Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia.

‘Not by the hair on my chinny-chin-chin.’

The snow is still deep up on the mountain slopes but spring is stirring in the valleys. Birds are stealing the coconut fibre from the flowers hanging baskets and taking the threads from the weed matting edges to make their nests. The male bower bird has stolen every blue flower out of the garden to impress his harem.

Cats are strolling the streets at night howling their feline love songs in what to them is a delightful serenade and when the males come to blows, the losers of the fence top fights are taken to the vet to have their abscesses syringed. The owners, after paying a large bill, are given the dubious pleasure of tending to a spitting cat as they try to deal with the drainage tubes. This process often leads to the owner swabbing blood from scratches on her hands after being swatted by flailing claws.

 Cats appear to have no sense of appreciation toward veterinary or nursing care.

The young foxes have been kicked out of home to find their way in the world and to make room for this year’s family. As with the young of all species they are rather naive and lazy. The foxes sniff out the nearest chook pen to get a breakfast they don’t have to chase and hunt down.

Our neighbour who lives across the road left for Melbourne for a much needed holiday. We were happy to agree to care for her girls. Four lovely Isa Brown hens.

Her dog went with her and so to my horror the first morning I crossed the road to feed the girls and collect the eggs I came upon a nasty scene. One hen gone and another badly mauled. Feathers were spread across the bottom of the pen and I could easily follow the trail of where the fox had run with his take-away meal. The two hens left were looking very agitated and obviously not in the mood to lay any eggs.

A large hole under the pen’s wire was a clear indication of where the fox had easily burrowed in to grab his meal.

Just our luck. First day Barbara is away and this happens.

Teddy immediately went across to kill the severely damaged bird and gave it a decent burial in the compost heap. He then sorted through the sheds until he found enough wire to put an apron of it right around the pen and half way up the sides so that the fox couldn’t have his meal as easily the next day. For it was a certainty he would be back.

After a couple of days the remaining chooks seemed to have recovered and were laying two lovely eggs a day. They obviously didn’t suffer a long bereavement and probably took the view that the extra greens they were getting made the episode worth while.

Our friend returned home a little sad but philosophical about her loss and planned to replace the two dead girls.

The very first night she was home her dog woke her just before dawn insisting she go out into the frosty garden. There was a commotion down at the chook pen. The noise echoed off the hill opposite and started every dog in the town barking including ours who just love a good rowdy dollop of excitement to start their day.

The young woman who lives next door to Barbara was awake early and had seen the fox getting under the hen house. Her dogs had also joined in the row and were doing laps of her back yard.

By sheer chance she was appropriately dressed for the occasion in her ‘Zena Queen of The Jungle’ leopard patterned mini pyjamas. She clambered over the wire fence which separates the properties and ran into the hen house, bravely stamping her foot onto the fox’s head as he tried to back out from under the chicken wire. At the same time she was calling for her husband to come and help.

The two remaining chooks were squawking and franticly dithering about. Torn between running to some place of safety but glued to their perches by fear as they stared down at the fox beneath the foot of the screaming woman dressed in flimsy leopard spotted clothing. They cackled hysterically not knowing what to do.

By the time Barbara had thrown some clothes on, shoved her feet into her gardening boots and arrived at the scene of mayhem, the young husband was emerging like an executioner from the tower of London, his axe dripping with blood and a look of grim pleasure on his face. His wife’s foot had survived in tact but the fox hadn’t.

Teddy has since put a solid base in the chook house for Barbara but her girls have decided while they wait for their nerves to recover there is more to life than laying omelette ingredients.

When the fox was laid out on the back lawn we could all see what a truly magnificent animal he was and felt rather sad he had chosen to break into the hen house.

Foxes are not a native species in Australia and are considered vermin because they kill so many native animals, although they also kill a lot of rabbits, which are also not native animals. At times rabbits have been in plague proportions in the country, inflicting enormous damage on the land.

In defence of the fox, he was just doing what any species will do, trying to provide for himself.

Hens are another imported species to the country, but they are useful to the inhabitants and so are reprieved.

It comes down to the fact that if something is useful to man they are spared. If not, they may be hunted or lose their habitat.

Vale Mr Fox you were a lovely animal.

I’ve noticed I haven’t heard the blackbird that was beginning to tune up for the season. His song seems to have stopped. Blackbirds are also not native birds and some gardeners don’t like the way they flip mulch and soil onto the paths and dig up seedlings as they search for worms and grubs. Perhaps someone has trapped the songster and done away with him.

It’s a hard life surviving in a world when your personal instincts and habits upset the ruling species.

Hooroo from,

Cynthia

Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia.   Tunnel Vision.

Dear Del,

A few days ago a friend of mine remarked as we stood chatting in the main street of town, that men are afflicted by tunnel vision. She made this observation while watching her spouse, a keen fisherman, look with devotion at a fishing rod displayed in the sporting goods store window.

 This remark of hers made a memory stir restlessly in my mind for a few days. One that I don’t think I have ever shared with you. I think it has been on the outskirts of much of my thinking while our home has been subjected to the hours of work Teddy has spent while making a solar hot water panel. All else has been ignored while the weeks of construction of the Mark. 2. model of this panel has been in progress.

Mark. 1. was demolished some time ago much to my relief because it was taking on such large proportions that I felt if our roof wasn’t reinforced before it was put in place, the structure would come crashing through into the living room. This would not only spoil our television viewing it would most likely upset the finely balanced relationship we have with our home insurance company.

I knew when we married all those decades ago that I was marrying a man of high intelligence. I wasn’t quite prepared for some of the small eccentricities that sometimes accompany such intellect.

Within a few weeks I was given quite a few examples of what I could expect and the degree to which my patience, humour and tolerance would be stretched.

For example, we had been living in our first small flat for about four weeks. The night had been wet with the sort of lashing rain that Melbourne is capable of producing following a long dry spell. The water flows down the street gutters washing all the paper, leaves and rubbish before it and at times it will eventually clog up the road drains leaving vast puddles of filthy water swirling around for days until it is at last dried up, or a council team comes along and unblocks it.

It was Teddy’s habit to walk to the shops, pick up his morning paper, read it as he walked along the footpath all the while trusting the other travellers to keep his footsteps on the right course as he made his way along and through the underpass to the station while concentrating on the newspaper.

One morning as was usual, I made his packed lunch and after a peck on the cheek at the door, waved him off with a happy smile. That’s the sort of thing we women were shown to do in the 1960’s magazine articles entitled, ‘How To Keep Your Husband Happy.’

Some time later, after I had tidied the small amount of second hand furniture which adorned out little nest and washed up the breakfast dishes, I heard a noise at the door.

Feeling a little apprehensive I opened it slowly. Teddy was revealed sitting on the doorstep with his boots off and ringing out his soaking socks. His overalls were wet up to his thighs and there was an assortment of wrapping papers and grit in his wet hair.

‘What on earth happened to you?’ I asked.

‘Hmmm…….Well.’ He giggled a bit. I learned over the years, little things don’t upset him easily.

He began, ‘I bought the paper and opened it to read while walking along with the others as I always do…then after a time I realized no one was walking with me and my feet were really cold. I lifted the paper up and looked around to see I was up to my knees in muddy water and floating things. The underpass tunnel was filled right across the paths and road. None of the b…..blokes told me! They were all just standing behind me pointing and laughing at me. Then,’ he continued at last showing some exasperation, ‘some coot with a great sense of fun planted his foot on the accelerator of his car and drove through the water fast enough to dowse me with a wave of the muck.’

I sighed, the first of many to come and handed him a towel, some dry clean socks, a clean, dry pair of overalls, and shut the door firmly.

Despite my best efforts life has gone on in much the same way for five decades. Now, after much hammering, sawdust, metal pieces and piping made of various materials we have our own solar hot water.

‘Buying one from the solar shop would be far too easy and not as much fun,’ he told me the other day while I was removing another small handful of screws and metal objects from the bowels of my washing machine.

It’s too late to miss the tunnel now isn’t it? I wonder what it next has in store for us?

Cheers Cynthia.

Letter From The Other Side; from
Cynthia
‘James, James, Morrison, Morrison
Weatherby George Dupree
Took great care of his mother,
although he was only three……
……..and goes on to the 4th
verse
‘You must never go down to the
end of town, without consulting me.’

Those words of A.A Milne were engraved forever on my mind when as a
child I recited his poems over and over again.
To this day I still enjoy their rhythm and flow and the wonderful
memories of my relatively carefree childhood they recall.
Last week as we made our way slowly along the shopping strip of our
small town the words of the poem wandered quietly into my head once more.
It was a beautiful Saturday morning. The sun shone brilliantly and the
early autumn glow was touching the edges of the leaves on the trees lining the
streets. The haze of smoke from the late seasonal burn-offs of the Department
Of Environment hung in the air. We all know autumn will bring this haze if the
weather is still and warm and are grateful for it, as the extra
undergrowth which has grown in the
forests during the summer will make any summer bushfire next year all the
hotter and hazardous.
The street was buzzing with tourists lounging about as they enjoyed the
mountain air and drank coffee at the tables along the footpaths. They always appear
to have their feet strategically placed to trip any unwary pedestrian. It seems
to me at times that tourists grow longer legs than we do.
The local volunteer groups find Saturday mornings very profitable for
their raffle ticket sales and some set up sausage sizzle stalls. The smell of
barbequed sausages and bacon wafts down the street enticing pedestrians to
follow their noses like ever hungry spaniels seeking the source of a scent.
Teddy and I were strolling from the supermarket down to our lovely old
Victorian red brick library. It is really only a very short walk and would take
no more than ten minutes on a quiet day.
Walking is something I can still
do without too much trouble just so long as I am wearing a pair of sturdy
supporting shoes. I have drawn the line at the ‘glow-in-the-dark’ gym shoes and
have opted for a more sober style.
We crossed the path which leads across the roundabout and were making
good progress until we met a friend. He is an interesting man, a musician and teaches
the drums. Teddy being of the opinion he is also a musician because he tortures
us with his trumpet every day enjoys chatting with him. I think the book he
read about Lois Armstrong has gone to his head.

While we were speaking to our drummer friend I spotted a decoration in
a garden nearby that didn’t really appeal to me. It was a discarded toilet
which has been converted into a plant pot. Two doors down from this home is a
small road sign which indicates there is a public convenience further along the
street and I wondered if the plant pot owner had taken his idea from the sign.
Another gentleman we know came along while we were being silly and
giggling childishly about the garden landscaping and he joined in the
conversation surmising along with us why anyone would opt for such a decoration
for their front yard.
After twenty minutes or so we parted company and went on our various
ways buoyed up by the happy and rather ridiculous conversation.
Not very far past the newsagent we met another couple we know and fell
into conversation with them. After receiving and giving updates on our health,
our families’ health, our dogs’ peculiar behaviourisms and where to purchase a
decent handbag in town, we continued on our stately progress.
Then we came upon the raffle ticket sales. It was in aid of a good
community cause and so we bought two or three and of course began a
conversation with the lady selling the tickets. We hadn’t ever met her before
but …and I still don’t know how the conversation got around to it,….. the
subject of my present health issues came up. She was a fund of information and
attends the same neurosurgeon that I do. She takes weight strengthening exercises
for the ‘older person’ and those rehabilitating from illness and after quite a
time, (there was another person selling tickets while we chatted) I left her
feeling as if our meeting had somehow been organized by someone or something
much wiser than me. It was quite
stunning how much better I felt from being able to share some of my experiences
with her.

Next stop along our way was the library. Well….. what can I say about a
trip to the library? It is never a quick drop-the-returning-book and run is it?
We shuffled through shelves, looked at videos and discs, argued about who’s
fine it was that had to be paid for the late return and came out carrying more
books than we can possibly read in the allotted time ultimately enjoying the
full library experience.
By this time, instead of taking ten minutes to walk the distance we had
spent an hour and a half.
We turned out steps back toward where the car was parked and made for
the chemist shop and met a lady we have known for ages and stopped to ask after
her health and laugh about her antics as she tried to hold her walking stick in
one hand and balance her barbequed sausage rolled up in its bread, in the
other.
We had reached the end of the town and began our journey back, not in
the least worried by the time we had taken. We know that trying to hurry on a
Saturday morning in our main street is a waste of time. Instead we looked up at
the smoky hills and shuffled along happily recounting some of our friendly and rather
silly conversations which were all enjoyed in comradeship and the pleasure and
the privilege of living in such a place which has the support and help we
provide to one another.
We did see one gentleman coming toward us that we felt unable to face
on such a nice day. He is possibly the most irritating and negative person in town
and I have yet to work out why he feels as grumpy as he does, but I ducked into
the shoe shop and Teddy followed quickly. It cost the price of a new pair of
shoes I fell instantly in love with to miss him, but we felt the purchase price
was worth avoiding being depressed on such a pleasant morning.
I think James, James, Morrison, Morrison must have lived in a town like
ours and knew that if his mother went down to the end of town she would be a
long time and would not be back in time for tea. That way he would know he could
be free to raid the biscuit tins in her absence without being caught.
At least the authorities didn’t have to put up a notice that we were ‘lost,
stolen or strayed and post a forty shillings reward’.
Cheers for now,
Cynthia







The End Of Town Without Consulting Me.

Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia. 'It's All In The Names.'


Dear Del,

We all think of our name as our own individual identification don’t we?
Of course many people go through life identified by their friends and family by a nickname but even the nickname can be a problem. There is always a ‘Bluey’ around, so called because of his red hair. Every town has a Musty because of his reluctance to open his wallet or a Lofty because of his height and of course we mustn’t forget Gunna. You know him, that fellow who is always ‘Gunna’ do this and ‘Gunna’ do that but doesn’t ever make the time to do much at all.

We think of our names as special things and like to keep our ‘good name’ and hope people or family won’t ‘ruin our good name’ or sully our family name in any way.

The first time a person becomes aware of sharing the same name with someone else can come as a shock, particularly if you meet them and you dislike them at once for some reason.

Years ago Teddy was confused by the stares of people who seemed reluctant to speak to him for a time until he found out he and a man who had been stealing from the company they both
worked for, shared the same name. Once the other man was identified in the press and the confusion was cleared up, Teddy became popular again.


A few decades later when I registered at a new medical surgery I discovered I shared my name with four other women also registered on their books. It made it confusing for the staff,
who had to make sure they double checked my address and details to ensure the doctors were given the correct details and didn’t mix up our files.

About six months later, Teddy began receiving sympathy cards from all over the district and interstate. At first he thought it was some sort of sick practical joke until we heard that
one of my other namesakes had been killed in a dreadful accident. We felt awful for thinking bad things about the senders of the cards and made sure we eventually found out her address and forwarded the cards onto her bereaved family. Although we hadn’t ever met her, we almost felt we knew her after opening the cards and reading some of the thoughts which had been expressed.

The next thing was to have problems with the small local bank when they mixed my name and address with another namesake. Luckily it was still during the days of being able to deal with your local branch manager face to face and not with a computer with tentacles which
became entangled and very hard to straiten out. The problem was fixed with apologies all round.

A mix up with names can also lead to funny incidents.
Teddy’s dad, Huey, had not been working in his allotment for a few weeks and when he returned to it, he found that some of his tools were missing.
The next time he went even more of his tools were missing and also some of the vegetables were gone.
“I swear I’ll catch the *****
that’s stealing from me.” He declared, irate that the prized vegetables he had worked on were on someone else’s dinner plate.

Sure enough when he went down to the allotment there was a fellow working away in his plot. He walked up quietly behind him and reached out to tap him on the shoulder. ‘What d’ya’mean by
stealing my stuff?’ he bellowed in the small man’s ear.

The chap swung around and staggered back and away from Huey who could look quite intimidating even though he was also short. His pronounced jutting jaw and broom of black hair which appeared to explode from his scalp could be very unnerving when his temper was
roused.

‘B’y God man, you’re dead.’ The little fellow squeaked. Huey declared the bloke turned as white as his hair, his knees buckled and he flopped into the furrow he had been digging.
Huey realizing how shocked the poor bloke was went no further with his accusations but assured the man he felt more alive than Don, as he was called, looked at that moment sitting at his
feet in a muddy plot of soil panting and shaking.
Eventually he and Don worked out that the people in the council office had been notified of the death of a man bearing the same name as Huey and had of course mixed up which allotment
had become available. It took him a while to reclaim the missing tools and for a while reassure people who had heard of his ‘death’ that they weren’t seeing a ghost.

I suppose the worst mix-up I have experienced was the day after giving birth to our daughter when I was handed a baby to feed. I knew immediately it was not my baby and when I said to the nurse it wasn’t my child she stared at me for a time and without checking any further went to get the nurse in charge. This large, loud voiced;absolutely no nonsense ex-army nurse came and demanded why I wasn’t feeding the baby.
‘It isn’t my baby’, I answered plaintively.
‘Stop being so neurotic’, she ordered, ‘and feed that child.’
I sat mute for some time looking at the little ginger haired child. It wasn’t mine. My daughter I was sure, even though I had only a couple of glimpses of her before she was rushed
off to the nursery where all the newborns were placed behind glass screens they used during the 1960’s to allow the fathers to view them.
I examined the tiny fingers, I examined more….. no definitely not, this was not my little girl, this was a little boy!
The sound of a stiffly starched uniform hurrying along the hospital corridor caught my attention and the nurse re-entered the ward carrying a baby.
‘Here Cynthia this is your baby I’ll take that one.’
She snatched the small red headed Cuckoo she had almost forced onto me and placed my daughter in my arms.‘Get on with feeding her’, she demanded as she rushed off without an apology or any sort of acknowledgement of the mistake.

I read of this same thing happening in a Victorian hospital a couple of months ago and they were in big trouble. It was splashed all over the papers and the mother received counselling and no doubt monetary recompense.
I wonder if her doctor also offered to circumcise her baby girl as my forgetful one did. That would have cost them months of counselling and even more money.

Maybe that is what is at the back of all my problems. Not enough counselling during my life.

Aaaah it’s all in the name they say. Well, not always, I think the name can be a problem as well.

I envy you Del if you cherish a name no other shares, because I can assure you it can be a trial at times.


Cheers
Cynthia.

Hi
First of all I wish to apologize to the readers for the problems I have had loading this new posting. No matter what I have tried it has not formatted as it should and my patience has run out. So I hope you can read it as it is.
I hope to get this problem fixed before the next posting.

Cheers Cynthia.


Letter
From The Other Side; From Cynthia. ‘Hoy! I’m Down Here.’

Dear Del,
Aren’t doctors
an annoyingly pompous group sometimes?
Have you ever
been told by someone about the same age as one of your grandchildren that it
might be time to begin using a walking stick? Last week when I was adding yet
more money to my doctor’s slush fund toward her annual cruise around the Great Barrier Reef, she made that suggestion to me.

I was not
having a good day pain-wise and during days like that the brakes which should
work between my brain and my tongue don’t always function very efficiently so
before I could stop them the words of advice of where the said walking stick
would be perhaps more usefully be employed were out of my mouth.
She did look
a little taken aback, but with a wry smile suggested I would probably decide
for myself when to take my mother’s stick from the stand where I have kept it
since she died.
I had another
occasion during one of my recent sojourns in the hospital to become an irritant
in the doctor’s day.
As he and the
nurse stood over me chatting about my condition and what might be done about
it, some of the stored memories of my long days in hospital as a child must
have been dredged up and I felt I had reverted to the way I felt then. They
ignored me during this discussion as if I was incapable of hearing or
understanding anything such important people may say.
I had once more been transformed into a
‘condition’, not a person.
I suppose I
was feeling vulnerable while sitting up in a bed in my night wear, which these
days is not of the slinky and seductive kind but more closely follows the warm,
comfortable and modest mode. My hair was all mussed up, no make-up on and I
know I looked pale and elderly rather than interesting as women ‘of a certain
age’ are bound to become.
However, since those childhood days of illness
when I lay motionless in my bed while the grown-ups chatted over my body, I
have found my voice and lost the reverence toward the healing community my
parent’s generation seemed to hold and tried to instil in me. In fact my mother
was so impressed by doctors it wouldn’t have surprised me if she had
genuflected to them when they entered our home. She rather reflected the
fawning mannerisms of Basil Fawlty when a couple who were doctors graced the
guest list at his incredibly dysfunctional hotel.
I think it
helped me be more of a realist by going to school with two girls who became
doctors. They always passed their exams brilliantly but didn’t appear to be
able to retain a great deal of what they had learned for any length if time. I
know to this day if ever I walked into a surgery with one of them seated behind
the desk I would probably say ‘Hello’ and pretend I had just popped in for a
chat even if I did have to pay for the privilege.
Anyway, as I
was telling you these doctors were enjoying a great old discussion across my
prone body and the old feeling of being treated as a deaf and stupid nonentity
returned.
I raised my
hand as high as I could and said loudly; ‘Hoy! If you are going to talk about
me have the grace to at least acknowledge you know I’m here.’
There were a
few, ‘Oh,.. ers, yes sorry Cynthia.’ and we became comrades again.
Years ago I
used to volunteer at a school for children with disabilities and when we took
the pupils on an outing or just to enjoy a morning tea in the local mall we
were always aware of the occasional person who would make a quick involuntary
step back when the doors of the elevators opened to reveal the wheelchair bound
bodies and disfigured limbs. Then there were those who would shift away to
other tables because some of the older children handled their food like
toddlers, spreading it on themselves, their clothes and quite a lot of it on
the floor. I suppose to people who don’t live with it every day it can be
confronting.
Sometimes to
ours and the children’s pain we were told by an obnoxious individual that we
should not have had them in the shopping area or even out in public.
Why I bring
this up is that the same thing begins to happen to older bodies and the young
and healthy find it hard to witness. They often don’t realize how difficult it
is for the elderly people themselves to experience these changes, because
inside they still feel the same. In fact I tend to think that the character
inside is often an improved version of the one that was there when they were
young and healthy.
The medical
profession should be the one section of the community which should have the
training and the capacity to allow older people the respect and dignity they
deserve.
To this I add
that for me, and I’m sure many others, I resent the hospital cost cutting habit
of filling a ward’s beds with both male and female patients.
Flinging ones
legs out from the height of a hospital bed and padding about in one of those
gowns which have the opening down the back or for a gentleman to have his
pyjamas fall around his ankles and not be able to bend to pick them up is
demeaning.
Even during
the swinging sixties we were allowed the privacy of having the sexes separated.
I have heard both men and women say how confronting and embarrassing it can be.
What has
happened to our country? Years ago when
the population was smaller we were able to afford the first class medical care
of the day and have hospitals that contained happy and well contented staff
with the best of training? Where did the money and the caring priorities for
the patient begin to flow to?
Ooh I am
going to be a pain in the neck if ever I have to be cared for permanently. I’ve
already told my family I don’t want them to do it, because I want the capacity
to sack someone if I’m not happy with the treatment. I have already dispensed
with one doctor’s ministrations, or perhaps I should say lack of patient care.
I’ve also been known to discharge myself from a hospital after sitting in a bed
for five days without having a doctor come near me. That was a very large crack
I must have fallen through and no one knew why.
My present
doctor was quite surprised when I presented him with copies of all my latest
tests and discharge notes that I had requested through freedom of information.
I think he should become used to it because there will be many more in years to
come as people realize they have the right to access their own records.
So my advice
is to remember the old saying about the squeaky door getting the attention.
Squeak up for yourself.
Cheers
Cynthia.

Letter From The Other Side; from Cynthia. 'When The Doors Of Life Begin To Close'.

Dear Del,

It has been months since I wrote, I hope you have noticed my absence but will take it on the chin if time has passed by without you missing my letters.

Most of my life I have tried to see the humour and irony of our days but I have been sorely tested since Christmas morning when I found myself looking out the rear window of an ambulance at a sullen stormy Christmas morning sky.
At around 6 a.m I had walked into the kitchen to make our morning cup of tea. We were expecting family to arrive from down south so I was up bright and early and feeling very excited.

As I held the kettle of boiling water my hand began to shake and I was aware of a most peculiar sensation. I tried to speak to Teddy but the only noises I could emit sounded rather like baby gurgles.

The next few hours seemed to be a constant blue of faces asking me a stream of questions I found difficult to answer and tests in machines that bumped or clanked and others which would have looked right at home on a stage where a magician was going to do the old ‘saw the lady in half’ trick. I would have liked to share some of my thoughts with the people around me but didn’t have the energy.

The upshot if it all was that I was admitted to the hospital with a suspected stroke.
For the next few days I shared a ward with two ladies suffering dementia and a poor young woman who had been kicked in the face by a horse. The conversation was bizarre in a rather humorous way. It made up for the lack of Plum pudding and cake. I wasn’t feeling very festive anyway despite the nurses walking around in Christmas hats and various decorations not usually seen on the wards.

One lady was convinced I was sitting in her bed and I was making it all wet and repeatedly told me to get out of it. When she wasn’t abusing me she was trying to take her oxygen and drip lines out and tying them into knots. The nurses earned their money as they fought with this frail little piece of humanity to keep her from damaging herself.

Another lady, a large Dutch woman, told everyone off in her native language. I may have been misjudging her she could have been saying happy things, but they didn’t sound it. Unfortunately she kept her barrage up all night. One doesn’t go to hospital for a rest. The other lass was too swollen and in too much pain to say anything much at all. By comparison I felt quite well and after yet more tests, I was sent home two days later.

Well, I have had two more trips since then following similar episodes and further tests. Each one making me a little more fearful that I indeed had a problem.
The result of all this tedious activity has been one of those times in life when doors has been unceremoniously slammed in my face and the world has become an unfamiliar place. My days this year will be the beginning of a new and difficult faze.

Have I ever mentioned that because of an accident when I was a toddler I spent some of my childhood in a cervical brace? Well I did until I was sent to boarding school when well away from my parents reach and with no house mistress who would check my behaviour, I threw the brace into the school furnace. No teenage girl wants to be seen wearing something like grandma’s corsets or be teased by her dormitory mates.
I have spent the rest of my life exercising and being reasonably fit but with a constant ‘bad back’ which has become worse during the years. Something I put down to getting older. We put everything down to getting older don’t we?

The tests have shown up a few unexpected bad jokes.

It seems I have a few tumours on my spine and my ability to do many of the things I have spent enjoying doing all my life may be taken from me.
Now, the prospect of having almost all my avenues of enjoyment taken away is a daunting and frightening thing and I can’t claim to have taken the news passively.
My speech and memory have returned, for which I am grateful, although the mental exercises and the crosswords I have attempted have been full of some creative ways of spelling. In fact I managed to make the words I wanted fit the squares rather than trying to think of the right word.

I’m going to chronicle some of this journey with you because it may be interesting and helpful if you or anyone you know is coming face to face with doors that are shutting them into what seems to be an ever shrinking life and world.

Over the years my reading has included many biographies. Reading how others dealt with the highs and lows of their lives has been enlightening, very educational, thought filled and supportive at times. I’m now interested to see how I am going to face them. I think at least at this stage I am able to be subjective enough to be honest with myself and also with the reader.

Teddy saw my frustration as I realized sitting at the computer to write is almost beyond me and so trotted off down to the op-shop and found a small lightweight desk on wheels. He cut it down to size, welded up the bits again at a more comfortable height and brought it in for me to try. Now I am able to roll it around the house and put it in front of me wherever I am sitting. I need to move fairly frequently into a new place to change the position of my muscles to help prevent the painful spasms and also to get to the furthest end of the house from the maestro when he is practising his trumpet….. He can almost play ‘Blue Moon’. This feat is a testament to his tenacity and to the forbearance of our neighbours.

His ingenuity in converting the desk has broken one door down which I thought had been closed and I am immensely grateful. All those years of inventing and making strange things may at last be going to pay off.

While I wait to see if the neurosurgeon can cement up the holes made in my vertebra by the tumours, I will spend time recording all the many letters I have written to you over the years. The local library is interested in keeping them in the section of audio books and of course, I will add some to my blog.

As well as the compression fractures and tumours, I am missing a couple of disks between my vertebrae, which explains some of the pain I’ve had and also explains why I am turning into the shape of a capital C. The rate things are going; I suppose I could become a lower case c.

This year hasn’t started well for a few of our friends and for a couple, it didn’t start at all. Death came suddenly to them and one wonders, is that perhaps kinder?
If like us you are finding it difficult to see a rosy side to life, try and kick some of those damn doors that have slammed in your face open again or maybe find a few new ones and rattle their knobs. We really have no other choice do we?

Instead of sitting aimlessly on our veranda doing very little, it has given me an opportunity to watch the birds in our summer garden and take part in an internet site which helps record birds throughout the country. It records their numbers and their conditions, breeding etc. I have also found another site which records a wide variety of wildlife including frogs, lizards, snakes and wombats and because we live where we do, I can help with spotting eagles, possums and other shy animals that live away from the cities.

It is only a small thing, but it gives me the feeling I am doing something useful.
So there is one piece of self discovery I have made already. I know some people who are happy to play cards, go to clubs, play computer games, do jigsaws etc but unless I am able to find what I think of as useful things to occupy my days I know depression will be looking over my shoulder. I have read that older people make up one of the largest percentages of the depressed persons in our community.

I can no longer bend and have become very proficient at picking things I have dropped up with my toes or failing that, the barbeque tongs.

Walter our spaniel is a wonderful help when it come to cleaning up spills until Teddy can wipe them up a little more hygienically. Walter also bullies me up out of my chair to take my daily walk out to get the post.

I don’t know who invented them but I would like to say a big thankyou to whoever invented remote controls. So if you know the person, please pass my thanks onto them.
I have always heard that these times in life show up your true friends. How right that is and how grateful I am to have a few who have gone through life with me right from school days. Those people whose faces still shine out at me from behind the wrinkles and the fading hair.

Although this year has begun very differently for us, others are facing far worse such as devastating floods, war, killer cold weather and personal losses of every kind. The world goes on in its muddled way and so must we.


As the old song said, we will try and ‘Walk On The Sunny Side Of The Street’.
Cheers for now,
Cynthia
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