AGEING

So much BLOOD ! :\

/ MR / 31 Comments

The other night the fire alarms went off AGAIN – it was just over a week since the last time,

I knew it would be a false alarm, but one has to do the right thing (I suppose). So I sighed heavily, switched off the split system, opened the door to the balcony, turned off the Breville Barista Express (on which I had just made a coffee !), and went into the bedroom to fetch the Boodsta and put him into his carry-basket.

For reasons of which I had and still have ZERO understanding, he decided he was terrified. I will admit that the doleful yelling of “EMERGENCY ! – evacuate NOW !!” was not conducive to rest as it went on and on and on; but we’d done this several times when we were living in Maribyrnong, and just last week, and he’d had no problems at all. So ..?

Whose nose ?, as Stringer liked so much to ask.    😀

I realised immediately that Boodie was distinctly lacking in cooperation, and had to struggle with him right away. The little bugger’s claws came into their own, and as he was absolutely determined not to be put into the soft carrier, they made contact with my right hand. I shouted an imprecation and re-doubled my efforts.

No dice. He escaped and rushed out onto the balcony, from whence he simply walked along the railing into the next unit’s balcony and thumbed his moggy nose at me.

I gave up. Went around to the lifts – yes, wicked me ! I knew it was another false alarm and so couldn’t be bothered going down the concrete stairs – and it was only when I pressed the button that I saw the gore. I see-ed the bleed !! [grin]

In fact I’d bled all down the corridor, and there was a smallish pool of it on the lift floor. My hand was wonderfully dramatic with blood trailing excitingly all down my fingers and dripping off ! When I emerged onto the footpath outside the front door there were gasps of horror. “OMG ! – have you got a big wound ?” – followed by disbelief when I showed what Boodie had done: one small claw-hole !

The firies had already turned up – quiet Saturday arvo – and one of them was delegated to attend to me and my cascading blug, which he did with admirable speed and efficiency. But I was obliged, after we’d all been let back in, to get some paper towels and my Koh spray and clean up after meself.

Blood thinners, of course. I’d forgotten I’m taking ’em. They turned an otherwise boring event into a delightfully awful one.

A day of note (sort of ..)

/ MR / 21 Comments

Yesterday I entered upon my eightieth year.

When I write it like that, I can see what my favourite man means when he says “But the day you turn 80 is just one more day after you weren’t 80 !” when he’s scoffing at my saying I’m scared of that birthday. Birthdays are just .. well, days, right ?

So now that I’m 79 and not looking to the next birthday (well, at least saying that to him) I should be able to shrug my shoulders and say so what ?!

Ah well.

I had a wonderfully enjoyable morning-tea with my second-favourite man; and there’s another morning-tea coming up next week when we’re joined by the absent one, to make up for his not being with us yesterday. I don’t know of anyone in my age-group who gets entertained by two gorgeous and truly intelligent men.

My life with these two in it is full of sunshine (and rain, and cold – it is winter in Melbourne, after all !). I am a singularly lucky old fart.   😀

Recalled to Life (?)

/ MR / 34 Comments

(with apologies to Dickens)

I have a wonderful new Dell laptop with a ‘spill-resistant keyboard’. I have access to the Internet. I have lost an IT support provider. Life goes on ..

I am in my Essendon teeny apartment, and I LOVE IT LOVE IT LOVE IT. I use that adjective because it’s really much smaller than it seemed when I viewed it empty. But I don’t care about its teeniness: I am enjoying it immensely !

Oh, and I also have Covid.

“Unclean, unclean ..” she intoned dismally, ringing the little bell around her neck ..

Did a RAT on Friday and it came up as positive instantly – no waiting for 20 minutes, no sir !

Its source ? – no idea.

Let the record show ..

/ MR / 16 Comments

.. something absolutely ghastly.

I look so like my mother that I am seized with terror: if I LOOK so like her, surely I must BE like her ???

First reaction: erhmmmmmm .. this is nothing like the kind of cut I asked the hairdresser for.

But I’m going to have to live with it – at least for a while. (What the devil are those puffed-out bits on the sides ???)

And before you start shouting at me about the buzz-cut I was supposed to have, I can explain that !

The barber said my hair was too curly, and only a #2 (or #1 !) would prevent its lying about at strange and discrete angles. And as I had already come to the conclusion that I might have a #5 rather than a #4, just in case all the hair that fell out while it was so long had left nekkid bits behind, I was easily persuaded not to do it.

Turned out there’s a ladies’ hairdresser next to the barber, so I went in and asked them “If I say I’d like a haircut and possibly a colour job to dye my hair WHITE (not blonde !), how many years would it be before you could do it ?” As a client had forgotten her appointment, the boss lady could do it, like, then (having phoned said client to ascertain her whereabouts) but not the colour. She agreed that my hair is very curly (what on earth is going on ?!), and here is a terribly bad frame that’s meant to show you:

 It’s only curly at the back ! – nowhere else. Because I whinged so much about how the curliness is entirely new and very unwelcome, she has done her best to de-curl me, with some success. Alas that the over-all impression is of a much taller Joyce (me auld mither), especially now that I almost have a shape.

How long have I been complaining how bad my photos are ? – roughly since I’ve been blogging, I believe .. I can’t even take selfies ! Still, it’s not of any importance, as taking selfies is not one of my hobbies. Yesyesyes, shut up ! – I agree I have been taking a plethora of ’em of late. But that’s it, I promise !!!

SUCH an exciting day .. like, not !

/ MR / 18 Comments

On Wednesday my blood  pressure decided it was bored with being almost perfect, and took a dive. I was in the local laundromat at the time, and saved by three total strangers who came together to demonstrate that good samaritans still abound – and how !   🙂

In spite of the enormous pressure on ambulance drivers because of people’s needing to be carted off to hospital with Covid-19, one turned up for me, took me on board and proceeded to force it (the blood pressure) back up over 100 – the systolic, that is ! – so that I could be taken to a hospital other than The Alfred; for The Alfred is currently so chaotic that the ambos knew they’d be there with me till night-time and it was only around 2pm ! They had a bit of a struggle: at one point I gave a very loud yell of pain, accompanied by a naughty word (wot, moi ?) because at the same moment as my b.p. dropped below 80 the machine cut in, and attempted to sever my arm in its effort to get a reading ! Anyway, the drip was effective and the systolic was got up to 104 and they were allowed to take me to Cabrini, a wonderful private hospital !

And there I remained for the rest of the day and some of the night, being looked after brilliantly as well as being eventually attended by the most delectable young doctor, a total sweetheart who appeared to comprehend everything I said. Amazing. [grin]

When blood tests and an X-ray all came in OK, he arranged for me to be given an echo (ultrasound) next week rather than waiting for yet another three weeks for the appointment I’d made two months back with a cardio up in St Albans – when still living in Maribyrnong – and set me up for a consultation with the cardio there at Cabrini the day after ! YAAAAay !! – I had been dreading having to traipse all the way up to St Albans.

Not sure of the reason for my b.p.’s sudden descent. I mean, Dr James told me, but I am renowned for never taking in what medicos tell me.   😦

Something to do with the atrial fibrillation discovered by my GP (to whom I am devoted) back up there in Maidstone, plus dehydration. Apparently the danger in AF is that it can give rise to stroke; and I would not be keen to experience that !

This episode has really annoyed me; for basically I have always been a healthy old fart. Now I have to admit (if anyone entitled to do so asks me) to not being so, and it gives me the shits bigtime. Mortality ? – I suppose so .. although to be honest, now that I am no longer fainting or feeling horrible, I am not thinking of it. Thinking grumpily more about how I can no longer afford MyWW, as it has now escalated to $79 a month ! Jesus. Who can afford THAT ?! Grrrrrrrrrr ..

That was it. The Episode. I have various little round bandaid thingies stuck to me still where cannulas were inserted (yesyes, and then removed !) and some bruising; but I also have clear memories of the Victorian health system and its workers. It cannot be compared with that of NSW back in 2005/6 when Chic was dying, because that was absolutely vile. No: I am happy to be here in Victoria with its excellent support of ancients’ health; and especially happy with my ‘new’ (but old) flat in St Kilda East. I even have a small community already !

I am counting my blessings.

 

A somewhat different xmas day

/ MR / 31 Comments

As is generally known, what remains of my family is scattered here and there, with only a nephew actually on this mainland (over in WA). This xmas was to be my first in blissful peace and quiet, on me tod, because I’ve moved from where charitable people always invited me to eat with them. I planned to spend it with YARN, frogging two pieces of crochet and using my wonderful Stanwood yarn-winder to end up with neat cakes ..

I briefly considered removing all the STUFF that’s sitting on a table in the bedroom – all the yarn, the baskets, the needles, the hooks, the scissors, the patterns, the— oh, you get the idea. This table is my ‘craft’ supply place, for want of something sensible: I bought it because of its thin top – the yarn-winder affixes easily to it.

Being a lazy slob, I decided against removing all the stuff onto the floor and manoeuvring the table out into the living-room, having spotted that one of the little coffee-tables that Chic made would suit my porpoise. I brought it over to My Chair, a big recliner, attached the Stanwood and got started.

I spent a happy hour and a quarter(-ish) leaning over this, first frogging to one side one colour of the mosaic crochet I’d done and winding it then frogging to the other side the second colour, hoping that the growing pile of that wouldn’t tangle – and happily it did so only a bit. Then on to the other piece of crochet that was much smaller and had at least half of each of the two purchased balls still in original wind: the Stanwood wasn’t madly keen on this, and it took me a fair while to get it done.

And then there were four neat cakes and I was happy. I’m good with frogging and starting over – far too good: I do it all the time.    :\

I sat back.

Well, that’s not true: I went to sit back ..

Boodie leaped like a dog shot at: my yell of astonished pain would’ve wakened the dead.

I had absolutely FUCKED my lower back, location of problems at the best of times and now location of such pain as not previously experienced. I couldn’t move.

I managed eventually to get to my feet with the aid of my little wheeled set of drawers on my right and the column of the standing lamp that sits next to My Chair on the left; and the only way to reach the Panadeine Forte that’s scripted for me by my succession of GPs to let me sleep more or less through the night was to find something to hang on to for every step. Dunno how long it took me to traverse the short distance into the kitchen to get them, but it was quite a while. And there was an awful lot of yelling in pain and more of swearing ..

That was Friday morning. Since then life has been .. ahh .. limited. I suppose ‘restricted’ is a better word.

And here we are on Monday morning, last public holiday for almost a week. Yes, the pain is reduced. No, it hasn’t gone away. Yes, I need more Panadeine Forte. Yes, I’ve taken steps to get it. No, I’m not sure how effective they’ll be, as I have a new GP (I mean, the second one since coming to Maribyrnong) and have seen her just the once. But as I took a shine to her at once, I am hopeful.

I am also smelly, as I’m not prepared to take the risk of showering: standing is by far the worst aspect of whatever damage I did by that lengthy bending forward (almost doubled over, really). So as there’s no-one here to be offended by my state of filth, I remain unwashed until I have more Panadeine Forte in my hands and can swallow several of ’em.

There are good and bad things about living on yer own ..

[grin]

 

Doing some unburdening

/ MR / 28 Comments

Today I write, I warn you, entirely narcissistically (I almost got lost among those syllables: forgive me if I wandered off the path) and lengthily. There are those who will claim I do that all the time, of course; and to them I offer nothing  more than a scornful laugh and a toss of the head ..

About aging. Or ageing, as I prefer to write it, incorrectly,

I am able to grasp that it happens to all of us – every single one. That no-one can prevent its happening to her or him (not even Cher the astoundingly beautiful but no longer; not even my absolute hero, Barack Obama). I know it and I accept it. But.

I want to do it at my own pace.

I don’t mean that I intend to eke it out so that I age at half the rate of anyone else. And I don’t mean that I want it to happen kind of evenly, with no rushing ahead or slowing down.

I mean that I do not want to be cast into an ageing mould created by other people.

I will turn into a doddering old fart when my brain is no longer able to prevent me from doing so — not when people around me think I am already one because of my circumstances.

Slight divergence ..

I am a resident under the auspices of an aged care facility: it is called Multicultural Aged Care Services, and bruited abroad as MACS (of course). MACS consists of two areas of care –

  1. A 2-storey building called ‘Bella Chara’ (everywhere within MACS is named after someone – possibly a major donor). B.C. is for those who are not able to look after themselves completely, having some care needs. And
  2. The main part of the complex, real aged care, divided into several parts with their several names. Herein reside bed-ridden people with full-time care needs. This is by far the biggest area.

And there is a third part — us: eight fully independent rentals, known impressively as Independent Living Units; and we ILUs get no care at all. We are simply residents for whom MACS is our landlord. The units are very nice, very open, very much glass – too much for me, as in the mornings I can never find anywhere I’m able to be on my laptop comfortably .. reflections and light coming from all directions. (Did I hear you mutter “What a whinger !” ? You’re probably right ..) The units have gardens, and with the help and guidance of a long-time friend, mine is becoming something to look at.

So you can tell that this is a place I’m lucky to’ve found — although it found me,  but that’s another story ..

The units’ residents are getting on; in fact, walkers are a common sight. Mind you, needing a walker doesn’t automatically mean the brain needs help ..

End of divergence.

I bounced in to MACS in early May 2019 with nary a thought about how I was pigeon-holing myself. For a good while I could see that I am more agile than everyone else, and definitely younger at heart as well as younger, physically; but “how meaningful is  all that ?!”, I asked myself gaily as ILU neighbours would struggle past on their daily Very Short Walks.

Gradually I came to understand.

This place is turning me into An Old Woman. I mean, REALLY old. An irritable, demanding, churlish old woman.

And I am not ready to be an old woman.

Am I being clear ? – or merely confusing ?

Well .. I readily acknowledge that I’m 77; and many people will immediately think “So you ARE fucking old ! – what’s your problem ?!”.

It’s what’s going on inside my head. In there I’m still the same — interesting, funny, clever .. everything I once was, she said modestly. Well, I was, so there ! [grin]

I don’t want to be shut down before I’m ready because those around me see me as just another ancient – one more old duck in their aged care premises. I don’t want to have maintenance blokes turning up to check various bits of the unit without my having been advised they’re coming. I don’t want to have my mail seized and sat on by admin until it’s been judged as free from outside contamination (yesyes, I do get that this is something reflective of the times). I don’t like it when I ask for something to be repaired and someone from admin accompanies the repairman and expects to come in here for supervisory purposes. I don’t like being considered in that light.

I am an independent woman.

I lived alone from the time I was sent away from home in 1965 to the time I met my incomparable husband in 1974. And after he died, at the beginning of 2006, I was once again on my own. (For six years I was living off-planet, connected to it only  by the thread joining me to my superb grief counsellor Dianne McKissock; and she had  become able to pull on it hard enough to bring me down, then.) I’ve been living on my own, looking after myself and having no-one interfere in any aspect  of doing that for the major part of my adult life.

I don’t believe I can wear this gradual loss of my identity any longer: it’s stealing the rest of my life away — gently, insidiously, thieving the years.

And I don’t have all that many left.

Whether or not any of this rave makes sense, I can only think to myself chissà ? Who knows if anyone of my generation can read and understand this, let alone anyone born after I was ..

I will agree that the lengthy Stage 3 restrictions are partly instrumental in forcing me to cogitate and eventually produce for my own scrutiny thoughts like these.

But do I agree, too, that once restrictions are lifted and people can once again visit, etc., my thinking will change and become less dissatisfied ..?

I do not. I know me.

The time for a reckoning draws near ..

For JDB, formerly JAD

/ MR / 1 Comment

My mate Amanda, of the Something to Ponder blog fame, has recently been posting about blogging. I’m not trying to be confusing: if you think about it, writing about blogging then posting the writing on your blog is a perfectly sensible thing to do !

It was in discussion with her on this that I realized another point that can be raised under the topic heading is not so much how to write one, but how to follow one. Did I hear you mutter “Ridiculous !” ? – then this post isn’t for you !

I have two sisters (now, when once I had four). The eldest lives in Paris*, in her flat that she bought a good few years ago, after her husband had died; and the youngest on a small holding in the Huon Valley area of Tasmania, together with hers. Whereas the latter knows a shitload about computers and everything associated – lots and lots more than I do – the former has led a life of academic intellectual learning in the areas of philosophy and psychology, and not, as did no. 5 in her academic career, in IT.

So up there in France is no. 1,  missing  nothing in life but a wider understanding of all techo stuff.  I recently forced her to sign up to this blog so that she would be apprised of the various breath-taking aspects of my existence; and she now needs to know how to take in the whole glorious sweep.

[cough ..]

So. There are dozens and dozens of “themes” (entire ‘look’ of any blog) from which every blogger chooses, and they have hundreds and hundreds of ways of differentiating themselves. As well, bloggers can choose to customize, which means an even greater divergence of appearance. But as I’m going to talk about mine, I don’t have any of those frightful numbers to write about.

Things to Watch   My chosen theme has a rather unsatisfactory way of showing hyperlinks (which are links to Other Things on the Web). All you can see when you’re reading a post is a very faint underline beneath a word or a phrase – as with my mention there of a hyperlink .. However, if you move your pointer so that the pointer thingy is over the word, you’ll see that the phrase changes colour, yes ? – and there’s your confirmation that it’s a link. What’s more, every link I include opens in a new tab, so that when you’re finished with it, you just X it shut and you’re back to my blog.

Things to Note   When you get an email telling you I’ve posted, and you click on the underlined subject heading within that email, you’ll be taken directly to that post and only that post. In other words, the rest of the blog seems not to be there – but it is. As you read the post, scrolling down as you go, you’ll reach the end and find a reference to the previous post, which you can click on. And at the bottom of that one there’ll be references to both the one before that and the one you’ve just left, and so on: it’s possible to navigate your way through any entire blog in this fashion. But having read that particular post, you need only click on either the name of the blog or on the overhead menu button that says “Home” to find yourself having the whole blog once more at your fingertips.

It’s when you’re in the individual post rather than at the front of the whole blog that you can see the category under which the piece has been ‘filed’ (you can search for other posts using these), and also the tags that you can use to search for posts including that term, whatever it is. E.g., if you were to click on chickpeas in my tags, you’d bring up a few posts that are recipes including chickpeas in the ingredients.

The menu buttons at the top are for pieces that stay there and are never pushed back by new entries.

Erhmmm .. Oh yes, comments !

Things to do   At the bottom of each individual post that you’re reading you have the opportunity to pass a remark on it. Bloggers LOVE readers to do this: it’s the only true way of judging readers’ commitment. I know (well) a blogger who has something like 12,000 followers, but she believes there to be roughly 100 who are genuine readers – those who fairly regularly write comments. How this happens is that a person sees a post in the ghastly thing WordPress calls “The Reader” – a kind of daily digest of posts across the entire spectrum – and likes it a lot. S/he then presses the follow button and up goes the number of readers. But thereafter said person never again visits that blog, and eventually deletes it from her/his list of followed blogs, but the original number on the original blog doesn’t change. It oughta !

Very long post, and more than likely missing key things. JDB-once-JAD will have to ask about anything she still needs to know.

😀

XO

 

*having obtained all approval necessary to Parisian living for Aussies: she has her résidence !

No, I haven’t !

/ MR / 15 Comments

I have NOT put a blue rinse through my hair.

My new gravatar looks very much like a grumpy old broad who has dipped her head in a basin of grumpy-old-lady blue dye.

Bugger !

It is merely grey, folks. There is still some dark stuff around the back; but basically I’m just – grey.

NOT blue.

Thinks: what if I had it whitened ..? Like Goanna’s – which looks great !

[thoughtful look ..]