Pop goes the kernel!

14 Jul 2014

You know how when you’re a parent and your child doesn’t do something, you just assume it’s because of your awesome parenting?

Or when they DO do something that every parent dreams of, you just assume it’s your awesome parenting?

Nup.

Wrong.

We’ve been parents for almost four years now. Two children.  And never has either of them stuck anything up their nose. So obviously – superior parenting.

Except their finger.  But I totally blame their paternal parent for that.

image – les paul guitars

Until this weekend.

When the two year old decided to stick two unpopped corn kernels up her nose while watching ‘The Little Mermaid’ with her Aunt and big sister.

because there are other kids movies apart from Frozen.  really.

One came out and I was sure and her Aunt was sure there was another one but we couldn’t see it and she didn’t seem too bothered so we thought we were mistaken.

And then Sunday morning while engaging in a spot of extreme reading (don’t all small people try reading books and skating on alphabet cards at the same time?) she flipped over and head butted the carpet and her nose started bleeding.

To be fair, it was a spectacular stack and the blood nose not entirely unwarranted.

Until we realised that it wasn’t a blood clot or part of her brain at the top of her nostril, but a piece of unpopped corn.  So we did what all families like to do on a Sunday and went and hung out in Emergency for almost three hours.

Because rule number one with things up the child’s nose is don’t stick something else up it like tweezers, cotton buds or your fingers to try and get it out.  If you push it up further and obstruct their breathing – shit gets real.

So we go to hospital, and we get triaged.  And settle in to wait.

And discovered that hospital waiting rooms offer a unique set of challenges to parents of small people.

We had to stop our three year old licking the floor of the hospital. Why? It’s unhygienic? Oh why did she try to lick it? Who knows?  Kids are weird.

We had to stop the three year old getting too close to the lady who had broken her foot in two places playing soccer ‘just to see what broken feet look like’.

We had to stop them asking ‘what is wrong with them’ at top volume every time somebody went up to the triage window.

And we had to make ‘can we go home yet’ into an adventure game.  We know that corn up nose of two year old who is still breathing is way way way down the bottom of triage, but entertaining two bored small people for almost three hours in a waiting room should have put Nick and I at the TOP of the triage list.  Sure there were some possible neck fractures, broken bones, old people needing assistance with breathing etc but minding small people in a waiting room?  That stuff is hardcore and life threatening.

And then, we meet Doctor Geoff who has a look and explains that we need to blow air into her mouth really hard just to start to see if that dislodges it, because that’s less traumatic for the child then holding her down and shoving forceps up her nose.

It’s always their first approach though it’s not always successful apparently.  But it’s a good place to start though they ask the parents to do it, because strange doctors covering the mouth of a small child doesn’t exactly make the ordeal trauma free.

So I blow into her mouth while blocking the empty nostril, and Nick holds her in a strait-cuddle – and POP goes the kernel.  Straight out of her nose and onto her shirt.

doesn’t melt in nose. just for future reference

Three seconds tops.

And off we went and lived happily ever after.  Three seconds. Hold me.

And for when it happens to you – you’re welcome.

    

It’s a killer

11 Jul 2014

Rusty is a big guy.  He towers above you, but his bulk is not threatening. Indeed, it feels reassuring, almost like a hug.  He’s a funny bugger, straight talking and gruff.  Red haired, white bearded. Young. He’s a partner, a father to a daughter. Brother. Son. Friend.

He’s also a stage four cancer survivor.  He’s had 11 or so bouts of cancer in the last 13 years.  It started when he went to hospital a couple of years before his 30th birthday with what he thought was a hernia and they removed a tumour.  His daughter was only months old.  Since then they’ve removed more cancer, a rib, loads of lymph nodes and what not.  The flame haired daughter is now in high school.

We live under a harsh sun.  We like to be outdoors, to feel the sun soaking through our skin.  We’re only a couple of decades on from a time where it was normal to cover yourself in coconut oil and try and attract the sun to your skin.  The people on the land invariably have t-shirt tan lines where constant exposure to the elements has weathered their bodies.  Sun beds are only recently banned, many young adults hungry for colour, baked themselves into a shade of bronze they thought would make life better.  The beaches and parks are often filled with people of all ages angling for ‘the perfect tan’.

Rusty’s melanoma wasn’t hanging about on a part of his body that saw regular sun exposure.  He led an outdoorsy sort of life – he was a life guard, rowed, played football – but as pale skinned, freckled individual he wasn’t expecting to ‘bronze’.

As a new father he wasn’t expecting a tumour smack bang in the middle of his body either. His life plan had not allowed that for the next thirteen years he’d raise that daughter with his beloved partner, start a business, pay off a mortgage, do all those kind of ‘everyday things’, all while popping in for radiation, to remove body parts, more treatment, more surgery.

12,500 Australians are diagnosed with melanoma each year.  Around 35 people a day.  We have the highest rates of skin cancer in the world.  There are some things you don’t want to be ‘the best at’.

Doesn’t look like much does it?

Melanoma only needs to be something like a millimetre thick before it starts shooting it’s insidious poison through the body, plonking down toxic cells that blossom into tumours, encircling vital organs in killer embraces, dancing with bones, flirting with the brain, flitting through the body invasively and randomly and so very very quietly.  Melanoma is very much more than a ‘dodgy freckle’.  Melanoma is time critical.

Teenagers. Young adults. Middle aged adults. Old adults. Mothers. Fathers. Lovers. Sisters. Brothers. Sons. Daughters. Friends.

It kills.  Melanoma kills.  Rusty owes much to the team at the Melanoma Institute and doctors and nurses at various Sydney hospitals.  And he’s not just a big guy, but big hearted.  And grateful.  So in the way of the world, he meets a guy at some Toyota function. A short guy with similar amounts of gratitude for similar reasons and they decide to walk from Sydney to Melbourne. Like you do. To raise some funds for the Melanoma Institute.  To help find a cure. To support the ongoing research.

And most importantly – to raise awareness about Melanoma.  To try and get 900 people get a skin check by 25 July.  To make it an annual visit to the doctor.  To be proactive about not dying.

To be proactive about not ever having the dubious title of “Stage IV 11 years Melanoma Survivor” following your name, or having blog posts written about you.

And this morning – accompanied by their support teams, families, personal trainers like Jeff Fenech and Jude Bolton (true story – they are probably prepared for this meander south my friends, very properly prepared) and the families of people who have lived the melanoma journey, they headed off over Sydney Harbour Bridge – destination Melbourne.  In fact, they’re going to wander into the MCG just before the Hawks/Swans game.  People will do anything for a free ticket won’t they?

source

Anyway – why do I care?  Because Rusty is my friend.  And he’s a big guy.  If he wants you to get a skin check, bet a bloody skin check.

Book a skin check and tell them here: RUSTY I DID IT I GOT A SKIN CHECK!

Follow their Facebook journey here: www.facebook.com/900kmforacure

Donate here: Here’s a dollar or two Rusty and Jay to keep your pace up

And last but not least – SLIP SLOP SLAP people.  Thank you.

*Please note this is not a sponsored post, just a supportive one. 

    

‘Fess up Friday

10 Jul 2014

There are revelations and there are revelations.

Mine is no Lewinsky tale.  No unwashed dresses or presidents here.  No references in a Beyonce song.

But the guilt factor is HIGH.

But it is time to come clean.

At the beginning of last year, when my sister was doing the whole fighting cancer thing, and we were having one of those rambling conversations that you have when you’re busy not saying anything meaningful, I made a deal with her.  If she worked on not dying, I’d give up drinking Red Bull.

And I did.  And she didn’t die.  Obviously mine was the bigger commitment. Even though I don’t like the taste, I find the combination of sugar, caffeine and taurine strangely addictive.

But then one day, when it was obviously very clear that my valiant sacrifice had been successful at keeping her alive (or years of research and a committed medical fraternity – whatever), I slipped up, I had one.  And then another time, I had another.  And before you knew it – every day.

Now I don’t drink tea or coffee.  Somewhere along the line I pretty much stopped drinking Coke, my caffeine intake comes exclusively from the little blue and silver tin.  But it feels like a dirty little secret.

It is a dirty little secret.

I crossed the road to the corner store a few weeks ago and was almost hit by a car who misread the 50km sign as 500km.  And my thought was not “Phew, lottery ticket time!” but “Phew, explaining why I was at the shop to Jen would have been so awkward!”.

And I thought.  “That’s it.  This is my last can.”

But it wasn’t.  I tried and I failed.  The thing is, I know it’s bad for me.  I don’t even like the taste as I said.  But it’s become a habit and habit sings a particularly seductive song.  And while I managed to quit smoking back in 2006 and biting the nails on my left hand just accidentally, consciously trying to quit the sweet, sweet pee coloured juice has not worked.

So here I am. Creating a movement called ‘Fess Up Friday purely to go public and get back on the ‘Red Bull Wagon’.  Handing back my wings as it were.

As of this day, knowing that the whole world (or at least the five people that read my blog) know, there is no more Red Bull.  I have to assume that the paparazzi are waiting around every corner, that every member of the public with a smart phone, is waiting to snap a photo of me breaking the vow and wanting to publish it on the front of Woman’s Day and then interview me on Australian story.

So to Jen.  I’m sorry I didn’t keep up my end of the bargain.  But… don’t YOU go back on your side of the deal please – the Parentals would be so mad at me.   However, this time I’m done.  No more.  If I need to fly, I’ll buy a plane ticket. Promise.

(Throws can forcefully into bin, strides purposefully towards sunset, music by Queen plays. Fade)

Hot trading tip peeps – buy Sprite shares.  I suspect you’re going to be making a fortune over the next month.  

    

They aren’t ‘my gays’ or ‘my refugees’.

9 Jul 2014

“What happened to ‘your gays’? Forgotten them for the rapists trying to jump the queue?”

Fuck you.

You know something small minded arse hole?  Firstly – they’re not ‘my gays’.  My fervent belief that every single human being in this country deserves to be treated equally does not stem from me owning a merry band of homosexuals for whom I want privileges and tax breaks that benefit me and me alone.

That’s the preserve of those wanting to maximise profit at the expense of the environment and you’ll find them on the Christmas card list of the dishonourable Tony Abbott and the like.

In the age of information, to remain ignorant is an active choice.  If you don’t know about the world around you and the violations of people’s human rights happening in your name and the name of all Australians, well that isn’t because you are ‘not political’, it’s because it’s too hard and too big and you don’t want to know.

The violations of human rights and ongoing stupidity that is off shore detention and the stopped (reporting on) the boats, isn’t a political issue.  We know that both major parties have turned a blind eye and by not actively opposing it in word and action, the Labor party have pretty much taken out front page banners saying “We’re totally okay with abusing people that seek asylum”.

I haven’t stopped opposing marriage inequality.  I haven’t stopped supporting the right of Australia’s first people to be recognised in the constitution.  I haven’t stopped supporting the efforts of people trying to sort out the environment.  I haven’t stopped supporting World Vision, Cure Cancer or Amnesty.

It’s just that at the moment, our country is behaving in a way which is abhorrent and wrong.  We are becoming xenophobic and cruel and an a country obsessed with ‘I’.  We are willing to stand by and ignore the fact that asylum seekers are coming by boat because they are DESPERATE.  We listen to Scott Morrison say nothing and we don’t’ demand more from our government. They work for us people – this isn’t a fucking dictatorship, it’s not an autocracy.  It’s democracy.  Tony and his team are violating INTERNATIONAL laws, stomping all over the very foundations of a democracy and you’re bleating about being full.  Well you can shove that right up your over entitled ass.

The facts, FACTS, show that people that seek asylum by plane are only 40% likely to achieve refugee status.  Those coming by boat – in excess of 90%.  Refugees commit less crimes than politicians, footballers, little old fecking ladies.  They are persecuted people, hopeful of a future and desperate enough to try for Australia even though they know we are currently advocating cruelty instead of compassion.

I don’t see you turning back planes.  Picketing the airports and what not.  They’re not coming by planes because they’ve got papers saying their bonafide refugees – they claim refugee status once they get here. They’re not coming by boat because they are rich – who the fuck would get on a leaky boat when they could fly in on Jetstar IF THERE WAS A CHOICE.

That’s desperate.  If you need help do you go to the guy standing at the door yelling FUCK OFF WE’RE FULL?  No.  Not unless you’re are desperate enough for your life and that of your family that’ll you give it a go. They’re coming to us because we signed the Refugee Convention and they mistakingly believe by signing it we meant it.

And Tony saying the asylum seeker mothers are morally blackmailing him?  He’s got no freaking morals.  If mothers think the only way they can get their children to safety is by killing themselves  – what is that saying about us?  Jesus wept.

When did we become this country?  When did our xenophobia and our fear becoming the thing that defiines us?  When did we become condemned by the international community as a barbaric, cruel, bigoted country?  When did we stop being the land of the fair go and a bunch of entitled arses that can’t extend a welcoming hand to some of the world’s most vulnerable people.

So that’s why I’m not banging on about ‘my gays’ at the moment.  I’m trying very hard to make sure people are becoming informed about one of the greatest shames of our ‘settled’ history, and believe me – it’s had some stiff competition over the years.

When the world stage and our own former leaders compare our policies and approach to that of Nazi Germany – we are heading in the wrong fucking direction.  End of story.  And if I stay silent, if I don’t bang on about it, then I am complicit.  Then I am supportive of it.  And it’s not happening in my fucking name or the name of my children.

If you want to read something more structured and less emotional – I refer you to Julian Burnside’s article http://thebigsmoke.com.au/2014/04/07/reality-boat-people-solution-asylum-seeker-problem/

In the meantime, go troll somebody else.  Next time I’ll name you.  Dickhead.

The aged are conning us!

9 Jul 2014

I just walked the girls to school.  Which means what takes me 9 minutes to wander, takes them 35 minutes to gallop, hop, crawl, skip, run, spin, be carried, whinge a little and count cars, dogs, letterboxes and high five a garden gnome.

We were over taken by this fabulous Croatian trio, combined age approximately 400 – 420 years.  They were old.  Spritely with it and they were walking with a little speaker kit hanging off the belt of the gent in the flat cap which was playing Pharrell William’s ‘Happy’.

And I realised right then and there (as they chucked the cheeks of my girls and we complimented the brisk morning and bright sunshine and compared it to the Dubrovnik skies of their youth) I realised that the aged/seniors/oldies are totally conning us.

Dubrovnik is amazing – go there

We’re talking about people that lived through a war or two.  They saw man walk on the moon, colour television, wheels on suitcases, air travel becoming commonplace, telephones in houses, mobiles, computers, food processors, Martin Luther King, the building and the destruction of the Berlin Wall, the internet, motorised wheelchairs, pacemakers, screwtop wine, oh how the list goes on.

The world has changed more in the last 100 years than in any other century (that’s a fact I read somewhere) and here they are sprinting around footpaths listening to ‘Happy’ and yet….

I bet if I’d asked any of that trio to keep in touch on Facebook or download their own music or show me pictures of their grandkids on their smartphones, they’d be all like “Oh, I couldn’t possibly use something that new fangled”.

And we’d run around and help them do things that they are perfectly capable of doing, probably more capable than any of us since they’ve just spent the last sixty to one hundred plus years adapting to change, while they sit there absolutely killing themselves laughing, all the while sprinkling themselves with the scent of talcum powder and helplessness.

It’s a massive con.  We’re the useless ones.  We’re used to short cuts and technology and a first world economy and cheap flights and air bags and seat belts.  We’re SOFT.  And yet, here we are talking about the older generations as if they’re technophobic, helpless individuals.  For the love of the colour green – we’re building intuitive technology and they’re claiming to have none.

Betty White and Slash.  Exactly. Thank LA Zoo.

Well, jokes on us.  And oldies/the aged/seniors – I’m on to you.  Get those damn photos on your smart phone and friend me on Facebook.  I need to work on your music preferences…

    

10 signs the apocalypse is coming

7 Jul 2014

Forget the four horsemen.  Though they may yet come thundering in to deliver to us the most terrifying of last judgements (or pop up in a movie with Hugh Jackman – whatevs), there are already some clear signs that the end of the world is upon us.

These ten things happened in the midst of real life over the last few days so the end of the world is not only nigh, but pretty imminent, like we are TOTES GONSKIS guys.

1. On the Friday she did bake banana bread and put it in the oven before 8.30 am.
2. On the Sunday she did bake banana bread and put it in the oven before 9.00 am.
3. On the Friday and the Sunday she did organise her kitchen cupboards and she has not lived there yet two years.
4. On the Wednesday she did fit into the green jeans she has not fit into for nigh on one year and she praised the benefits of eating badly and not exercising. 
5. On the Thursday she did mourn the demise of her favourite pair of jeans and she did dispose of them instantly rather than put them in the cupboard in case she did one day taketh up the sewing.
6. On the Friday, feeling cocky because of the green jean incident, she did fit into the skinny jeans she hath not graced since the birth of her second child and she did this standing up.  True. 
7. On the Saturday she did layeth a child down who went straight to sleep without so much as a peep or a murmur or a request for ‘water’, ‘book’, ‘cuddle’, ‘discussion on the finer points of magic flying shoes’. 
8. On the Sunday she did participate in a family photo in which everyone did look most charming.
9. On the Saturday she did attend a gathering most amiable at the Morgan’s residence and none of her children required a hospital visit, lost teeth or sustained any kind of injury which dideth scareth her half to death.  (Sorry Samsam)
10. On the Monday before the day beginneth she did ask three relevant questions about the grand

    prix which indicated she was most interested in her husbands passions and interests.

Photo: Reuters

****

Don’t forget to follow Talking Frankly on this new fangled social media they’re all talking about