The way it was before

Three hundred and sixty-eight days ago, I wrote this:

We went to see Pop tonight. He’s doing a little better. They’ve taken him off the drip, because it was filling his lungs with water. They’ve almost got the pneumonia under control with IV anti-biotics. He seemed a little cheerier although he could barely talk because his mouth and throat were filled with phlegm, which he had to cough up only he didn't have the strength. But he was smiling...

Hopefully we can get him out of there at the end of the week, depending on the results of a chest X-ray and an ECG, and into a care facility. At least when we’re paying for the care we can make more of a fuss about things; in a public hospital there isn’t much we can do about it.

He died six days later. It’s funny how events look so different when viewed from the opposite direction.

Monday is the first anniversary of Pop’s passing. I hate that saying—passed away—it sounds so neat and yet so feeble. It conjures images of a tired old man dying in his sleep, too weary to fight for life any longer. It conjures up a tidy death. But death is always messy. It’s an accurate description of Pop in his last days, hours, but it doesn’t represent the rest of his life. Pop was not quiet, he did not easily relent. That is why I hate it. It just doesn’t fit.

I went to St Marys Cathedral on Thursday to pray for Pop. I lit a candle for him, and for other members of the family. I’m having a mass said for him at the cathedral on Monday in his memory. Many may see these actions as a vain attempt to assuage my guilt or diminish my grief, but they aren’t. Others still will be shocked to know I made a donation (or paid, depending on how one views it) for the mass to be said and for the candles I placed before the Virgin. I don’t care what people think my motivation is; I did it because I love him. I did it despite feeling guilty and grief-stricken, not because of them.

The truth is I don’t quite know how I feel at the moment. I feel guilty that I didn’t see him the night before he died, instead going to Liz’s for dinner. I feel his absence, keenly. I’m aware of it more and more as I look after the donation of furniture to Fr Chris O’Reilly’s Youth of the Streets, arranging lists and photographs, waiting for next Tuesday—Collection Day.

As I sat on the train on Thursday, on the way home from the Cathedral, I realised that I’m petrified of forgetting him. Materially, he is slipping away, the house is sold, the furniture promised to a worthy cause, boxes of books have been sold or given away. I have kept some things for myself—we all have—treasures that I’ll hold on to, but still this irrational fear persists. I’m not afraid of forgetting how he looks, I have photos for that; it’s the little things, the way he smelt, the sound of his laugh, the sound of his voice, the way he spoke, the way he was. The way he was before the hospital, the mental confusion and the incontinence.

The way it was before.

When the hour is upon us
And our beauty surely gone
No you will not be forgotten
And you will not be alone
No you will not be alone

Now comes the night
Feel it fading away
And the soul underneath
Is it all that remains
So just slide over here
Leave your fear in the fray
Let us hold to each other
'Til the end of our days

Pain in the...

Well that was, for the most part, a waste of time. I went to see the neurologist yesterday, and while he was a nice enough bloke the appointment wasn’t very productive. Ultimately he didn’t really tell me anything I didn’t already know.

Dad I were siting in the waiting room and when Dr Neuro called my name I stood and walked towards him. He motioned towards Dad, asking “is that your Dad?” I nodded. He signalled Dad over, saying “why doesn’t he come in with us?” I was about to tell him that I haven’t had a parent come in with me to see the doctor since I was seventeen but gave up before I had even started speaking, opting for the path of least resistance.

We sat down in his office and he introduced himself. He was a short man with beady eyes and an awkward demeanour. He saw Dad’s work name tag and asked Dad if he did indeed work there. Dad replied yes and the good doctor proceeded to ask Dad many questions about his work and about gardening. I was thinking “Hello! Who’s appointment is this?” when the subject turned to me.

After a brief history (in which he had a blank look on his face when I said “I’ve had ME since 1999), a physical exam and a neurological exam, he told me that codeine is not good for the long term and suggested a referral from my GP to the pain management clinic. We discussed some different drug (of the non pain killer variety) therapies and that was about it. The pain is still idiopathic (of unknown origin) and now the doctor doesn’t even want me t take pain killers.

I’m getting a little frustrated to be honest. Are answers too much to ask for??

Ding dong the witch is dead...

... and now the new beginning.

Last night I felt like singing, dancing, and running around the lounge room with my shirt pulled over my head. I restrained myself, content to say to Dad “guess who won?” It was smug, I admit, but I was so overjoyed at the unceremonious ousting of ol’ Johnny. Dad didn’t ask who, he just waited silently for an answer. “Rudd”, I said triumphantly, adding “and it looks like Howard will loose his seat. And Bartlett [our local MP] lost his too”. I grinned. He replied “Well that’s it, we’re fucked now”.

I have to admit, while I am overjoyed at Howard’s defeat, I am totally underwhelmed by Rudd in general. My parents both voted for the coalition because of its economic policies; I voted against them because of their social policies. Rudd got my vote only because he was the lesser of the two evils available to me on election day.

It will be really interesting to see what happens now in terms of Rudd’s election promises and their coming to fruition. What he neglected to remind voters, during his election campaign, is that to pass new laws (or amend current ones) the legislation must be passed by the senate. The Howard government enjoyed having a coalition controlled senate from 1 July 2005. It was having control of both houses that allowed the coalition to push Workchoices legislation through both houses with little public consultation. The current senate will continue to sit until 30 June 2008, at which time the new senate will take over, so I think it’s unlikely he will be able to do anything too dramatic before that time.

As well as promising to roll back workchoices, Rudd has vowed to remove legalised discrimination against same-sex couples. Well, sort of. I was listening to an interview with Julia Gillard on Triple J’s current affairs show, Hack. The woman is, without doubt, a savvy politician, yet for me she is one of the most tedious people in politics, if only because of her total inability to actually answer a simple question. Instead she opted to recite party lines, confuse issues, annoy the reporter, and avoid answering the question in any way, shape or form. She was asked at one point about removing legalised discrimination against same-sex couples. She stated, in a roundabout way, that the Labor party is committed to removing all discrimination against homosexual couples, and as such it will amend the federal laws listed in the HREOC report, “Same-sex: same entitlements”.

However, it is well known that the Labor party doesn’t support gay marriage, civil unions, or formal partnership recognition of any kind, despite sanctimoniously trumpeting its abhorrence of discrimination on the basis of sexuality and avowing to remove all legal discriminations. I’m sure I’m not alone in seeing the contradiction. Kate O’Toole, the reporter, pushed the issue, asking Ms Gillard to comment on the fact that the party is essentially saying “all discrimination is unacceptable, except for this one act [the Marriage Act] where it’s ok to discriminate on the basis of sexuality”. Ms Gillard was asked if that was not the case. She couldn’t answer yes or no, rather sticking to the old “we see marriage as a union between a man and a woman” shtick. It was, in short, one of the most tedious interviews I’ve heard in a long time with one of the most tedious people in politics.

So ultimately, the point I’m trying to make here is that with a coalition controlled senate, at least for the present term (ending 30 June 2008), Rudd is going to have to work very hard to get changes to industrial relations laws passed, as well has amending the 58 laws that discriminate against same-sex couples (oops, I mean 57, since the Marriage Act will remain untouched as things presently stand).

One last thing. In Australia, as many of my American readers may have realised by now, we follow the British spelling system. This means, among other things, that many words that end in “or” in the US (such as harbor, neighbor and color) are spelt “our” in Australia. The word “labour” fits this category, yet the Australian Labor Party insists on misspelling its own name.

I hope that they make better governors than proof-readers.


UPDATE (in response to Drew's comment):
Oh I totally agree... baby steps, especially after the last 11.5 "dark years" lol.

I'm just saying, don't think that the Labor party is going to be our salvation. Because it just isn't.

Fifty-seven out of 58 is a great start... once we have them signed, sealed and delivered, will be the time to push on and start lobbying for that last one.

As for holding Rudd accountable, I agree, but it will be interesting to see if the senate co-operates, and how Rudd spins it... the new senate appears to be more balanced, but there is still a coalition majority at this stage but the counting takes weeks to finish, and besides which, it won't take effect until 1 July 2008.

State civil unions are all very well, but they will never count in federally legislated areas (tax, super, work, etc) so while they're great for finally being allowed a recognised ceremony, they don't do much in the legal arena.

History, sadness, and the hot chemist

I’ve been busily family historying for the last week. I am drowning in photographs, old letters, documents, and mothballs.

One person I’ve been concentrating on lately is my great uncle. He was my father’s mother’s younger brother, who was killed in the Second World War at the age of 19, on the 14th of July 1943, while flying in an RAAF mission over Belgium. I have a swag of documents from the RAAF from 1943 relating to the circumstances of his death (including some incorrect ones) and a journal that he kept daily between January and April 1943. I got hold of a letter he sent to his older brother that was written three weeks before his death. It said “guess I wont be home for the arrival of the little one but I’m damn sure I shall be there for the first birthday”.

So sad. Such a senseless loss of life.

I do have a few posts half written. They’re on the way, my friends, just bear with me. In the mean time, here’s a word verification I’ve had on my desktop for weeks, waiting to be posted.

I’m still on the nasty pain killers which make me nauseous and constipated, so although the pain has lessened, I can’t really enjoy it that much. Today I went to the doctor and she wrote another script to tide me over until N-day, when I see the neurologist on the 28th November. After the doctor I ambled over to the local shopping centre, where I picked up the first season of Smallville from the video store, because I have always had a thing for Tom Welling and I need some diversion. I went into the chemist and was met with the gorgeous chemist, who caused me to become a little breathless I have to say. After composing myself and getting what I needed to buy, he rang up the sale and took my card. He swiped it and asked, without skipping a beat, if I was constipated with the pain killers. Trying not to appear shaken, I answered, truthfully, that it is all under control. He gave me my card and receipts back. I’d gotten cash out and he asked if two tens was ok, or would I like a ten and two fives? I said “what the hell, give me two fives, I’ll grab an ice-cream on the way home”.

He smiled impishly as he handed me the cash, and I nearly came on the spot.

Misery. Depression.

Tonight I feel miserable. My head pounds, my sinuses pulse, my neck, back and legs ache. I miss my Pop terribly, so much in fact that that it almost feels strangey physical. I need a hug. It probably won’t last beyond tonight, but for now, I’m miserable.

So, it’s been a shitty week. The pain has lessened, which is fantastic in a way, but on the other hand it just means things are back to “normal”, which is still no fun and still full of very real pain. I got the scan results back. No major problems, or minor ones really, just a few things pushing on other things in non-threatening ways. At least that is how it has been explained to me by a friend, who has surprised me with her knowledge of anatomy (and who I won’t persecute if she’s wrong). See, I may be miserable, but I still have a sense of humour about such things. But the point is that it isn’t showing much, except a “strawberry birthmark inside the bone itself” (again, these are my friend’s words, the report calls it something much more anatomical sounding). It also came with some pretty cool pictures.

Not only am I in pain but I’m feeling zonked and tired and really beginning to wonder how life will pan out when I can’t really do much because of pain, fatigue, nausea, or combinations of the three. How will I fare at uni next year if I get a place at the uni housing? Will I be able to cope? The logical side of my head says “of course you fucking will, quit your worrying!” but the emotional side wonders… Depression is like that: a constant battle between head and heart. In my case the head was never loud enough for the heart that steadfastly sticks its fingers in its ears and goes lalala while it wallows in its own melodramatic despair.

I’m sure that tomorrow I will feel better, I may even look back on this feeling and laugh, but for now the randomness of fate and inequality of life are weighing heavily upon my already pulsating brow. It’s an acute case of “why me?” I never get an answer, so with that somewhat mixed metaphor, I will go to sleep and try not to think of it.

Tomorrow will surely be a better day.

CT, done. X-ray, done. Exam, done. Uni, done.

Yesterday I went to the radiology office for the CT scan and the x-rays. It was fairly uneventful and nowhere near as scary as I thought it would be.

After having my name called, I followed a cute blond guy (who would have been named “Rusty” if he were American, or so I thought on the day) through the maze of corridors to the CT room. He asked me where the pain was and I showed him as he uh-huhed and marked it off on a diagram of the body, asking me about the type of pants and underwear I was wearing (I was a little taken aback, but realised soon enough that it was a question of metallic objects ruining scans) and peppered his speech with the word “mate”. By the end of my description there were more green-coloured pain areas than white areas. He had me take my shoes off and empty my pockets before getting onto the bed of the machine, which was blissfully donut-shaped and not at all vaginal in any way, shape or form.

I had my knees bent over a foam prop and my head on a pillow. The bed began to move up and into the donut-hole, until my body had gone through completely, leaving my body on one side and my head on the other, starting up into the internal mechanisms. Lights came on, little buzzers went off, things whirred and beeped and before I knew it Rusty was standing beside the machine telling me I could get up and go to the x-ray. I hopped off the bed, in a totally ungraceful way, and put my shoes back on and collected my things. I was ushered into another room, this one much the same as the CT room, except (unsurprisingly) this one had an x-ray machine.

CT scan, done.

The x-ray technician also asked after my underwear and instructed me to take off my shirt and lie down on the bed of the x-ray machine. Another lesser technician, who was probably a trainee because he either had to ask the other guy what to do, or have it shown to him, came in and started fiddling with knobs and dials. The x-rays, about five in all, were taken quite quickly and I was soon ushered back out into the waiting room to go home. As I stepped outside I thought to myself “well that was painless, why was I so worried!?” The results will be in Monday.

X-ray, done.

Today I had my history exam at 9am. Dad drove me to the uni at about 8, giving me a little under an hour to hunt down an open coffee shop and madly read over exam revision notes before going in. Just as I was about to go in I was hit by a sudden tide of nausea, brought on (somewhat belatedly, I now realise as I write this) from the pain killers I had taken at seven. I felt hot and clammy so I lay down on the cold stone floor until the feeling passed, then hobbled over to the building and found my room. I think I did well on the exam, definitely a pass at any rate, and I am now free.

Exam, done.
First year of uni, done.

The F-word

While I put on a good front of being a virtuous, innocent boy sometimes, the truth is that I have a really dirty mouth. Unsurprisingly, the F-word is one of the most common words to be found on my lips. I love it’s versatility. Last night I heard a song on Triple J that had Dad and I in stitches. Not only is it funny, but it’s interesting from a linguistic perspective. When I do my unit on functional grammar I should bring this in for the professor to play in a lecture. Anyway, I managed to track it down and download it (from the artist’s site no less) and I had to share the lyrics. If swearing isn’t your thing you may want to skip this post...

Perhaps one of the most interesting words in the English language is the word fuck. Out of all of the English words that begin with the letter F, fuck is the only word that is referred to as the f-word. It’s the one magical word that, just by its sound, can describe pain, pleasure, hate, and love.

Fuck, as most words in the English language is derived from German: the word fricken, which means to strike.

In English, fuck falls into many grammatical categories: as a transitive verb, for instance, John fucked Shirley; as an intransitive verb, Shirley fucks.

Its meaning’s not always sexual. It can be used as an adjective, such as John is doing all the fucking work; as part of an adverb, Shirley talks too fucking much; as an adverb enhancing an adjective, Shirley is fucking beautiful; as a noun, I don’t give a fuck; as part of a word, abso-fucken-lutely or in-fucken-credible; and as almost every word in a sentence, fuck the fucking fuckers.

As you must realise, there aren’t too many words with the versatility of fuck, as in these examples describing situation such as fraud, I got fucked at the used car lot; dismay, aw fuck it; trouble, I guess I’m really fucked now; aggression, don’t fuck with me buddy; difficulty, I don’t understand this fucking question; inquiry, who the fuck was that?; dissatisfaction, I don’t like what the fuck is going on here; incompetence, he’s a fuck off; dismissal, why don’t you go outside and play hide-and-go-fuck-yourself?; I’m sure you can think of many more examples.

With all of these multi-purpose applications, how can anyone be offended when you use the word? We say use this unique, flexible word more often in your daily speech. It will identify the quality of your character immediately. Say it loudly and proudly: fuck you!

You can download the song from Dub Dentist’s site.

A charming phone call

The just rang. I looked at the little caller ID window and saw “Aunt Agony” and called out to Dad to answer the phone because I really wasn’t in the mood to talk to her. He answered and shortly after came into my room, proffering the phone in my direction. I sighed and said hello.

“Hello darling, how are you?”
“Terrible.” This was mistake number one.
“What’s wrong?”
“My legs are fucked.” Second mistake, which I tried to rectify by saying “I have a CT scan on Friday so hopefully that brings some answers.” I was hoping dropping the CT in would show her there was some level of mystery and seriousness. I don’t think it worked too well…

“It’s because you don’t move them enough.”
“Nooo… I move plenty and it makes no difference.” And it’s true. I do exercises and it makes no difference. If anything, I think I deserve an award for actually trying to exercise in pain rather than lying back and whining about it!
“Well it could be growing pains.”
“Ummm… I’m 23.” Besides, many doctors believe the elusive umbrella-termed growing pains to be early manifestations of fibromyalgia (as in my case) or other musculoskeletal conditions like arthritis etc.
“So? You have one last shot going on at the moment.”
“I don’t think so. This isn’t growing pains. Anyway we’ll see what happens on Friday and what the doctors say, hopefully can shed some light on all this.” I was going to mention the neurologist appointment too, because I figure that that, in combination with a CT, might appeal to her sense of basic empathy, but I decided against it because I just couldn't be arsed arguing with her any further.

I interrupted with “Anyway, what can I do for you?” in attempt to divert the conversation to a place were I wouldn’t be likely to tell her what I thought of her or her unwarranted and ultimately useless diagnoses and recommendations.

As the conversation wound up, she drove in the last nail with “Think positive thoughts, darling.”
“I do think positive thoughts, Agony, it doesn’t make much difference. The pain doesn’t change with my mood.” She chose not to respond, which was good because it would have lead into a whole other area that I really don’t want to discuss with her.

At the end, she told me she loves me, and we said our goodbyes. What I want to know is where the fuck do concerned relatives get their medical degrees/training/experience? Are these institutions of higher learning open to all, or only aunts and other assorted familial hangers-on?

The small purple imp of good GP fortune

Well the appointment yesterday was actually much more successful than the last few with Dr KHS put together. I’m seriously considering switching for good. I didn’t mention it yesterday, but I’ve been wary of dealing with this particular doctor, who for the sake of clarity I’ll call Dr G, ever since I was 17, horribly depressed, cutting myself, and she said “well we all get a bit upset sometimes”. Hopefully she’s learnt to control herself whenever such utterly unhelpful thoughts bounce around her head since then.

Anyway, I got a taxi to the doc. The taxi driver, a new lady who’s never driven me before, was very chirpy but not in the way that it irritating when one feels so shitty. “What have you done to yourself?” she asked, motioning to my stick. “I have a neurological condition called fibromyalgia.” “Oh, I beg your pardon,” she said, a little embarrassed, “I didn’t mean to be rude.” “No worries, I don’t mind. Always good to educate people.” I gave her a very brief rundown on the condition and the topic reverted to the safe ground of the weather.

At the doctors’, when it was my turn, I waddled (sorry, that’s the most accurate adjective I can think of to describe the way I was walking) into the consultation and explained my predicament. We discussed a number of drugs, each stronger than the one before, and each time she entered them into the computer to check interactions, a little red flag came up indicating that it wasn’t really a good idea to take these in conjunction with the antidepressant I’m on. After the list was exhausted, I reasoned with her that I was already practically taking one of them as it was, only with the added element of the pesky paracaetamol which was busily eating away at my liver as we spoke. After that she agreed, wrote the script and I was home free, so to speak. She also wrote a referral for an x-ray of my spine and a CT scan of my legs, which will happen on Friday afternoon.

I’ve never had the misfortune of having a CT scan, and it’s not something I’m really keen on doing either. Being horribly claustrophobic, the thought of being strapped to a bed and fed into a large cylinder like a hapless tampon doesn’t appeal to me in the slightest. I’m hoping, however, that since the scan is of my legs only I can be inserted feet-first, leaving my head out in the open and away from the giant cavernous vagina that is the CT machine. We’ll see.

So now all I have to worry about is my history exam on Saturday. Looking back, I don’t know how I managed to finish (or start for that matter) the exam on Monday, considering I was aching the entire time. I called disability services and explained the situation and was advised that if I am in doubt just to not go. She said it’s always better that a student doesn’t sit the exam and then requests a supplementary exam, than to try to soldier through and do poorly before requesting the supplementary exam because they’re much less likely to do it if you’ve already tried. Funny that, I would have thought it would be the other way around. So we’ll see. As it stands, I haven’t done any study because I’ve either been asleep or so high that rational thought is but a distant memory, so I’m not too optimistic at my studying prospects between now and Saturday.

All in all, the small purple imp of good GP fortune has indeed smiled on me. Let’s hope that she goes that one step further and actually gets some results from the scans so I can put this to rest!

Oh, and Calla, pain is no barrier to the appreciation of hot men. And I see what you mean about the first bloke...

Pain, doctor, begging. None of it pretty.

Because it’s slightly less annoying than having to gnaw my arm of in pain frustration, I am going to see the doctor in an hour’s time. Usually I see Dr KHS every three months or so, appointments in which he rubs his chin thoughtfully and prosaically tells me there’s not much to be done. Today, however, I will be seeing another doctor, who will hopefully be a little more malleable and actually give me some hardcore painkillers. You know, morphine or its generic (cheaper) equivalent. While I do prefer to deal with Dr KHS (partly for a sense of continuity, and partly, I think, because subconsciously I’m just a glutton for punishment), I’m seeing this doctor today because my legs are really, really, really hurting in a big this is serious kinda way. I have a pretty high threshold for generalised pain (that’s pain over a large area, for those playing at home) but a pretty small threshold for localised pain (small area). To be honest I’m not sure where the current batch of pain resides, whether it is local or general I mean, because while it does span the length of my legs and the width of my hips and knees, it’s very local and sharp in flavour despite its wide area. Either way, it makes little difference in terms of shittiness, being general or local I mean, but it seemed like a pertinent fact to mention when I started writing the sentence.

I am a little high right now. Full up on more pain killers than is recommended (I think I passed the daily limit at 9.30 this morning), I’m going to beg, plead, grovel, and if need be coerce her for something a little stronger to last me until my appointment with the neurologist (which is on the 28/11). You know, now I mention the neuro, I don’t remember ever mentioning him on here. Well here’s my chance, as soon as I start a new paragraph, because I think it warrants one.

So yeh, I have got an appointment with the neuro at the friendly local public hospital’s outpatient department. It took me a month just to get an appointment, the neurologist thinking he might go for a spot of a holiday, but I am now locked in. That’s about it, no reason to begin a new paragraph, really, but what’s done is done.

Well as I pointed out the other day, I have to keep moving because as soon as the blood settles in my legs they begin to really hurt (think hot knife, cold butter) and it’s getting to that time. Unfortunately once I turn around I won’t be able to type, the computer being in front of me at the moment, so it will be behind me when I turn over. Besides, I suspect this is making little sense as it is. Thankfully, while I do appear to writing a lot of shit, I haven’t hallucinated. Yet.

Argh. I don’t have time for this bullshit. I have a history exam on Saturday.

Cause the bible tells me so

Saw this on Paul's blog and found it very compelling. What do you think?

Once upon a midnight dreary

Yesterday was a strange day. In fact strange doesn’t quite cover it. Because it was so strange, and for the most part quite unpleasant, I thought I’d share it to show you just how nasty these illnesses can be. The reason I want to do this is because so many people see the name chronic fatigue syndrome and think that it’s a simple little thing, easily compartmentalised as “being kinda tired; get over it and live”, when in reality it’s really quite serious at times. Ditto fibromyalgia: “so your legs hurt a little, you’ll live”. So this was my day yesterday.

3/11/07 12am – 1am.
Just going to bed from the day before, after having taken all my meds: maintenance drugs, pain killers, and something to help me sleep. I felt a strange pain in my right upper thigh. I had been hoping that the sleep aid would kick in quick enough that it wouldn’t bother me, but when lying on my back it started throbbing. I got up and made a hot water bottle, placed it between my legs and lay on my side, trying to sleep. I hate sleeping on my side; I always wake up exhausted from the exertion it takes to maintain that posture. I always sleep on my back.

3/11/07 1am – 2am.
The trying to sleep continued, more pain killers were taken, and I fell asleep around 2am with the hot water bottle between my legs, the eiderdown thrown off to the side because of the heat.

3/11/07 2am – 11am.
Slept.

3/11/07 11am – 12pm.
My alarm went off at 11, quite loudly, but I slept through it.

3/11/07 2pm – 3pm.
I woke somewhere around 2pm, after twelve hours’ sleep, got up and dressed. I felt great for about half an hour before being engulfed by fatigue. I was chatting on MSN briefly but soon had to close the computer; I couldn’t sit up or walk, so I just lay back down in bed and dozed.

3/11/07 3pm – 6pm.
I dozed on and off, wondering why my thigh was hurting so. I took more pain killers. It’s a new kind of pain, quite pointed and site-specific as opposed to the more generalised pain I usually experience in my legs which, while neural (ie nerve pain, sharp and pointy), radiates and covers a lot of area. This was different. If I lay on my back it hurt the most so I lay on my side—which, as I said, I hate doing—with a pillow between my legs, rotating every half hour as the pain came and went. I felt like a rotisserie chicken.

3/11/07 6pm – 7pm.
Dad went out and got Chinese take-out for dinner. I went to the kitchen to dish up my dinner but had to sit down quickly because I was suddenly engulfed by nausea (from the pain killers on an empty stomach no doubt). Dad dished it up for me and I listlessly ate, while watching The phantom menace, without really paying attention, because it was on TV not because I actually had any interest in the film.

3/11/07 7pm – 12am.
The fatigue that started at around 2.30 intensified, I took more pain killers and went to bed. A pearler of a storm was whipping itself into a frenzy outside as I lay in bed, trying to get comfortable by rotating every half an hour or so amid muscle spasms and the strange pain in my thigh. I love thunder storms, I love the power, the spectacular light shows and the noise. There’s something oddly comforting about being in a warm bed while nature lets loose outside my window. I fell asleep around 9pm, I think.

4/11/07 12am – 5am.
I woke up at about 12 to a sleeping house. I turned on my computer, checked emails and the like, and then tried to sleep again. I realised I hadn’t taken my morning meds (which may have explained the feeling of crappiness to some extent) so I took the night dose but still couldn’t get settled. After a while I gave up on trying to sleep and turned on the computer to do some research on subject choice for next year, finally falling asleep at about five.

4/11/07 5am – 11am.
Today, the alarm woke me up. Mum came in soon after to say goodbye as they’re off to my uncle’s birthday lunch today. I’m staying home to study. The pain in my thigh remains but the crippling fatigue seems to have abated, disappearing like a strange blip on the radar.

Strange huh?

Horror movie

The past week I’ve been making an admittedly feeble attempt at studying, amidst a sea of distractions—this blog included. In an effort to avoid any actual study, I bring you the weeks’ news highlights that I’ve heard on the radio while in a state of semiconsciousness as I slept through my morning alarms.

Candidates ‘should declare sexual preference’
1 November, 2007

The Family First candidate in the far north Queensland seat of Leichhardt says voters have a right to know the sexual preference of all candidates contesting the federal election.

Apparently being gay makes you a lesser politician, according to FF candidate Ben Jacobsen at least. Actually that’s not quite accurate, being gay doesn’t (necessarily) make you less of a politician in Jacobsen’s eyes, it merely makes you a less of a representative: “Look I think this is a public office, this is a person that's going to represent Leichhardt in our House of Representatives… I think the public have a right to know the values that you’re going to pursue in Parliament.” Of course, this is in no way related to his questioning the sexuality of opposing liberal candidate for his seat (oh the irony). Dickhead.

Pell backs discrimination against gays
30 October, 2007

The Catholic Archbishop of Sydney, Cardinal George Pell, has argued in favour of maintaining discrimination against gay couples, saying it is wrong to equate the position with any sort of racial discrimination.

Pell not only wants discrimination against homosexual (or indeed any non-heterosexual) Australians to continue, but he wants it condoned. Not only does Pell display a massive lack of Christian kindness and compassion, but he misses the point rather spectacularly in saying “I think what we’re talking about here is making sure that while we remove unfair discrimination, that we do not allow a very small part of the population to force their model for relationships to be adopted as the community norm, when it isn't.” Gay marriage (or even just the simple removal of practical legal discriminations in the 58 federal pieces of legislation which discriminate against non-heterosexual Australians) is not about foisting “our model for relationships” as a community norm. It will never be a norm. A norm is, by definition, of the majority. But being the norm does not mean being ‘normal’, and not being the norm does not mean being inferior at all. Only people in same sex relationships can get same sex relationship recognition…everyone else can carry on as they have thus far been privileged enough to do. Fuckwit.