiting for traffic report
6:00 - gather phone, PDA, hospital tags and medical kit and assemble (read stuff with force into handbag), extract self from Monkey's yoghurty embrace
6:05 - brush hair and do last check in mirror to make sure that I have removed all yoghurt smears
6:15 - get in car and drive to work
7:15ish - get to work, drop bag in staffroom, make self visible hence making good impression, check out the ED bays to see what we've got happening and hope that some are interesting
7:30-12 - talk to patients, take histories, follow up test results, reassure worried relatives, present case histories to consultants, look knowledgeable and clever with stethoscope, fool people into thinking you're the new reg instead of student
12 - eat lunch
1 - present long case to consultant, prepare to be grilled on knowledge, hope sound professional
1-4 same as before lunch
4ish start getting ready to go home
4:15 - start commute home, listen to radio to find out which way is least likely to involve sitting at a standstill breathing in exhaust fumes
5:20 get home (if it's a good day and traffic hasn't been too bad)
5:45 start making dinner while chatting to Elfling
6:00 serve dinner, hope that the girls actually ingest some, more chat
6:30 girls in bath, help LH assemble sleepwear, assemble night nappies
6:45 feed Monkey, hope that she will lie still for a feed instead of trying to feed while standing up
6:55 read Hairy McLairy books
7:00 tuck Monkey into bed and play peekaboo for a little while
7:20 go to Pilates class
8:40 get home from Pilates, drink water, read e-mails
8:45 write some half hearted notes for uni
9:00 give up on being studious and read favourite blogs/write blog
9:42 look at clock and feel exhausted
10:00pm spend "quality" time with husband then sleep like a log until Monkey wakes up for feed at 2 am.
5am rinse and repeat.

I love what I'm doing but the commute is killing me (and it takes away nearly 3 hours a day of my time with the babies :(

Monkeying around

First up I am going to whinge. I don't know what I have done to myself but I appear to have entrapped a nerve in my shoulder. It hurts when I breathe deeply and it hurts if I try and do really energetic things like roll over. It is really really annoying feeling like you have a knife in your shoulder when you want to do things like pick up your babies, have sex or go to the gym. It hasn't acutally stopped me going to the gym though, I just popped some Nurofen and rubbed some nurofen gel into my shoulder and Bob's your uncle. Still a pain (haha) though.

Now that we've dispatched with the whinging, time to update on the spectacular children. The Elfling has been just GORGEOUS lately. Well behaved, happy, cheerful, cheeky, clever. She is back at kindy and gymnastics and is just adorable. She has always had this habit of saying "I love you Mama" but lately it's so frequent and accompanied by big cuddles and beautiful behaviour that I could just drown in my affection for her. She's still very cheeky and irreverent, but there is something about good behaviour that just makes you feel like you're doing something right. It's a nice change from the certainty of fucking up.

As I am away so much with work now I've been making a lot of effort with her, and I know that the week with Nana and Grandad (with a fair whack of me on the side) was brilliant for her. We've had almost no toilet training accidents lately aside from one day at kindy, but it was remarkable because it was the first day in a long time, and it wasn't repeated. She is playing more and more imaginative games, and is enjoying life in general. Her best friend is still Bridget, but she is happy to play with anyone, and loves bossing other kids around. Not that it's so much bossing as she is happy to lead and they are happy to follow. So active and spritely. She's not much interested in drawing unless it is letters (she can manage most of the letters of her name) and "people" look decidedly bizarre when she decides to draw them, but she's just not interested. Why would you draw when you could be running around outside? We have introduced most of the classic fairytales and she adores them (as did I) but with the benefit of adulthood I have to say that Snow White may have been beautiful but she was stunningly STUPID. She wasn't sweet she was senile.

The Monkey is the cheekiest pixie I've ever met in my life. She is still tiny (though pudging up beautifully at the moment with the squishiest dimples at her elbows) but can often be found standing on her playtable or climbing up the couch to reach forbidden things. She has 8 teeth now and is a proficient eater. Her walking has gone from hesitant tottering to cruisy drunken lurching at high speed with abrupt changes of direction. When she sees me in the afternoon she runs at full tilt before launching herself at my knees. She then looks up and clenches and unclenches her hands which is her way of saying UP. She adores books, especially anything with flaps for her to lift. She will happily sit in her room flicking through her favourite pages and squealing "DUCK" whenever something remotely birdlike is on the page.

She still doesn't have a big vocab, not that we can understand anyway. Mumma, Dada, Elfling, Osca (sort of), Duck, Ta, Dere (there) are all relatively clear, but she obviously understands a lot more than she can say. If I ask her to get her Spot book she will happily abseil down my legs or off the bed and gather one. She loves being outside and would quite happily live in the Great Outdoors if I let her. She loves the Elfling almost as much as the Elfling lov€es her and watching them as sisters truly makes me tear up sometimes. She has been a little unsettled at bedtime lately so I have been singing to the girls again, "Amazing Grace" for the Monkey and "The Lion Sleeps Tonight" for the Elfling (their special songs) as well as "Siyahamba" and "All I want is you" and if they're still not asleep a selection of Christmas hymns. Mostly because they are soothing and I remember all the words!

Speaking of Christmas though I have started to get that cinnamon spiced stirring in my belly as I count down. Most of the girls presents are bought and stored and they are both doing pretty well this year from the jolly fat one. I have intentions of making them a Santa sack this year to put their bounty in and am still deciding the pattern for their Christmas dresses. The party season looks like it will be pretty busy this year as well which is exciting. I can't hardly wait!!

Moon watcher

Started to write a tedious list of the things that I had done this weekend and got bored writing it so deleted. Basically played poker with friends while getting relatively intoxicated (but not drunk somehow???) Came second because I got to the stage of the game where I couldn't be arsed to think and just threw my "money" away. And for a change I honestly didn't care. I was kicking back in the balmy evening with the breeze on my bare legs with my short short skirt and my bottle of ice cold goodness and enjoying the good company.

Then today I went to the gym and sweated and glistened while listening to heart pumping music.

I am feeling very meh lately. Caged. Twitchy. I don't know where the moon's at but I am feeling restless. Feeling that need to just escape and do something dangerous. Jump out of a plane, flirt outrageously and push the boundaries, do something physically dangerous.

I don't know where this comes from, this sudden burst of near explodingness but I can't decide whether I like it or not. Life would be simpler if it didn't happen, but the edginess of it, the raggedness just makes me tetchy and high at the same time. Everything is heightened, there is a veritable high energy aura.

I just want to strap myself in for the ride.

When I grow up...

...I want to be a Cardiologist.

I have long suspected this fact, but today, while intubating plastic dummies (completely unrelated to Cardiology) this fact settled itself across my brow and I have completely embraced it. I want to be a Cardiologist and I am going to be a good one.

When I was at highschool many years ago (*sob* getting OLD) I at one stage went through a stage of wanting to be a paediatric cardiothoracic surgeon. Mostly because I didn't know that you could be a heart specialist and not be a surgeon. Now that I am much older and hopefully wiser, I know better. Through my med school career I have entertained a lot of possibilities, then discarded them by the wayside as I either got bored with them, or found something better.

There is something very cool about the idea of being responsible for knowing about the heart, which is the most amazing and spiritual organ (though the brain is pretty funky as well, would be a neurologist too if I coud!). But the appeal is more than that for me. I have the visceral pull towards it that I get when my 6th sense/intuition/Gleam beckons. It just feels right. Correct. Like the path is illuminated.

Remarkable Organ

Cardiologists are physicians certified to diagnose, treat and manage disorders of the cardiovascular system. This includes the remarkable organ that keeps us alive - the human heart - and the arteries and veins flowing through our bodies.

Head of the Department of Cardiovascular Medicine at Sir Charles Gairdner Hospital, Professor Joe Hung, says the more common types of cardiovascular disorders treated by cardiologists include heart attacks and angina (chest pain due to coronary artery disease), high blood pressure, valvular heart disease, heart failure, arrhythmias (abnormal heart rhythms), and congenital heart conditions.

A cardiologist's patients are either referred to them by another medical specialist or general practitioner, or are treated by cardiologists when they arrive at a hospital's emergency department suffering from an acute cardiovascular-related condition with symptoms such as chest pains, shortness of breath, high blood pressure, palpitations or dizziness.


Surgery Not Sole Option

After diagnosis, a cardiologist may treat a patient with non-surgical procedures such as oral medicines in conjunction with a health management plan and regular consultations with the cardiologist. In more severe cases, patients may have to undergo open heart surgery, which would be performed by a cardiothoracic surgeon. In these cases, the cardiologist manages the care of the patient both before and after surgery.

Specially qualified cardiologists are certified to perform less invasive medical procedures such as angioplasty, which involves the insertion of balloon catheters in the person's coronary arteries to dilate the coronary arteries.


Study Commitment

It takes many years of intensive study to become a cardiologist. About nine years in addition to the six needed to become a general practitioner should just about cover it!

Cardiologists need to be very knowledgable about the cardiovascular system, cardiovascular anatomy, cardiovascular physiology, cardiovascular metabolism, molecular biology of the cardiovascular system, and cardiovascular pharmacology.


They must thoroughly understand and be competent to perform and interpret specialised tests and procedures such as cardiac catheterisation (a procedure that produces pictures of the coronary arteries that supply blood to the heart and reveal if one or more of the arteries is partially or completly blocked). They also insert and manage pacemakers - battery-powered implantable devices that electrically stimulate the heart to contract and pump blood throughout the body. Pacemakers are usually implanted in patients whose own heart's 'spark plug' or electrical system is no longer functioning normally.

Ongoing learning is a significant feature of this occupation as new procedures and findings about heart disease arise.



''One of the biggest changes has been the development of new procedures and techniques that allow us to diagnose with greater accuracy, and new therapies that allow us to treat heart conditions without the need for open heart surgery. There will also be an increased awareness of gene therapy over the next decade. People will be injected with gene products to help them grow heart muscle or blood vessels,'' says Professor Hung.

Cardiologists can study even further, usually up to two years, to enter a subspeciality area of cardiology. The areas available include:
*Interventional Cardiology, which involves interventional procedures such as balloon angioplasty and the use of various cutting and laser devices used to remove plaque from arteries.
*Electrophysiology, which deals specifically in the treatment of arrhythmias and the implantation and use of pacemakers and defibrillators.
*Echocardiography, which involves the performance and interpretation of cardiac ultrasound procedures.
*Nuclear Cardiology, which involves assessment of the pumping function of the heart, the presence of blockages in coronary arteries, and the degree of damage to the heart using injected radiotracer agents.


Prevention, Not Cure

''In cardiology there are lots of people who are very sick but whose health can be greatly improved by new treatments and procedures in association with cardiac rehabilitation. That makes this a very satisfying profession,'' says Professor Hung.

He emphasises the importance that cardiologists place on the prevention of cardiovascular disease. He says that all of the State's cardiologists are involved alongside organisations such as the National Heart Foundation and the WA Health Department in actively promoting the prevention of this disease.

Cardiologists work from offices based in hospitals or specialist medical centres. Travel may be necessary for cardiologists to attend professional development conferences.

This is a very small workforce that experiences a low turnover. However, a higher number of cardiologists will be needed if poor lifestyle habits continue to adversely affect the incidence of heart disease, particularly as the population ages.

From here http://getaccess.westone.wa.gov.au/careers/profiles/Data/OCC231.asp

The salary quoted at the end of that webpage is incorrect based on current estimates...

Brain sleep and resolutions

There is nothing sweeter about working than those lovely days that you earn known as "holidays". Being at home without anything I "should" be doing except look after the babes is fantastic. Gives me time to pause and reflect and just not think. Brain sleep.

I have played computer games, I have done a good whack of my latest knitting project (a pair of sherbert shorties for the Monkey), I have lined up some new projects and I have gone back to the gym after a hiatus. Of all the other things besides the unfettered time with the girls, it is the thing I have missed most about trying to juggle everything. I kept meaning to go but LH would have a meeting, or the Monkey would be ill, or I'd get my monthly endo visit from hell and it just seemed like all too much effort.

What I really mean by that I guess is that doing something for me just felt like too much effort. Plus somewhere in my screwed up brain it felt wrong to do something for me when I already am taking so much by going back. Which is ridiculous and self sabotaging. Aside from anything else I am a better person when I go to the gym regularly. My moods are better, my outlook is better.

I need to actually be serious about doing this for me, and it not being a bad thing to do. That it's not completely selfish and horrible to actually do it for myself. That I am worth it (Thanks L'Oreal).

LH bought some chocolate last night and it was very exciting to eat it for dessert when we normally never have chocolate in the house and we both scoffed a good whack of it. About 15 minutes later though we were both looking at eachother saying "Why did we do that". Felt completely sick. It's doing shit like that that is destroying my immune system and my health.

Tonight I ran for 45minutes and rode the cross country circuit on the bikes for an hour. I burned around 2000kJ or more, and it's funny, that is like a packet of twisties. Running and cycling so hard that I was soaked with sweat and the lactic acid build up made me dry retch into my mouth, and all that for a Mars Bar. I remember watching that episode of the Biggest Loser with Munnawhatshername who ate the 2 Mars Bars and thinking, well, it's not that big a deal... Those 2 Mars Bars were maybe 3 or 4 hours of exercise that she had to do just to be in the same position she was before. That's INSANE! No wonder the trainer went nutso.

I know all this intellectually, but it's so abstract in reality. To look at a bowl of pasta and think - that's a 40 minute run. Up a hill if it's a creamy sauce. It's hard! It just seems so pointless when food is so nice. I don't eat crap (see chocolate response) but I do eat too "well" and too much for the amount of exercise that I'm doing. There were contributing factors (the suicidal contraceptive pill experiment where I gained 15kg) but they were just things that made it harder, not what made it happen.

I am meant to be about 60kg. I once maintained well under that easily (though I don't recommend my methods) but I should still be there. I shouldn't have a 7 in front of my weight. I should be a Size 12, whinging about trying to find tops that fit my bust properly. I am only a Size 14 now, and am not disgustingly huge, but I shouldn't be here. I really shouldn't. My health, wellbeing and self image is taking a complete battering at the moment. That needs to change. So more sweating and focus from me. I am not turning 26 with a 7 in front of my weight. It's just not asseptable.

Obviously I am insane.

I'm home today, home when I should be at numerous tutorials, PBLs and doing research for Stupid Assignment (TM) which is due on Monday. Instead, I am at home, cleaning up vomit and soothing 3 year old neuroses while feeling hungover (with nary a drop of alcohol).

The Monkey has gastro and gastro that is eye poppingly spectacular in its projectileness. Copious arcs of blue white breastmilk exploding out of her like a miniature cheesy Krakatoa. Poor munchkin, she is surprised every time it happens, her expressive face contorting into a look of "What in the HELL was that" followed by bursting into tears at the sheer randomness of it. She is currently standing in the middle of the loungeroom, a fuzzy marshmallow in her pinkbonds suit with her bottom lip pouting and giving me a look before toddling a few steps and overbalancing.

The Elfling is also home wiht us today, having calmed down from the naked screechy sun salutations she was doing earlier this morning (where in my tired, not feeling 100% state, I left her to it until the noise had reached a pitch that is guaranteed to get us egged by the neighbours). We then continued the war of the underpants (she won the battle today) and I tried to avoid crouching piteously in the corner while rocking backwards and forwards. In exciting news though she was dry last night, making night training seem like a possibility instead of one of those in jokes like left handed hammers and self striping paint.

So in the midst of pure parenting bliss like this, you'd think I'd be firm in the never ever ever ever again camp when it comes to contemplating more of these loud, smelly, demanding beings. But, for no discernible reason, while surverying the chaos that is our lounge room and panicking about doing my assignment, and despairing over the apple mush in my hair and smeared over my laptop, what was I thinking? I was thinking "I could do this again".

Is there any further evidence required to show I am clearly INSANE? Have I forgotten the torture of those first months? The drowning in banality of being at home? The frustration with not being any good at parenting? The inability to indulge in alcohol when you have a baby that feeds every 2 hours or more? No I haven't forgotten them but somehow my brain hasn't got its red flags up and isn't screeching "NO for the love of all that is Holy NOOOooooooo". Which is somewhat perplexing.

Now just say, hypothetically that I was to go on this pregnancy and infanthood lark again, in a completely abstract way of course... I mean, in 15 months time or less I will be employed, and in 27 months time I would be eligible for 14 weeks of paid maternity leave. Hypothetically speaking I could consider ttc in 18 months time and I could have 6 months off work on maternity leave at half pay and we could have another child. Another child to poke toast in her eye and then complain that it hurts...

Where is this even coming from? Is it because the Monkey has started walking? Putting behind babyhood forever and ever and never being my sweet snuggly little one ever again? Well considering she is currently upside down and attached to my boob having a feed, not really. She still is a baby. But she isn't at the same time. She's a little girl now, and a cheeky bedimpled one at that.

I don't know where it's coming from. My brain has just clicked with the "well, we could have more if you wanted to". So it's a matter now of working out why I wouldn't want one. We can deal with the chaos. We can deal with ahving no money. We can deal with everything really. There is no reason to not have more if we actually want more. But there's the rub. Do I want more?

I guess we wait and see now. We have 18 months to work it out and then I'm putting the kybosh on the whole idea. If in 18 months we're both feeling like it would be a good idea then we'll probably go ahead and do it (or more likely go out for the night in 18 months, and in a hazy, euphoria filled moment say something immortal like "yeah sure why not, I mean if it happens it happens right?").

This is all so weird. I was so happy with 2 last week.

Have been back to the gym with a vengeance this week and am deliciously sore tonight. My triceps ache at the moment, trembling even with the effort to type this, and I couldn't be happier. It's such a good ache, the sort of ache you get after fantastic sex, reminding you with every twinge of what you did to get there and suffusing yourself with warmth as the memory flashes before you.

It's as addictive as sex as well. The high, the climax, the aftermath - it's all good. It makes me want to go again and again. I have done a lot of study into mental health and exercise, and the results are somewhat stunning. Exercise is a massive mood regulator and should be prescribed for all depressives. I know that for me the effects are immediate. My mind is clearer, my mood lifts, and all the swampy crappy emotions just dissipate. Combine it with a dash of sunlight and the rejuvenation that brings and I am literally a new person.

While weightloss and the pursuit of aesthetics is what forces me to go in the first place, it's the side effects of actually feeling like a real person again that makes me come back for more and more.

Proof that I'm not Poultry

Amoir asked... My question: just what is it you're trying to suffocate within?

When I was 16 and 1 month, I got on a plane, with people I did not know, for 36 hours to get to Geneva, Switzerland. I was going to live with a family I had never met, to speak nothing but a language that was not my own, with no parental supervision or rules. I was shit scared. I was excited sure, but mostly I was terrified. No one knew this, because like everything else in my life, I kept it carefully hidden behind a facade that was so damned sure of myself that no one knew when I needed help. But aside from being scared and green and naive, I was mostly looking forward to the adventure. The part of me that stifles the hedonistic had let go of the choke chain a little and let her breathe. The scariness was what made it so exciting, I was going to travel! alone!

Being there was so weird, I was a child, but I was an adult at the same time. Caught in that weird no mans land between, when suddenly all the rigidity of someone else's rules are taken away and you have yet to learn that you have to make your own. On the very first night that I went out with my host "sister", we went to a club (Drinking age in Switzerland is 16) and as we walked in, I had a handful of condoms thrust into my hand from a platform wearing transvestite, a beer into the other, and in the dark swirling mists people were gyrating in a hedonistic orgy of youth. To some of the others that I met on this exchange it was like Christmas time. To me, in my sheltered naivite it was like a scene from Dante's inferno. The chaos and the abandon of it frightened the hell out of me. But at the same time it was incredibly seductive.

All those things on the fringe of polite conversation and those things that are never talked about before children were all on pulsating, rhythmic display there. Sex, drugs, rock and roll. Joie de vivre. I was a virgin who liked Roxette and had never tasted alcohol - and suddenly they were all out on display for me to choose what I wanted like a bloody vending machine. And that beast curled up in the pit of my belly wanted to embrace it but I was petrified. I'm not sure what of... but I suspect, it was taht I might like it too much.

Aside from being felt up in a crowded marketplace by a sleazy old Frenchman who tried to get me into a corner and finally offered to pay me for "favours", I didn't do anythign remotely hedonistic on that trip... I instead explored the countryside by myself, including sneaking over the border into France via a broken fence so that I could go and sit in a tree and dream. It wasn't until I came back that I realised how much fear had held me back. I think I would like to blame youth, I was too young to go on my own, but in truth it was also me. That fear of something. I loved that trip, I loved seeing things and exploring, but as far as personal growth goes, not much happened.

I came back changed though. Veil lifted. Adulthood in front of me and childhood fading in the distance. And completely lost. For the first time in my short life I had no idea what was going on, who I was or where I was going. I ended up majorly depressed, attempted suicide once or twice, took to self harming, got myself an eating disorder and started a tempestuous affair with music and art. I was no longer the good girl, the high achieving gifted one with a starry academic future because I had seen that there is more and I craved it. I needed more.

I got through that final year of school and got my stupidly high OP and was even more lost. I went to College got Eden's forbidden fruit served up on a platter and for the first few months I still couldn't embrace them. I was too afraid to be a different me. Different from Jenny. But Phil was there. Oh hell yes she was there. As Jenny watched the others, Phil was yearning, wanting to be a part of it all. Part of all of it. Wanting to be in the middle of the dancefloor. Wanting to know what it was like to feel on that beautiful edge between pure enlightened intoxication and slurring, drooling bore. Wanting to know what it was like to press your body against someone and feel it take over. To know what love is like. To know what it is like to be one voice in a crowd at a rally. To crowdsurf while listening to lyrics that feel like they were torn out of your own soul.

The struggle between J & P was valiant. I knew J. I felt safe with J. But Phil, she spoke of highs that I could not even fathom. And she suckered me in, little by little. Til I got to feel what it was like to touch the sky. And I loved it. By God I loved it. I wanted more and more and more. So I partied, I drank, I danced, I fell into a tempestuous heady hormone spiking relationship and I was so high that I think my eyes were permanently gold*.

But then when outside life intruded, when Nana got sick and died, I realised how empty so much of it was. It was fun, and it induced sensations in me as incredible and ascendant as the most Earth shattering of orgasms, but when it was over, they all rolled over and went to sleep, and when I really needed it most they started snoring.

So I stepped back a bit. And I tamped down Phil. Phil was on the rampage by this time, she wanted to party harder, she wanted me to have sex with abandon just cause the guy was kinda cute and she wanted to know exactly how good those muscles felt tensed above her, she wanted me to be a slave to music and spend every last cent on hard to get indie albums, she wanted me to spend my life in search of the selfish joie that makes the body quiver.

But I wanted more out of life than that. I wanted more than the transient and the ephemeral. I wanted love that isn't tempestuous, but is steadfast and warm to come home to. I wanted to feel like I had ground under at least one of my feet. So I reeled her in, put her back in her box, and started again.

And God I love this new life of mine. I love Jenn. Adore her. For all her foibles and there are many she still feels comfortable to me. I know her, I love her. She's not Jenny, we're never going back to that, but she's not Phil either. Phil left an indelible mark though, a quest for a life less ordinary. An absolute need to push the boundaries. A need to explore and do things that are outside of polite conversation. But that are still within her safety net. When it comes to sex and love and life, I do things that would shock some (and would be positively vanilla to others lol) and try and channel those flashes of discontent into the tangible.

But there are times when the prosaic and the pragmatic tire me. Bore me. Scare me that at 25 I"m tied to a life that is missing out and that has deviated from my vie moins ordinaire. Where I want to go out and smash down all my barriers and do things that will hurt my husband and my children and my family and friends but that will feel briefly amazing like they did when I was Phil. But I curb them because as amazing as being out of control was, my life now is better 98% of the time. I am so happy it is ridiculous. But there is still that beast lurking in my belly.

Hmm, a lot of waffle there, but I don't edit posts so it's going up as is... I hope that's answered the question OK Amoir - can't wait to read your entry ;)

*My eyes are brown/gold/green and change colour according to mood. When I am angry they go almost black, sad they go green, happy they are brown, when I am beyond happy, when I reach joie they go gold.

Couch love

My gym has a range of specials on at the moment. Ridiculously good specials with offers thrown in left right and centre.

Do you know why they have these firesale clearance specials??

Because it's freaking cold and only idiots would leave the comfort of a cosy couch with obligatory doona and thick awful bedsocks to go out into that cold cold outside. I want to watch bad TV from the couch tucked up with a bowl of freshly made steaming apple crumble or bread and berry pudding and NCIS. Not getting chillblains on my butt. This cold fingerfreezing and nipple-crippling weather does not make me want to jump up and cycle my little legs off.

But, I'm a masochist, and in pursuit of the non-jiggling tattoo-marked dream* and keep dragging myself out against my better judgement. I'm glad I go, in a smug, isn't it good that I'm out and moving my body way... but dammit the couch looks mighty fine.

*can't remember if I've mentioned it but my reward for reaching impossible goal weight is to finally and permanently disfigure my skin. Can't hardly wait!