Back in the high life again

You haven't heard from me for a while. I've been ignoring your calls and making excuses not to see you. We used to chat for hours and didn't think we could ever run out of things to say. But maybe we have. You suspect I've found someone else and I'm not going to lie to you. I have. I've rekindled a relationship with an old flame. In my heart (both old and new) she was always my one true love and always will be. I've never been able to resist her siren song and I often heard her singing it, soft and melodic but erotic and flirtatious, during those long, dull nights in hospital.

I am now back in her loving embrace. Yes, I'm back at work. And I like it. Very much. The law is my mistress and I love her dearly. My name is Paul and I am a workaholic.

I promised my doctors that it would be part time and it is - for me. I assured Doctor McKenzie that it would be around twenty hours a week. He knew, and I knew, that this was overly ambitious to the point of unrealistic. Who were we kidding. I also told him that I would make sure it stayed on a part time basis "for a while". He is a bright boy and could tell that not only was I being deliberately vague and obtuse, but blatantly lying to him. He decided to assert his authority to the extent to which a real life Doogie Howser can. He said that "part time" must mean part time, "around" must mean "no more than" and "for a while" did not mean for two weeks. I said I understood but we both knew where the story was headed. I was already planning my first tryst with my long lost lover and it couldn't come soon enough.

I've now been back with her for a month. It's like we were never apart.

Inevitably, I failed the Doogster and immersed myself in the pleasures of being a lawyer again. Part time is now thirty-five hours a week, plus the extra stuff that I don't count. That "for a while" didn't last two weeks. It lasted only one (I did do twenty-five hours in the first week). I originally told my doctors that I'd start back in October, but it was actually August.

I think my doctors understand. After all, they themselves work eighty hour weeks. We are kindred spirits and fellow travellers. With the minor difference that they save lives and I swish money around and pretend that doing so is a noble and venerable profession.

For me, thirty-five hours a week is very much part time. I may vote to the left but I will always be a Bollinger bolshevik rather than a true believer. The early socialists fought hard for a thirty-eight hour week but I am happy to leave that to the Europeans. I need to work - long and hard. It's an all in bet. There's no point owning a Ferrari if it's parked in the garage.

To me, work is a significant part of who I am. Just before I underwent surgery to have the Impaler implanted, I quipped to Doctor Thomson that my only regret was that I hadn't spent enough time at the office. It was false bravado but like all good jokes also contained a few little grains of truth. I also asked him if I'd be able to play the violin after getting a new heart. He said that I would. Great, I couldn't play it before!

I was stagnating a little at home. However, there had been a very silver lining to the big black cloud in that Camilla and I had been able to spend serious amounts of time together and I had been able to get involved with Charlie and Imogen's lives a little more. The kids are loving having their dad back. Imogen even bought me cuff links in the shape of a silver racehorse for Father's Day. She told me that this was the closest I was getting to owning Bottle of Smoke so I'd better wear them often. I do. Charlie slowly got used to my  chest scars. In an inspired moment, I told him that my VAD scar was shaped like a "C" for Charlie and my sternum scar was an "I" for Imogen. I'm sure my plastic surgeon hadn't deliberately done that (as far as I can tell selective tattooing is not in her repertoire of wound repair tricks) but Charlie appreciated it very much.  He had been very disturbed by seeing his dad connected to a machine with clear tubes filled with blood going into his tummy. Maybe he just needed to harden up.

But both Camilla and I knew that it was time for us both to take the next step. I needed to get back to work and Camilla needed to resume her own life as well.

Initially I was a little concerned that I would no longer have a practice. I'd been out of the game for a year. They'd managed perfectly well without me. The sky didn't fall and the job got done. As much as we'd all like to believe otherwise, everybody is expendable insofar as their job is concerned. Just ask our new State Premier.

Within a few days of starting work, I was able to honour an important commitment I had made whilst in hospital. I moved Anna's admission. I put on my suit, took a taxi to Court and joined the line of barristers and solicitors there to move the admissions of their young proteges. There is a quaint tradition in the law that dictates that positions at the bar table be taken, from right to left, in descending order of seniority. First the silks, then the junior barristers, then the senior solicitors, then the junior solicitors. There are only limited seats at the bar table so at most admission ceremonies the majority of movers stand behind the bar table whilst the barristers lean back lanquidly in their seats as if they own the place. Sometimes even some of the junior barristers have to stand. That day, I got to sit at the bar table of the Banco Court in the new Courthouse with the big kids whilst a long line of less seasoned solicitors stood behind me. Maybe it was just part of the magic that was the day, but more likely it's a function of my age. I've been doing this a while now and am starting to develop a few distinguished grey hairs.

I stood up before the three presiding Judges and in a booming voice that resonated around the room I asked then to admit her to the roll of Queensland legal practitioners. My advocacy must have been particularly persuasive that day. The solicitor appearing for the Admissions Board meekly mouthed her consent and the Chief Justice proclaimed, "Let Miss Bowler be Admitted!"

I was proud as punch. Proud of Anna. Proud of me.

I dropped back to the office to increase Anna's charge-out rate and we adjourned for a delicious long lunch with her family and a few work colleagues. Times have changed. I limited my intake to four glasses of wine, all of which were delicious, and drove home at around four. I used to lunch like an Eighties banker. At my worst, lunches could continue into the evening. The boy has now grown up. Doctors' orders.

I started work with a clean slate but my file load built up quickly. I now have a swag of new cases and I feel like a real lawyer again. I've moved on from being a patient to being me. It feels good and I am coping well. I've experienced no real problems since the transplant and have recovered very quickly. I take my drugs (still over thirty a day), eat well, do a little exercise and get plenty of rest. My weight is good and my complexion has returned to a healthy swarthy brown. The drugs have made me a little darker and a lot hairier. I've ordered a medic alert medallion on a chunky gold chain. Being Lebanese has become life as a caricature leb. I suppose that I've become Joe Ganim. I just need to invest in the jogging gear.

Working short weeks has been most enlightening. There is now an enormous expanse of free time every day between waking up and going to work, and then coming home and going to bed. Is this what it's like for real people?

Getting back to work has been good for me. I have more drive and energy. I am focussed and jovial. Life is good. Things are going to turn out OK.

Unfortunately, things are not so peachy with Mandy at the moment. She's back in hospital for the second time since her transplant because her production of red bloods cells is low. Things will improve, girl. Tough it out and you'll get better. If I can, you can.


Until next time,

Magical Mandy

Since I last placed a post many positive things have happened. Far and away the most wonderful has been that Mandy has received a new heart. As you would already know (being diligent and attentive readers to a man, woman and child) Mandy was my young VAD mate who had also been desperately waiting for a donor heart. I felt vaguely guilty going back to the Ward with my shiny new heart whilst Mandy was still pushing her VAD around. The nurses were calmly assuring her that it would be her turn next. Our nurses are never wrong, to the point of Papal Infallibility, and, sure enough, Mandy was next. She is doing very well and has recovered extremely quickly, as only the young can.

Mandy will be home in time for her twenty-first birthday. I've said before that this cardiac thing has never had any respect for the arbitrary deadlines and expectations I've sought to impose on it. Well, it has seen fit to give Mandy a little break and that couldn't have come to a more deserving recipient. Mandy has been brave and strong in the face of the sort of adversity that is devastating for anyone, let alone a twenty year old girl. She has demonstrated unbelievable chutzpah and ought to be very proud of herself. Well done girl, you've made many people proud to know you.

My own recovery and rehab has progressed very well. My new heart and old body are still getting along famously. Other than a few minor glitches I am fit and strong and resuming normal life with unbridled enthusiasm.

Speaking of unbridled enthusiasm, I have taken on board some wise counsel from wise people about the financial improvidence of investing in a racehorse. It would be a foolish and capricious decision and one that I ought not contemplate as an educated and experienced professional who is paid to give advice to others about business matters. Nonetheless, I still want my horsey. I refuse to listen to the naysayers and my investment will indeed say "neigh". Bottle of Smoke will race and he will win handsomely and often. I have decided that he ought to be a grey. It befits the name and I have always loved backing greys. They are easy to spot at any given point in a race regardless of one's vantage point or state of intoxication.

I am enjoying getting out and about to shops, restaurants and the like. Charlie has decided that he likes restaurants and generally behaves well in them, so we will often go out in complete anonymity, with nobody suspecting that I have recently had a heart transplant and Charlie is autistic. It is a far cry from the self-consciousness I felt when pushing the Impaler around Westfield Chermside. Mind you, I do not blame the public for looking suspiciously at an unshaven man of Middle Eastern appearance walking slowly around a crowded place with a large portable ticking device attached to tubes going into a bulky device hidden under his shirt.

In a few weeks, I will officially return to work on a part time basis. For a lawyer, this means forty billable hours a week. I have missed work a great deal and I am anxious to get back to the salt mines as soon as possible. We lawyers are a sad and lonely breed of workaholics. Before undergoing surgery to implant the Impaler I lamented to Dr Thomson that my only regret was that I had not spent more time at the office. I also asked him whether I'd be able to play the violin after the surgery. Old joke but a good one.

I am now regaining a modicum of independence. Over the weekend, I took Imogen on the train to the Gold Coast to watch our Rabbitohs beat the Titans. My recovery from being critical on life support pales into insignificance when compared to the turnaround that South Sydney have effected this season. Mike Maguire must be cut from the same cloth as my doctors. We had a great afternoon.

On reflection, it is grossly unfair to compare my medical team to a mere football coach. My doctors and nurses are world class professionals whose skills and expertise saved my life and save the lives of other patients week in week out. They work exceedingly long hours and make critical and difficult decisions which have profound consequences for the patients in their care. They get little recognition and struggle to muster sufficient resources to fund their clinical and research work. I am alive today because they are very, very good at what they do. I personally added very little to the project. I did what they told me to do and tried to make things as easy as possible for them to do their job. These guys are the true professionals and members of our society most deserving of commendation and support. They add more real value than lawyers or footballers or Olympic athletes.

A few weeks ago I was privileged to speak at Lynn's Lunch. The function is held annually by the Lynn Wright Foundation to raise funds for Charlie's autism centre, AEIOU. Specifically, the Foundation provides scholarships so that families on low incomes can send their children to AEIOU to experience the life-long benefits of early intervention. Early intervention is therapist and labour intensive so it costs a great deal (around $40,000 a year I believe) to fund an individualized program for each and every child to attend the Centre. Government funding and fees from parents cover some of the cost but there is a huge gap that AEIOU must source from fundraising initiatives. Thanks to the Lynn Wright Foundation, many of the AEIOU children - Charlie's friends - come from families who could not otherwise afford the cost of this wonderful and successful program.

Each year, the lunch attracts notable speakers who provide their time and skills to support the cause. This year my fellow speakers were Alex Perry, Charlotte Dawson and Sofie Formica. All spoke passionately and eloquently about their own lives and why the most important things in life are free. Moreover, the lunch invariably attracts a large crowd of generous supporters who dig deep to ensure that more children are able to accept places at AEIOU. This year was no exception and thanks to their efforts a few more deserving kids will attend the Centre next year.

It's a pity that we now live in a State where our Government believes we cannot afford extravagant things like the National Disability Insurance Scheme or tea and coffee for the doctors and nurses who work vampire hours to perform heart transplants and other such frivolities. I appreciate that the voters did give the Premier a mandate to pursue the conservative ideal of small government and  in a democracy we all must respect the will of the people. However, I wonder whether another old right wing warhorse called Dick Cheney, who has himself recently received a heart transplant, would now approve of the cuts that Campbell's razor gang are inflicting on community services. I feel a little icky about having a common bond with Mr Cheney but the transplant club is a broad church because heart failure does not discriminate on arbitrary grounds such as age, income, race or political persuasion. Nor does autism. Call me simplistic, but I believe that our public health and disability care systems should not either.


Until next time,



___________________________________________________

Giddy Up!

It's now nearly two months since I received my new heart. My recovery has been unbelievably good. I could not have scripted it better.

I have now had eight biopsies to test for rejection. I am pleased to say that my body and new heart are getting along extremely well. Indeed, at least one of the biopsies has resulted in a zero rejection factor, which is quite rare. The heart seems to be proving to be an excellent match.

Somehow, I have thus far managed to avoid any infections or other winter bugs. This is a real achievement given that:

1. I am immuno-suppressed; 
2. At least 94% of Brisbane is sick at the moment; and
3. I share a home with a mobile germ factory called Charlie who has been coughing and spluttering the entire time I have resumed residence with him.

Charlie is four and goes to a centre with other children five days a week so that they can share germs and see who can bring home the nastiest lurgies the most often. He is also autistic, so he engages in unusual repetitive behaviours called stims. His latest stim, and special gift to us for winter, is to lick and suck household objects such as chairs, tables and remote controls. 


Perhaps my patron saint has encased me in a forcefield. I can think of no other explanation for my fortunate ability to stay well under these conditions. Of course, my boasting will now become a jinx and I will, as sure as eggs, fall victim to an infection in the very near future. 


My wounds have healed remarkably well. I attended a review with my plastic surgeon last week. She certified my sternum to be "rock hard" and gave me the clearance to resume driving and other physical activity using my arms. I now have my car back and have been enjoying life as a driver. For its part, the Beemer is delighted to have returned from Bellbowrie and be back amongst its own kind. 


My blood pressure has been a little high, but my doctors have fiddled around with my drug mix and that has brought it under control. I am still taking around 40 drugs a day. One comes only in the form of a cherry flavoured liquid so twice a day I get to revisit my childhood and down a syringe of saccharine sweet goo. It costs around $200 for a tiny bottle so it is litre for litre actually more expensive than Chateau Petrus. Fortunately, the Government subsidies most of that so I get to enjoy Petrus at a mere Krug price. 


Apropos fine wine, one of the unfortunate consequences of life post transplant will be a significant curtailment of my ability to consume ridiculous quantities of alcoholic goodness. No more lengthy beer benders. No more ten bottle dinners. No more collecting wine by the case. God has decided that after many good years of irresponsible debauchery I need to start drinking like a grown up. So be it. I will now drink less frequently but only the best. 


This means that I need a new hobby. My doctors have warned me against making any impetuous or rash decisions whilst taking high doses of steroids. I have been cautioned against buying a new house or a sports car. With this in mind, I have instead decided to buy a racehorse. The doctors didn't say anything specific about avoiding such a purchase so I take this to be an implied consent to proceed. I have always wanted to own a racehorse. Both my parents come from racing families and I have grown up following the occasional successes and frequent failures of the various plucky nags my uncles and cousins have owned and raced over the years. I tentatively raised the subject with Camilla and, to my surprise and delight, she was enthusiastically supportive of the idea. Growing up, Camilla always longed to own a horse, but her mean-spirited parents would not accommodate this. She had visions of a rustic idyll centred on a noble mare wandering the grounds of Toowoomba Grammar, frolicking and gavotting on the lush ovals. We now have similar visions of dressing up in our finest to attend picnic race meetings in Country towns to watch our graceful horse sprint across the post many lengths ahead of the rest of the field. We will then smugly collect our winnings from a smiling bookmaker, pose for the obligatory connections photograph with our beloved horse and retire to the members room for a flute or two of obscenely expensive champagne.


I then told Imogen of our new venture. She was mortified. She said, "Dad, that's a stupid idea. Do you know how much it will cost to own a racehorse? Only rich people who want to be show-offs can do that. We can't afford it."


I was taken aback as I was certain that I could rely on her support for this proposal. Camilla and I said to her, simultaneously, "But it's an investment!" 


She respectfully disagreed and warned that it would bankrupt us. She said that nothing good can come from having two fun parents and Mum needs to be the voice of reason to this folly. I told her that we were doing it anyway because it was my money, my life and she lived under my roof. If it got too costly she would just have to leave Stuartholme and continue her education at Kenmore High.


I then decided that a better strategy would be to catch more flies with honey than vinegar. I told her that Tony Soprano owned a racehorse and she could help us to name it. We could call it something cool like Bottle of Smoke. Bottle of Smoke is a song about a racehorse written by the Pogues. Like her father, Imogen loves the Pogues and the mafia. She weakened a little, but did not break. She said that it was still a dumb idea and we would not be buying a racehorse.


Imogen is not in charge of this family. We are buying a racehorse. End of story. It is a lucid and tax effective investment strategy. A clinical and analytical financial decision. Imogen can just deal with it, with a long face. A few months ago, I was knocking on Heaven's door. I am now healthy and strong. Surely I am allowed one little racehorse!


A few short hours later, at about six forty five last night, my dreams of racehorse ownership were cruelly shattered. We decided that we would take Imogen out to dinner because Charlie was visiting  his grandparents in Toowoomba for a few days. It was cold and wet so Camilla insisted on driving and decided we should take my car. She then proceeded to reverse it out of the garage and into the side of a white van parked across the street. Looks like the money earmarked for Bottle of Smoke will now be spend on panel work for two vehicles. A family cannot function with two fun parents. Camilla will need to resume duties as the grown up single mum with three kids.
   


Until next time,

Bon soir Papa

Paul's a hard act to follow, I think you'll all agree.  I've been writing this post in my head for over a week now, but actually typing it out?  That's the nerve-wracking bit.

I'm going to tell you a bit about my Dad, Bill Dent.  And, as Bill automatically goes with Marion, she'll pop up here and there too.  Probably to check my grammar.  

Dad was born in Mt Isa, a mining town in Central Queensland.  He was the oldest of eight children.  Early on in his childhood, the family moved to the Blue Mountains, outside Sydney.  Dad's neighbours were authors Dymphna Cusack and Florence James, who co-wrote "Come in Spinner".  He also had memories of going to tea with author, artist and general reprobate Norman Lindsay every now and then.  Perhaps this early exposure to literary life fostered his own talent and love for the English language and its literature.  Dad was a renowned public speaker with a beautiful, melodious voice, a wonderful sense of the absurd and impeccable timing.  School Speech Days are hardly known for their entertainment value, but people looked forward to Toowoomba Grammar School's Speech Day each year, knowing that the Headmaster, Bill Dent, would deliver a speech well worth listening to.

Dad's passion was education.  During a speech made after his retirement, as guest speaker at (another) TGS Speech Day, he said that he "feared God, honoured the Queen, mistrusted Governments, and did my best to mould for good the sons of other men".  I am friends with a number of his former pupils, all of whom remember him fondly.  If our good friends the Clark-Dickson boys, David Schwarz and Brett Clark are any indication, Dad's goal was achieved.

But Dad was so much more than a teacher.  He and Mum were dedicated parents.  Having said that, I do remember hearing him give advice to a young couple.  "Never", he said, "let your children outnumber you."  Not advice he followed himself, luckily for me, not to mention my brother Andrew and my sister Min.  Tessa and Billy may not agree, of course!

So many things remind me of Dad.  Thunderstorms - we would stand under our patio and watch the wild Queensland summer storms lash overhead.  I might have been scared, but not with my Dad holding my hand.  Swimming at Kings Beach, Caloundra.  Dad would take me out of my depth and teach me how to catch a wave in to shore, how to recognise a dumper, and how to recover after the inevitable dumping.  I knew he'd keep me safe.  Mum was never quite so sure.  I vividly remember Mum standing on the sand, binoculars screwed into her eyes, desperately counting heads to make sure Dad hadn't absent-mindedly let any of us drown.

I think it's from Dad that I inherited my enjoyment of a good glass of wine.  It's certainly not from my tee-total, alcohol allergic Mum!  When I was about fifteen, Dad asked me to pour him a glass of whisky and water.  I asked him how much whisky I should put in the glass.  About two fingers, he replied.  I poured.  I measured.  I tipped a little out.  I measured again.  I added a touch.  I measured again.  Satisfied, I added the water.  Dad took a sip.  "Skinny little fingers you must have, Dear".

Everything in life happens for a reason, even if you don't know for a long time what that reason is.  When I was fourteen, it was difficult for me to see any reason why my beloved Dad should develop cancer.  I now know the reason, or at least the lesson I took from it, was instrumental in helping my own family get through Paul's illness.  For starters, I understood what Imogen was going through.  I'd been there myself, although at that stage Dad wasn't as ill as Paul would become.  And I have to say, Imogen handled her situation with a lot more dignity and grace than I had handled mine at much the same age.

The second invaluable lesson I learned both then and later, when Dad's cancer struck again, more aggressively, was a lesson in what a marriage should look like.  Mum and Dad were a devoted couple.  It was always hard to imagine one of them without the other.  When Paul was so ill, it was Mum's example that helped me to devote myself to Paul and the children.  I had watched Mum care for Dad for years.  I knew what to do.  I will always be grateful that I had Mum's example to follow.  Mum and I are very alike.  As a teenager I would have punched anyone who said that.  Now, it makes me proud.

My Dad died far too early.  He was only sixty two years old.  I was twenty two.  I had recently met Paul.  As Paul has said in earlier posts, we were very young and we got engaged very quickly.  A good decision.  For starters, it meant that Dad was at our engagement party.  He made a beautiful and funny speech.  He was very fond of Paul and it is a regret to me that they didn't have longer to get to know each other.

Another sorrow is that Dad never knew any of his beautiful grandchildren, all of whom have some of his characteristics, be it his love of literature, sense of humour, love of music, obsession with tidiness (not Imogen!), dislike of maths, interest in people, empathy, and so on and so on.

They say you should marry a man like your father.  On the surface, Paul and Dad are very different.  But underneath, in the things that really matter, they are very alike.  A strong work ethic.  A fierce loyalty to family.  A love of children.  A sense of decency.  A strong faith.  A determination to be good fathers and husbands.  All these things are important.  Dad and Paul share them all.

Oh, and they both have awesome wives.

When I was a little girl, after I'd had my bath and was in my pyjamas, I would run down the hallway to say goodnight to Dad.  And every night, we said the same thing.  Dad would say "Bon nuit, ma petite", and I would reply,  "Bon soir Papa".

Bon Soir Papa.  I love you.

Until next time,

Family Ties

There is no place like home. Believe you me, those simple words are pure poetry.

My body is progressing very well. The biopsy results remain good and the healing continues at a rapid pace. All is on track for a full recovery. These are still early days but things are going well. There remains much ahead and I am resigned to the inevitability of further setbacks and snags. Little man with a big job.

I am starting to realise that I have been cloistered away from the world for a very long time. I am now learning of interesting things that happened in the world during my absence from it. Last week I discovered for the first time that Gaddafi had been killed. Then I learned that the Act of Succession had been amended to allow a first born female heir to ascend to the throne. I missed the entire Rugby World Cup, which was probably a good thing. I started seeing advertisements for a thing called BUPA and had absolutely no idea what it was. Eventually I understood that it was the new MBF.


On Tuesday, we had another busman's holiday to a hospital. This time we opted for a short stay at the Mater Childrens. Charlie had found one of my tablets that I had inadvertently dropped. My hands are very shaky and I have been finding simple motor tasks very difficult. Nonetheless, to Charlie it was a hot pink lolly and Camilla caught him sucking on it. I called Dr Brown and he pointed us in the right direction, calmly and confidently. My cardios are wonderful blokes and always give that little extra. I am very fortunate to be under their management.

Charlie spent a few hours under observation and was discharged. He had not ingested much of the tablet and was not exhibiting any symptoms or distress. It was a lesson learned for me. I have to be obsessive and precise with my medication. Nothing can be left to chance.

My being at home places a burden on Camilla, in addition to the responsibilities that come with Imogen and Charlie. The woman has a mighty cross to bear. She is, was, and always will be, the Rock of Gibraltar. Anyone who has met her will vehemently agree. It does make me feel guilty to be waited on hand and foot. I suppose I need to channel my inner Lebanese man. I've got to get a gold chain for my medic alert medallion so why not go all in?

Now that the maelstrom has lifted, I'd like to express my thanks to family, both mine and Camilla's. We have received immeasurable support from our families during these troubled times. We could not have got to this point without you.

I start, arbitrarily, with my parents, sisters and brother in law. We have always been a close family but if anything this has drawn us closer. My parents have made countless trips from Toowoomba to visit me or assist Camilla at home. Shelley and Casey have done whatever was needed and more. Danielle put her life on hold until the heart came through. It's been a hard slog for them all, but they've weathered the storm. I knew they would. Growing up, my sisters and I watched a bad eighties television program called Family Ties. In many respects, we were spookily similar to the three Keaton children. Yes, I was a lot like Mallory back then!

Camilla's family have been wonderful throughout. Marion too has been a rock. I'll dub her the Rock of Cashel. She'd like that. Andrew and Julie have been magnificent. They don't just say they want to help. They do it, and do it well and frequently. Bill, Tessa and Minnie have showered us with prayers, gifts, cards, flowers, visits and good spirits.

I have a very large extended Lebanese/Irish Catholic family. I have been overwhelmed by the support I have received from them. I come from very fine stock indeed. I have really appreciated the many visits, prayers and calls. It makes me very proud to call these people my family. Special mention must go to my grandparents. I was very close to each of them whilst growing up, and am all the better for it. Nan is an inspiration and I am looking forward to visiting her in Toowoomba for a chat and a cup of strong tea. We both got this far so we both must be doing something right. During my hospital stay I have also thought a lot about my other late grandmother, Eva Betros. My Sitti was a very special woman and I was privileged to deliver the eulogy at her funeral. Sitti showed me how to be strong and patient, with good humour, under difficult circumstances. My grandparents and parents were, and are, people of the highest calibre and well prepared me to be resilient when times got tough. Add Camilla to the equation and there's nothing we cannot endure and withstand.


I've asked Camilla to pen the next post, so that she can tell you a little about her late father, Bill Dent. Bill was a great source of inspiration for Camilla during our ordeals and I was privileged to know him for a brief period before he died. Bill would be very proud of his little girl at the moment. Always was.



Until next time,

Elvis has left the building

Yesterday afternoon, after 260 long and arduous days in confinement, I was finally released from Desolation Row. I am now at home.

I am officially the 329th heart transplant performed in Queensland. Well done to my medical team. You are the best, bar none.

I have no idea who my donor was or the circumstances of death. But I do express my eternal thanks to him (or her) and the family who made the decision to donate the heart under the most difficult of circumstances. You saved my life. You made a profound difference.

I feel a little like Rip van Winkle. The world seems to have changed. My children have grown and matured since I last remember spending significant time with them. Imogen has become a beautiful teenager and Charlie a tall little boy.

It's great to be back in my own house. My life is no longer bed-centric. I can rest, recuperate and rehabilitate on terms closer to my own. I can help Imogen with her homework and read Charlie his bedtime stories. I can enjoy a cup of coffee with Camilla on my own sofa. Simple pleasures indeed.

The family is delighted to have me home. Charlie was surprised to see me when he woke up. He said, "Daddy not in hospital. Daddy is at home." Thanks, AEIOU. Those words were priceless gems.

My movements are still very restricted as a consequence of the pecs flap surgery. You'd be surprised how often you need to use your arms. Actually, you probably wouldn't. Nonetheless, we are getting by and it is only temporary. Another month and I'll be free from the restrictions. It's a small price to pay in the big scheme of things.

On the cardio front everything is going extremely well. The three biopsies I've had have all produced great results. It's early days but all signs are that the new heart is a great match. My body has recovered well and I am on track to return to a normal life.

I need to accept that this will take months of recovery. It must be measured and slow. My body has a massive job to do and I just need to give it time and space to do it.

It is important that I avoid infection as my immune system is now suppressed. This is difficult given that it is now cold and flu season. I must be zealous in washing my hands and avoiding sick people.

We organised a couple of removal trucks to transport a month's worth of my drugs from hospital to home. It is a staggering number of pills that I put into my body every day. This will improve over time.  I will get into a routine and just get on with things.

Life will not be the same. That's part of the deal and non-negotiable. The old road is no longer able to be travelled and I must embrace the new one. It can still be long and fulfilling.



Until next time,

Forbidden fruits

As you will well know from previous posts (and I am sure you have read them all) there are certain dietary restrictions that go with being an organ recipient. And that's what I now am. So, ipso facto they should apply to me. Like any good lawyer, I am looking for loopholes and generous interpretations.

These restrictions exist because my immune system is now greatly suppressed. Forever. So as clever lawyer boy as I would like to be, the rules are the rules.

I cannot have natural oysters. But I love them! Thanks to the crew at Morgans for officially serving me my last six natural Pacific oysters. They were exquisite.

I cannot have uncooked salami. But I love it! Thanks to the guys at Amici Deli for officially serving me my last uncooked salami roll. It was divine. Will be back there soon for a cooked one.

I cannot enjoy soft cheese. But I love it! Thanks to Kate Schwarz for supplying me with my last slab of soft cheese. It was delightful.

I cannot have a rare steak. But I love it lots! Thanks to the Chermside Tavern for my last rare steak. It was very good indeed.

I cannot eat sashimi. But I love it so much! Thanks to Sono for my last sashimi boat. The little guys just sailed into my tummy.

Worst of all, I can no longer partake in the traditional Lebanese delicacy kibbeh nayeh. It's like a steak tartare, only much better. I will not describe it as to do so would make me want to cry. So sincere thanks to Marilyn and Jacki Trad, and their delivery boy Damien Atkinson, for giving me an enormous plate of this unspeakably wonderful food before I got the transplant. It was magnificent.

I really cannot complain. There are so many things I can have. I can have any of the above if properly cooked. I am alive and armed with another shot at life. That's a pretty good deal.


Until next time,

A good heart these days is hard to find

Yes, I know it's a dreadful post title. Revolting song. The sort of thing the anti-Dylan would sing. But who among you will challenge it to be apt?  My mate Nick Ferrett came up with an alternative analogy based on a Madonna song. Enough said.

I blame the title on the drugs I am presently funnelling through my body. I intend to retain one of the major Accountancy firms to calculate the precise number I take every day. This will come down over time but for the moment it's breakfast with a bucket of drugs (literally), followed by a few drugs through the day and then finished with dinner and drugs. I think I did die in theatre. I have been reincarnated as Keith Richards.

I am now back with my good pals in Ward 1B. We are working on a timetable for a release date. All going well, I will be home soon.

The heart is going well. I have now have two biopsies and both indicate that we do not have any realistic rejection issues at this stage.

What's a biopsy, you ask? Good question. A biopsy is a pleasant little procedure whereby a cardiologist will put a tool through your neck, reach into the heart, snip out a few little morsels and retrieve them for examination. For the next few weeks, I have them weekly. Like most things medical, they are nowhere near as gruesome as they sound. Quite the opposite to practising law, where a simple document can be made horrendously complex with little effort.

I must say that I got a major thrill watching my new heart beating strongly and independently on the monitor in theatre. It was an amazing thing to experience.

I am now back into rehab. My strength is returning quickly and each day I can do more. Lisa remains a harsh taskmaster. This is God's punishment for every glass of wine I have ever drunk.

Moreover, I am now almost completely free from all attachments. It's now just one little drain. This would be wonderful if I could use my arms. For the next few weeks, I must keep the arms immobile. I can still eat, type and brush my teeth. I just cannot put any weight through the arms. Yes, it is as difficult as you expect. This is God's punishment for every glass of beer I have ever drunk.

You should be thankful I am permitted to type. I was not going to resort to channelling Christy Brown to keep you updated.

I caught up with Noel yesterday. He is doing amazingly well. If I am doing this well in a month I shall be very pleased indeed.

More good news lies in the fact that Mandy has now gone home with her VAD to wait for a heart. This is a much better option than hospital for anyone, let alone a twenty year old. You'll get there, girl. You will.

One of the many drugs I am taking is a thing called Prednisone. It's a steroid and I am putting it down in massive doses. This, for me, can be best explained in the words of Kramer. "I'm on no sleep, Jerry. No sleep."

 I get around four hours of sleep a night. I suppose that's a lawyer's sleep in.


Until next time,

Delusions and Nightmares

My elation in getting a new heart was tempered by the fact that I would in fact require the pectoral surgery. This was completely unexpected as Pinochet had apparently healed well. Not well enough, regrettably. So much for Greg Inglis and his wobbly field goal.

The pecs surgery was due on the following Sunday, 6 May 2012. I still could not stand. I could barely speak. I was devastated. I had it in my head, mistakenly, that the pecs surgery would be in two parts. Moreover, I decided that I was going to die in theatre.

Heavy anaesthetic drugs do strange things to strange people. They give me delusions. Horrible, animated delusions. Inanimate objects will form into monstrosities. I would close my eyes over one hundred  times over the course of that Sunday night.  Each time, I saw myself dead on the operating table.

It was lucid. I could not separate nightmare from reality. I knew I was being irrational. It made little difference. I was unsure where I was.

Camilla left at eleven to get some sleep. She promised that she would come back to the hospital if I needed her. By 2.30am I did. However, the ICU nurse told me to harden up and not bother her.

At 4.30am I asked for her again. Again the nurse refused. I explained my visions of death on the operating table. She said that it was minor surgery and I was being silly.

I asked for Camilla again at 5.45am. The nurse called her for me. I had not slept a wink.

I was distraught. I explained my understanding of the two bouts of surgery. Camilla gently told me that I didn't need to sleep that night and would only undergo one round of pecs surgery.

We waited out the pecs surgery, calmly and quietly. I was then gently put to sleep again.


Until next time,

Lady and I look out tonight from Desolation Row

I woke up slowly in ICU. For a while, I remained on breathing support. It took ages for the doctors to allow me to breath real air. It was all I wanted to do but they denied me this indulgence for an eternity.

The Impaler was no more. I knew not where it went nor cared how it may have gotten there. I felt far from free. I was attached to a multiple of drains and machines. I felt more helpless and restricted than I had for many months previous. The dream of being a free man remained just that.

I was tired. Wasted in fact. This hardly seemed the defining moment it had promised to be.

Nonetheless, I had a new heart inside me. One that Dr Thomson described as a very good match. This was enough. All else would pass. The new heart would last.

Camilla was with me. Probably for days. I could not fathom the passage of time.

I do recall Camilla telling me we'd made it. I told her I loved her. We looked out over Desolation Row. I can recall little else.



Until next time,

Once more into the fray

Well, the night I began preparing for the TOE, I got the hint of the miracle I had desperately sought. I cannot reveal the date for reasons of confidentiality.

That night, Doctors Thomson and Javorksy entered my room. It was around 8.30am and deadly quiet. They told me that they may have an offer of a heart for me. It was far from certain, but the first real possibility I had had.

I called Bishop Morris and he came to the hospital. As did Camilla and my parents. We prayed like we were possessed. Bishop Morris had written a prayer for the occasion. It was beautiful. It sought guidance of the medical team and assistance for the donor family making the agonising decision before them.

By around 11.00am, we received confirmation that the donor was likely to proceed. It was still far from certain, but I was prepared for surgery.

I was washed and shaved and taken to theatre to wait. I waited for a few hours whilst the theatre team itself awaited the final word. I was surprisingly relaxed and calm. I did not know why.

At around 2.00am,  Doctor Thomson said that the offer was proceeding.

So with apologies to King Henry V at Agincourt, and the film The Grey, it was:

Once more into the fray, my friends,
Into the only good fight we will ever know,
Live or Die Today,
Live or Die Today.

I cannot recall being anaesthetised, but he was an incredibly nice chap who did it. I went to sleep. Would this be the final parting of the ways between me and my feeble old heart? I had heard stories of people who had awoken with their VADs, and poor hearts, due to the transplant being aborted at a late stage. I decided to place my faith in God and Doctor Thomson.


Until next time,

Life gets somewhat toey

Recently, Doctors Thomson and Javorsky delivered me some potentially very bad news.

I had, at Dr Javorky's request, underwent a routine ecco-cardiogram. This is a scan whereby an ultrasound is taken of the heart, to see how it is being supported by the VAD. It is very much a routine scan, with no insidious purpose underlying the procedure.

The results shocked me. Inside the heart was an area of stuff. The doctors could not definitively say what this stuff was. It was inside the heart behind the canula that went into the left ventricle.

The first possibility was the worst. The stuff could be a blood clot. If so, it could break away and make its way to the brain. This could cause a stroke or brain damage.

The second possibility was better, but not much so. The stuff could be an infection. If so, it could infect the bloodstream and could serious damage. I had dealt with a VAD infection before and it very nearly killed me.

The third possibility was the best. The stuff could be residual muscle tissue, left over from the insertion of the VAD canula. If so, it was probably benign.

Doctor Brown, God love him, had a recollection that he had seen the stuff on an ecco-cardiogram some months previous. He suspected it to be benign residual muscle tissue. He asked another member of the team, Doctor Sam Ballinder, to review the previous scans.

Nonetheless, it was not a matter to be left to chance. The medicos decided I needed to undergo a TOE. This is a procedure whereby a camera is inserted down the throat into the stomach, in order to obtain a better view of the heart, and the stuff. I have had a TOE before and it was far from pleasant. But I had no option and duly signed the consent form for the TOE.

The TOE was scheduled for the following morning and I began the obligatory fast. However, I was far from sanguine. Things were getting ugly. Life on a VAD was proving to be more than precarious. I needed a little miracle. No, a big one. Lazarus style. I prayed for help. I was desperate.


Until next time,

Deserving of four michelin stars

Yesterday, Queensland chef Matt Golinski was released from the Royal Brisbane Hospital.

For the benefit of interstate and international readers, Golinski suffered horrific burns in a house fire on boxing day last year that claimed the lives of his wife and three young daughters. After admission to hospital, he was put into an induced coma for around two months. This is about the same length of time I was under, so I have some understanding of the rehabilitative work that Matt has put in, and will continue to put in, to rebuild his body from its post-coma state.

Matt has worked exceedingly hard to rebuild his shattered body and life. The fact that he is now well enough to be discharged is the ultimate testament to the man's determination and strength.

Like me, Matt turned 40 in hospital a few weeks ago. But it's there that the parallels end. I will never understand the horrific physical pain and suffering that this man endured, nor the devastating emotional pain of having to recover from a tragedy that has cruelly taken my family from me. Matt Golinski is a remarkable man. A genuine hero in a world that creates all too many for reasons all too spurious. I tip me hat to this brave and truly inspirational bloke. His makes my own struggle appear somewhat modest.



Until next time,


 

ANZAC Week on Desolation Row

This week, Australia and New Zealand celebrated ANZAC Day. For the benefit of foreign readers, ANZAC Day is a commemoration of soldiers who have served our nations in conflict, and in particular suffered mortal or other injury. It originated as a memorial for soldiers who served in the First World War in Turkey and Northern France but now extends more generally to active service in all conflicts.

On Tuesday, Noel was discharged from hospital. The Midnight Cowboy packed his belongings and ambled off into the sunset. He was elated and left us feeling strong and fit. He was well ready to move on from hospital life and had endured a long and difficult wait on the transplant list. All up he had been in hospital for nearly six months. He had experienced the supreme disappointment of three close calls for organs. Two were hearts that were not the right size for him and he was, at the time, not physically well enough to undergo transplant surgery for the third. Close calls like this are not uncommon on the transplant list and fortunately I am yet to experience the tumultuous ecstasy and agony of such an event. Noel put in the hard yards and well deserved the relatively smooth run he was blessed with when the right heart finally became available for him. I will miss his presence on the ward and our days are much quieter without him. The need for a heart transplant has its genesis in many and diverse causes and it is an affliction that will bring together a random group of patients from all walks of life. In many respects, I have had nothing at all in common with any of Noel, Catherine and Mandy, other than our VADs and shared need for a heart transplant. We have all dealt with the situation in our own way. So far as the hospital is concerned, there can be no one-size-fits-all program for the care and management of a VAD/transplant patient. I wish Noel well and look forward to catching up with him when I too have become a former occupant of this place.

Wednesday was ANZAC day and a public holiday. I left the Hospital with ambitious plans. Camilla and I would take the children for a Barbecue in a large and popular water park, to join the Bellbowries and some friends for the afternoon. It was always going to be a challenge for our family to undertake such an expedition with a man and his VAD and an autistic boy who, given previous history, would be likely to be traumatised at the thought of submersion in water. Our more capable companions would be bringing all the gear and food and Julie promised to help with Charlie. We decided that nothing ventured would be nothing gained so it was off to the water park we went, bringing only ourselves, our VADs and two bottles of decent red from the cellar. One was a 2002 Gramps Barossa Shiraz; the other a 2006 Bungawarra Granite Belt Cabernet.

The afternoon was difficult for us. Then again, most things that are easily achieved for a "normal" family are difficult for us at present. The park was ridiculously crowded and the terrain unsuited to pushing a VAD. Charlie freaked when he saw children paddling in the shallow pools and wanted to be as far from the water as possible. Rather than entertain the idea of swings or rides, he just wanted to visit the public toilets, which had long queues of impatient park people. Imogen just wanted to read a book. I felt horrendously disabled and could contribute nothing of practical use to the proceedings. The barbecues were in short supply and frustratingly tepid.  It took forever to render meat dry and grey. It should have been a terrible  afternoon. But it wasn't. Not by any means. Julie took Charlie by the hand and led him around the water park to find things he enjoyed. He found playground equipment he liked. Even a few toilets. Andrew cooked the meat and Erich sprinkled it with lovely South African allspice. Conversation flowed easily. Imogen ditched the book and started talking to the other girls. The wine was excellent.

It's safe and easy to opt out of living because it is just too difficult with a VAD and a child with autism. Things that are easy for most families are difficult and frustrating for us. Nonetheless, the VAD is temporary and life cannot come to a complete halt. The show must go on.

Yesterday, my medical team decided to trial another painkiller regime. I had pushed them to indulge me this little experiment, because I was anxious to get this right before the transplant surgery. We decided to revert to a hit of good old fashioned morphine - tried and tested and excellent for heavy duty pain relief. We added a dose of stematil to mitigate the vertigo and a dose of ondanzitron for nausea.

The result was promising. I got a little vertigo, but nothing like the spinning room sensation I had experienced on other painkillers. I had no nausea. I could easily stand and even mange 15 minutes on the treadmill. I vomited once, copiously and violently, after the second dose. Far from ideal, but manageable. My pharmacist hopes that the vomiting can be managed with maxillon or perhaps my old buddy Dom Perignon. All in all, we now have something we can work with.

Today, Camilla and I got to the movies. This was the first time we had attempted the movies since my confinement. Again, it was ambitious and easily could have been too difficult with a VAD. Again, it proved a very worthwhile experience. We saw Salmon Fishing in the Yemen, a film adapted from a novel written by one of my favourite writers, Paul Torday. It was very good and we both thoroughly enjoyed it. It was easy for us to find good seats, as it was a quiet morning session. The Impaler ticked  and whirred loudly throughout, but we had the crowd behind us and cared little whether the noise may have bothered a few people we didn't know and would never see again.

I am slowly coming to the realisation that even now life is for living and changed circumstances just mean that we carry on a little differently than we did before, or tackle things a little differently to everyone else. There is much merit in just getting on with life until the donor organ arrives. We know not the hour, nor the day. But in the meantime, life is for living.


Until next time,

A not so motley crew

Insolvency practitioners, both lawyers and accountants, are sometimes compared to vultures or pirates. I myself prefer pirates. Vultures are ugly, feed off carrion and smell bad. Pirates on the other hand are, well, pirates. They are exotic and brave and speak with a colourful lexicon. What is more fun late at a pub when conversing with your workmates? Talking like a pirate or screeching like a vulture?

So pirate is it. When I get my transplant and sufficiently recover I am going to go back to life as a professional pirate. Back to plundering booty from corporate galleons who have struck misfortune along the Spanish main.

It is axiomatic that a pirate needs a crew and my crew be a fine one indeed.

My first mate is a lad called Sammy. In his younger days, he was a National level rower, or oarsman if you will. Sammy is tall, fair, muscular and good looking. A fine specimen of manhood. Moreover he is a hell of a good young lawyer. He knows the law well, has an ability to formulate and implement tactics, speaks and writes well and is a good advocate in Court when needed. Sammy has been carrying my practice since I've been out of action and doing a sterling job in all respects. It is comforting to know that Sammy is sailing the ship until my sealegs are ready to board again. Well done, mate. Well done indeed.

The young buccaneers who sail with us are Matt and Anna. They are smart, confident young lawyers (or trainee lawyer in Anna's case) with stratospheric academic results and bucketloads of enthusiasm and drive. Matt thinks he's a lady's man, despite the orange hair. Anna has a taste for fine food and wine far beyond the salary I pay her. Other lawyers in the firm are keeping Matt and Anna busy until I get back on deck. Thanks for that, guys. Don't hesitate to drag out the cat-o-nine-tails if they give you any trouble.

The glue that binds our crew together is our secretary, Terrissa. She's a lovely young lass who is adept at keeping order and egos in check. Terrissa is quick and efficient. She types like a machine but has a kind heart and pleasant manner. Over my career, I have had three excellent long term secretaries and all have assisted me to be a better lawyer.

When I get back onto the ship I will sport some mean pirate scars. My current crop of scars are jagged, discoloured and lumpy.  After transplant surgery, these scars will have even bigger, uglier scars on top of them, or through them. The final result will be a patchwork of real man's scars. True battle scars that tell stories of knifefights and brawls in salty sailor's taverns. Scars that inspire rum-soaked yarns and shanties. I'm tempted to think that this whole ordeal will be worth it for the scars.

Sammy has a few scars of his own. He was involved in a cycling accident a couple of years ago and broke his shoulder. This necessitated surgery and rehab. I think he took a total of ten hours off work.

Anna now has a little scar because she had her appendix out last week. Matt has no scars at all so a few of the boys from work are prepared to help me out with that. Jon Erbacher and Liam Fairhall have agreed to pin him down so that Sammy can create a few choice life tags on his pasty white skin. Alex de Luca has agreed to watch and maybe taunt him a little. de Luca likes to watch.


Until next time, me hearties,

A busman's holiday

All is well up here. My body is in good shape and my doctors have discontinued all IV antibiotics.

I managed to get home both days over the weekend. Saturday was a little stressful. When I arrived home for lunch, Charlie was gavotting about in his usual exuberant way. Then, after a short while he started whining. The whining turned to wailing as he became doubled over with pain.

For the first time in his life, Charlie was able to communicate his concerns with words. He told us he had a sore tummy. Camilla asked him where it hurt and he pointed to the leftt side of the abdomen. Thankfully, this was not the appendix side.

Camilla and my mother both diagnosed colic and agreed that it should pass with time. I was stunned. They rarely reached any form of consensus about these things. As the third member of the judiciary, I concurred that the diagnosis must be correct, and my father did so as well. Concurred in the sense of made no objection. Who were we to blow against the wind?

I tentatively suggested that they give beer to horses when they have colic, but nobody was prepared to trial this treatment so I shut up and left it to the experts.

Charlie did not improve. Three hours passed and he remained distressed and doubled over with pain. He could not walk. The committee agreed that it was now time to take him to the Accident and Emergency Department of our local hospital, the Wesley. We decided that Camilla, my father and I all ought to go. If it proved to be serious, Camilla could then take me back to Desolation Row and deal with whatever needed her attention.

Charlie decided that he would like to go "for a drive" with my father and so Camilla and I travelled to the Wesley separately in our car. I was a little uneasy about going back there. Seven and a half months earlier, my father had taken me there in the middle of the day because my pneumonia had worsened and I was short of breath. That night, Doctors Woodrow and Scalia diagnosed my heart failure and told me I would have had days to live had I not checked into hospital. I have not slept in my own bed since.

Whilst a little uneasy about this, my primary focus was on Charlie. He has always been terrified of doctors. Hence, we told had him that he was going merely for a drive. Admission to hospital would be a torturous experience for an autistic child. Camilla and I comforted ourselves with the notion that he would only be admitted if there was a compelling reason to do so.

Dad got Charlie ought of his car. Charlie was a little better but still walked stooped over. We took him inside and Camilla explained to him that he was going to see a doctor and what the doctor would do. Charlie understood and asked questions. He was calm.

We then saw the doctor on duty, Jenny Bowles. I remembered Jenny from an admission a couple of years ago when I had slipped in the street, fallen backwards and broke both elbows as I landed on  open palms to back my fall. I must quickly add that it was midday and I was completely sober. Jenny recognised me and we explained the situation with Charlie. She had a niece with autism so she knew the deal.

Jenny told Charlie that she was going to listen to his tummy and look in his ears and mouth. Charlie said, no eyes and Jenny assured him that she did not need to shine a light into his eyes. She then pulled out her stethoscope and listened to Charlie's tummy. She looked into his ears and mouth and watched him walk. He was still somewhat crouched, but walking freely. Moreover, he was enjoying the whole experience. This was another measure of the progress he has made.

Jenny decided that Charlie indeed had colic. She gave him a balloon. Charlie asked to go to the toilet and my father took him into the cubicle. He came out cheerfully and announced he had done a poo. As Camilla punched in her PIN number to pay for the consultation, he was miraculously cured.

So we packed up our VADs and our healthy, vibrant boy and the whole entourage left the Wesley and headed home. We we very relieved that Charlie was well. It had been a busman's holiday for me but really nothing to complain about.


Until next time,

A turbulent priest

Things continue to go well. At the moment, my only real concern is the occasional flourish of stigmata from the VAD wounds. Pinochet remains a broken, bitter man in exile, living on memories. I think he is somewhere in Teddington. I am exercising well and tweaking my diet to maintain the best condition for surgery. Now would be a very good time to receive the call.

Noel is now free from all drains and attachments and healing fast. He is scheduled to be discharged on Tuesday and everything he does is marked with unbridled enthusiasm. He is high as a high school student mucking up in the last week of school. He goes AWOL for hours on end wandering the hospital, enjoying his freedom. Once night the nurses found him asleep in a chair down in outpatients. He refuses his physio sessions and won't study his post-transplant tablet regime for the discharge exam. We all know Noel well and nobody is too concerned. He'll never wander too far and will eventually do his study. He likes to bend the boundaries but is smart enough not to jeopardise his own well being.

So very soon, Voight and Hoffman will cease their hospital partnership. The Midnight Cowboy will return to Wynnum Bay and Ratso will remain in the big house. I will continue to keep up contact with Noel.  He's a good bloke and we will all miss him up here. At some point this year, he is likely to grace our living rooms when the Sixty Minutes story airs.

Noel is looking to get himself a new car once he gets home. He has decided on a Hilux but perhaps he could look a little further afield and see if Jon Voight's Le Baron is still on the market. If he could secure that vehicle it would make for a great and very lucrative story.

Mandy is doing well. She is now able to get in and out of bed unaided and is pushing her VAD around the hospital corridors. It took me until late November or early December to do these things, but this is not a fair comparison. I was very sick and she is harnessing the amazing regenerative powers of youth. Mandy should heal quickly and well and she deserves that.

Mandy is aiming to spend most of her time on the waiting list at home. Her mother is a nurse and it looks like home will be a practical alternative for her circumstances. I really hope she can do this. Hospitals are inherently depressing places, filled with the old and infirm (with a few fabulously good looking middle aged lawyers here and there to break the monotony). They are not conducive to being young and free.

Over the course of my confinement, I have had a few visits from the former Bishop of Toowoomba, Bishop Bill Morris. My first memories of Bishop Morris date to my long lost adolescence. At the time, he was a young and vibrant new Bishop and the diocese quickly warmed to his energy and compassion. He became much loved and respected by his priests and parishioners with very good reason. He was an excellent pastoral Bishop and a kind and gentle man.

In 2006, Bishop Morris wrote an Advent letter to his parishioners in which he had the audacity to suggest, amongst other things, that the Church ought to consider the ordination of women and married priests to meet the chronic shortages in dioceses such as his own. The Bishop merely suggested that it be a subject for debate within the Church. Many Catholics agree with this, whether progressive or otherwise. I see no issue whatsoever in the implementation of such reform. Indeed, it is a blight on the Church that it wasn't done a long time ago.

Some parishioners did not agree with Bishop Morris' views and reported him to the Doctrine for the Congregation of the Faith in Rome. This resulted in Pope Benedict XVI deciding that someone needed to rid him of this turbulent priest and Bishop Morris was asked to resign. He did.

Rome's action saw the events in faraway Toowoomba makes headlines around the world. Local priests and parishioners were outraged and staged protests. Many of them, such as my parents, were conservative and quiet people who had never previously participated in an organised protest about anything.

Several prominent Catholic scholars believe that Rome acted in breach of both canon and civil law, because Bishop Morris had been denied procedural fairness. Among them are Father Frank Brennan, a  Jesuit priest and respected lawyer whose father sat as Chief Justice on the bench of the High Court of Australia. Another is Bill Carter, a retired judge of the Queensland Supreme Court.

True to character, Bishop Morris appears neither bitter nor regretful. He just goes about his business of being a wonderful and kind priest. He is one of the few men I truly admire and I am proud to welcome him into my hospital room. He is a man of God and a man of the people. I sleep well knowing that he is praying for me. The Church would be much stronger and more relevant to the modern world if it were able to embrace and promote the views and works of progressive and good men such as Bishop Morris. We seem to have lost more than a little ground since the days of Pope John XXIII.


Until next time,

Rage, rage against the dying of the light

Many people have asked me what it was like to experience a long term coma. A good question indeed and one I shall attempt as best I can to answer.

I now know that Camilla, my parents and family spent eight tortured weeks conducting a horrific bedside vigil desperately encouraging a very sick body to rage against the dying of the light. I, however, was elsewhere. My recollection of the experience is understandably imperfect but has improved significantly over time.

In the coma, I constructed a disturbed alternative reality - a vivid and emotive dreamscape that had some elements of reality and many of my own creation. I am told this is common.


I started in a hospital room, but a different room to the one I was actually in. Camilla, Dr Thomson and my parents were all present at various times. There was a heavy curtain surrounding me, but I could hear conversations between them conducted outside the curtain. The conversations were supposed to be secret but I could hear them clearly. I recall Dr Thomson telling my parents that I had died and this caused them to fall apart with grief. They then decided to steal Camilla's mother's car from the parking station. Camilla and her mother were incensed and got the police involved.


As it turned out I had not died and was released from hospital. There was no VAD and no illness. I was completely recovered in all respects. My sister, Shelley, then had twins. 


Camilla and I were then invited to a large party at Dr Thomson's house. He lived in Toowoomba, in a big house near East Creek. Camilla and Mrs Thomson were now good friends. For some reason, I was not allowed to drink alcohol at the party, but everyone else was. They were drinking excellent wine from Dr Thomson's cellar, all in moderation in a very civilised and urbane manner. My temperance was not a concern for me, as I was greatly enjoying the company of the Thomsons and their friends.


A few days after the party, Camilla and I visited the Thomsons and we thanked them for their hospitality. They said that we were friends and that was what friends did.


I then played a game of golf on a country golf course with some mates. We abandoned the golf game and decided to started drinking cheap nasty spirits. We got drunk and rowdy and found what we believed to be an abandoned warehouse next to the golf course. I found a darkened room in the warehouse and it contained a bed. I then damaged something in the room. I cannot recall what it was. It may have been a window. I crashed on the bed and fell into a deep drunken slumber.

I was awoken by a security guard brandishing a flashlight. He said that I had been trespassing and had damaged the property of the company he worked for. It was a large American company and corporate policy was to sue to the full extent of the law, however trivial the incident. 


I then did a dumb thing, because I was scared. I confessed that I had trespassed and damaged company property. He completed an incident report and I signed it. He then left.


I immediately realised that this was a stupid, stupid thing to have done. Had I shut my mouth, the company had no case against me. My own foolish confession had given them all the evidence they needed to put me in jail. So much for years of training. I was just an idiot.


I then decided that the only thing to do was run. To evade service. They could not prosecute me if they could not serve me.


Our family then began life on the run, moving steadily North. We spent a few days at different locations. We stopped at a resort near Mackay where I had conducted a mediation years before. It was safe and one night we were there Bob Dylan's son and his band put on a show in the lounge. 


But the company process servers got word where we were. Someone tipped us off and we kept moving North. We stayed at a farm outside Townsville owned by some friends. They were convening a camp for underprivileged children so we helped out with that. It was a happy few days but we knew the company process servers would find us. Our only choice was to keep going North to Papua New Guinea. We organised a small plane and our friends saw us off at the local airport.


I then can recall being back in a hospital bed surrounded by drapes. I was screaming like a banshee and could not get out of bed. I would see inanimate objects in the room become animated as monsters. The nurses yelled at me to control myself.

That's all I can really remember. There were no bright lights that I walked towards. Just lots of fright and running from trouble.

Waking up was a gradual process. There was no moment of my eyes suddenly opening and my consciousness returning to the real world. It happened slowly over a few days.

I then had great difficulty distinguishing what I had dreamed and what had actually happened. I asked my sister how the twins were going.

I guess my dream sequence has meaning to some extent and I am sure that anyone who would be interested enough to do so, from an eminent psychiatrist to a pop psychologist, would be able to distill the events into a meaningful response to recent events. I was on enough sedatives to put down a horse and I am told that this of itself is a factor which promotes distressing dreams.

I cannot help but believe that some things from the outside world permeated through to my subconscious. They were not actual events as such, but more impressions and silhouettes of reality, which were incorporated into my new perceived reality.

So that, for what it is worth, was what I saw when addled with drugs and close to death.  Somehow I managed to summon sufficient rage against the dying of the light. The lion's share of the credit, of course, must go to the many doctors whose skills and expertise got me through these darkest of days. I like to think that they too were able to invoke some degree of rage in successfully fighting the good fight.



Until next time,

Days of wine and roses

The last few days have been very positive. Things have been pretty good health wise, so there have been some opportunities to get out a little and break the soul-destroying tedium of Hospitalworld.

On Monday, I received a visit from my maternal grandmother. Nan will turn 96 next month, but she is still  fiercely independent. She lives at home and cooks for herself. She played tennis into her eighties. Nan could not entertain the thought of a nursing home. She lives life on her terms. I offered to arrange her a wheelchair to escort her from car to room and she would not have a bar of it. She would walk, slowly and proudly, all the way, by herself.

Nan is a lovely, gentle lady and I was very pleased that she was able to travel from Toowoomba to visit. My uncle Jim and auntie Annette were taking her for a short vacation to the Sunshine Coast, so they were able to stop by the hospital on the way through. It was good to see them. For a time, it looked like Nan would outlive me. Even when I get the transplant, it will be some time before I get to Toowoomba. For many reasons, it was a welcome and timely visit.

Yesterday, I got out for a pub lunch with my best mate, Rhino. It's been and long time since we've enjoyed a beer together and I daresay the only time we've only consumed one each. Rhino was able to make it to Bluesfest to see the Pogues, taking his older kids to experience some classic old people music. They got a good position close to the stage and were near enough for Shane MacGowan to spill a beer on them. Shane was, of course, very drunk but on song. Whilst I am disappointed that I could not get there, I was much pleased that Rhino could. His dear mother took a bad fall recently and it was difficult for him to get away. Rhino has been a terrific mate during this saga. We'll definitely get to Bluesfest next year.

Having a little lunch session at the pub should have been the prelude to a quiet relaxed afternoon, but my physiotherapist had other, more sinister, ideas. Lisa politely suggested a session of hill walking, just a little further and steeper than we had been doing previously. Lisa knows I cannot say no to her and she ruthlessly and mercilessly exploits this weakness for her own sadistic pleasure. Mind you, I cannot complain. She is invariably a pleasure to work with and has produced results.

Today we finished my medical stuff early and my lovely nurse Bridget suggested that Camilla and I check out Redcliffe or Sandgate for a seaside lunch. Bridget is full of good ideas and this was a particularly fine one. I had not seen the ocean for many months and we decided that a salty sea breeze was the perfect accompaniment to a decent meal. These areas were virtually unknown to us and we had never really given them much thought.

We chose to dine at Morgans, a fabulous purveyor of seafood overlooking the marina. We sat on the deck, breathed in the salt air and worked our way through an enormous platter of the freshest seafood, including Pacific oysters, Moreton Bay bugs, tiger prawns and spanner crab. It was divine. We then took a slow drive along the waterfront with the windows down. Then reluctantly it was back to the stark reality of Hospitalworld.

I apologise for being nauseatingly positive today. This Polyanna manner is completely out of character and I will make sure I take a strong dose of cynical pills and resume normal programming next post.


Until next time,

Exchanging a walk on part in the war for the lead role in a cage

Whilst I am desperately missing my family, I am also desperately missing my work.

Practising as a litigation lawyer is our version of macho. It's intense, combative and tactical. Your opposing lawyers are very much your opponents and each side strives to outwit, outmanoeuvre and outlast the other. Alliances are formed and broken. Compliant witnesses turn hostile. The rules of the game change as new laws are made and new precedents are set. Hearings are listed before good judges and bad judges. The enemy briefs good barristers and sometimes bad barristers. Important victories are won and lost over pleadings and disclosure of documents. Temporary injunctions are sought and either obtained or repelled. Clients run out of stamina and money. It's heady stuff. Litigation is war. It's both demanding and exhilarating.

Adding an insolvency angle to my practice creates a challenging new dimension to the dynamic. For each new file there will be, generally speaking, a new problem containing a limited amount of wealth and numerous competing stakeholders all of whom want to maximise their share of it. There are secured creditors and unsecured creditors. Receivers and liquidators. Landlords, suppliers and employees. On every given matter, I will be asked to act for one of these players with the role of advising how to advance his, her or its interests in the game.

Like most litigators, I have always worked long and hard. I have never had time for hobbies or sport. Spending time with family and spending time at work will completely consume the waking hours. There is little time for much else.

I've played the game for a while now, and like most things you enjoy it more once you know what you are doing. Golf is more fun when you shoot in the low eighties, rather than trying to scrape below a hundred.

I  have never regretted my chosen career. The majority of my friends are lawyers, many of them litigators. It plays a large part in defining who I am. It earns me a decent living and enables my family to live in a nice home in a nice suburb. I drive a nice car, as does my wife, and my daughter attends a nice school. My son attends a very nice autism centre and is making more than nice progress. We holiday in nice places, eat nice food in nice restaurants and drink nice wine.

We are never going to be fabulously wealthy and our money is earned through working hard and smart. Yet we will never be destitute and our children will never be denied opportunities. Every year I pay enough tax to support a largish mini-bus load of pensioners. We donate to charities.

All in all, I have led a good, busy and productive life, centred around family and work, as an independent and intelligent man.

My world was completely demolished the day I was admitted to hospital. For over seven months now, I have been institutionalised. There is no privacy, no independence and no dignity. The day revolves around medication, dressings, consultations with doctors, observations, scans and physiotherapy. I eat slop brought around on a trolley. I have long stretches of leisure time. I have no staff to manage and no clients to advise. I inhabit a small room where life is centred on a bed. I call for assistance with basic tasks. It is a major expedition to mobilise anywhere.

Somehow, I have kept patient and sane. This is, I believe, because I have always maintained a tenuous grip on the old world. I see my wife every day and we try to have lunch together every day. I see my children at home every weekend. I maintain contact with work to provide advice and assistance. I interact with friends and extended family. I read online newspapers every day and watch documentaries and current affairs programs.

In the movies, prisoners say that you only serve two days of your sentence - the day you go in and the day you get out. This is a romantic notion, but not an accurate one. I have felt every one of 170 odd conscious days of my confinement. Periodically throughout each day I have counted the remaining hours until I hope to fall asleep.

My days in hospital will come to an end, but there is no way of knowing when. That is frustrating. It precludes any planning. The return to the world remains a vague and nebulous concept.

In the interim, I must simply channel my inner Rick Parfitt and maintain the Status Quo. Each day endured is a day closer to transplant and a day closer to discharge.



Until next time,

Still crazy after all these years

On 21 February 2012, after four and a half long and arduous months in hospital, my battered body turned forty. It was a limp-over-the-line effort, but we got there somehow.

The day started badly. I was not in the best frame of mind as I had hoped to have had the transplant by this date. Logic told me that this thing does not respect my deadlines but sentiment had been fooling me into thinking that there would be beautiful symmetry in receiving the ultimate gift on a milestone birthday.

I had made plans to have dinner with my good friends, David and Kate Schwarz, at a fine eatery in the City called Urbane. Then, Camilla and I would spend the night at a posh hotel. Alas, the Impaler had other ideas and I began the morning with a flourish of stigmata from the VAD wounds. It gushed all morning.

Camilla and my parents visited and made a gallant effort to cheer me up. The nurses did a whip around, bought me a cake and sang Happy Birthday.  But I was far from festive. Camilla called Kate to postpone the dinner and she cancelled the hotel booking.

Then the Impaler decided to give me a little break. The bleeding stopped. Dr Thomson gave us his mandate to venture out to dinner, so Camilla called Kate with the delightful news that dinner was back on.

By mid-afternoon, Rhino had arrived for a visit so I invited him to dinner. He obtained a leave pass from Helen and Thunderbirds were go.

Dinner was wonderful. We savoured a seven course degustation feast. We ate crayfish, wagyu beef and lamb. We drank some great wine including a punchy Blanc de Noir Champagne and a sublime Chateau d'Yeum generously donated by another friend.

For a few hours, life was good. I wasn't the guy in hospital waiting for a transplant. I was me. Thanks for the evening, guys. It was the best fortieth one could have!

The only downside was that I got to enjoy it with a select few. When I get better, I am going to have history's biggest 41st. It will be the party of all parties. Here's what I have in mind.

I'm going to invite all of my extended family. This thing has shown me that family is everything. I am privileged indeed to be part of a great clan.

I'm going to invite my friends. Many of my mates have stood tall and been counted when times have gotten tough. Mates have brought me meals, stopped in to chat, helped Camilla at home and given me books and dvds. Emma even arranged a surprise visit from Melbourne. Thank you one and all.

I'm going to invite my workmates. These guys have been tremendously supportive, as I have demonstrated in previous posts. Work mates indeed.

I'm going to invite all of my doctors, nurses and therapists. I know we are going to get this thing over the line together, one day. And I've heard that nobody parties like the medicos.

The cuisine will be Lebanese-Irish to reflect my ancestry. Guinness pie and tabbouleh. Kibbeh and stout. I'll invite my favourite chef, Anthony Bourdain, to handle the catering. Tony leads my ideal life in that he writes, travels and eats, all very well. Sort of my retirement plan. He also has great taste in music and may be able to bring some pals  (I'm thinking Lou Reed and a few Ramones) to play a few tunes. They can jam with my house band for the night, the Pogues. Naturally, His Bobness is also invited to attend and do whatever the Hell he likes. Shane MacGowan can prop up one side of the bar with him.

I'm going to invite Al Pacino, the world's greatest living actor. When I've had a few, I start to think I look a little like Al, and start to channel the Pacino presence. Then as I sober up, it becomes more Dustin Hoffman or Paul Simon. By the next morning, it's back to Rowan Atkinson or George Caloumbaris.

I'm going to invite Kinky Friedman. For the uninitiated, the Kinkster is a Jewish writer and country singer who emerged from Texas with his band The Texas Jewboys in the Seventies. He now writes mystery novels starring himself as the wisecracking, hard drinking private detective and his mates as his crime solving accomplices. He recently made a semi-serious run for Texas Governor. He prides himself as being the only Jewish adult in America who doesn't own real estate. Last year, Bellbowrie and I got to see Kinky in concert and chatted with him after the show. It was a great night and I laughed like a drain. I didn't laugh again until a couple of weeks ago when Dr Thomson arrived with Dr Javorsky to check out Pinochet at his worst. He pointed to his surgical mask and said, "You realise we just like to put these on and pretend to be doctors?" It was classic Hawkeye Pierce. Better invite Alan Alda too.

I'm going to invite my favourite writer, PJ O'Rourke. He may be right of Attilla the Hun but I love the things he writes about and how he does it. We just violently disagree a lot.

I'm going to invite Stephen Fry. The man is a genius. A modern Rennaissance man adept at writing, comic acting, serious acting and just about whatever else he pleases to attempt.

Finally, I'm going to invite Russell Crowe. After all, somebody needs to pay for it!


Until next time,

Czech Mate

For the next two weeks, three of my doctors will been in Prague attending an international heart lung transplant conference. They did not seek my imprimatur to gad off to the other side of the world. Nor did they offer to take me as an interesting subject.

So if an organ does become available in the near future, we'll need to do the transplant without my cardiac surgeon  (Bruce Thomson)  my head cardiologist (George Javorsky) and my Doogie Howser (Scott Mackenzie).

I blame George, because he's Czech and that must have something to do with it.

Somehow we will manage if need be. Dr Tesar is an excellent cardiac surgeon and for the next few weeks he walks on water, even if he does have the flu. My other cardiologists, Dr Platts and Dr Brown are excellent cardiologists as well so were are nicely covered. Even though Dr Platts is Tasmanian.

I am quite sure than doctors treat their conferences a little more seriously than lawyers do. I daresay that during the days my doctors will be diligently attending seminars and workshops on obscure transplant topics, and in the evenings attending quiet cocktail parties where they politely chat with their colleagues from Papworth, the Mayo Clinic and John Hopkins about their most special patients and how to best manage them. There will be no late night boozing, no gossip sessions, no dirty hookups and no shenanigans. What happens on tour comes home to Brisbane to be put to good use.

I understand that Dr Thomson is presenting a seminar on the Hospital's progress with the artificial heart. Dr Mackenzie is also presenting and for all I know Dr Javorsky will present as well, probably in Czech. I don't know how these blokes fit everything into a day. They are amazing.

We had another red letter day for Charlie yesterday. He calmly sat through a haircut. Thus far, haircuts have been diabolical experiences and akin to torture for Charlie. He would howl and cry whilst Camilla physically restrained him for the duration. At the mere mention of the word he would shriek No Haircut! Yesterday, he quietly waited half an hour for the hairdresser to be ready, sat calmly in the chair in Camilla's lap and had his haircut. He even asked to paint his hair, having keenly watched the previous customer receive a colour. The hairdresser gave him a brush and, without pigment, he painted his hair. This was another fantastic step forwards. He is progressing so well and we are claiming great victories in the battle against autism.

Charlie is even engaging in some imaginative play and now has a baby doll called Bruce. He picked up the name when Camilla was talking about Dr Thomson. Bruce has his own bottle and stroller. He also has a pink headband. So another cool Bruce is born.

A couple of days ago, a new patient was fitted to a VAD, so my days of being the only VAD guy in Queensland were short lived. She is now living a few doors up from me. Her name is Mandy and she is a mere twenty years old. She is young; young enough to be my daughter had I led a dilettante adolescence. That's too young to bear this cross. Like me, Mandy had heart failure because she caught a virus. Noel and I are trying to give Mandy as much support and encouragement as we can.  She'll get there. She was a little scared by how long Noel and I had been in hospital. She said to me, "I really admire Noel. He's been here since May."

I replied (as is the case), "May! He's only been here since September or October!"

That Noel! There's a good reason I bought his stories. They're safer with me.


Until next time,

RIP Colonel Harlan

A lot of bad things happened to our family last year. Not least of them was the loss of our beloved little dog, Harlan. Harlan was a eight year old Cavalier King Charles spaniel. We adopted him in 2009 to be a companion for our other Cavvy, Jasper.

We had bought Jasper as a puppy from a breeder. Jasper was always Imogen's dog and she named him after a character in the Twilight books and movies. At the time, Immy was deeply into all things Twilight. She now denies any association with it. At twelve you are allowed such liberties.

We adopted Harlan from a family who was moving to Vietnam. Camilla learned of him through a Cavvy rescue website and his family brought him to our place to meet us and Jasper, so we could all determine whether it would be a feasible arrangement for all stakeholders.

It was clear from the outset that Harlan was a very different dog to Jasper. The drive made him carsick and he greeted us by vomiting on our tiles. Unlike Jasper, who was young, lean and energetic but stupid, Harlan was older and wiser. He was a little fat and a little slow getting around. Whilst Jasper had the orthodox good looks of a show dog, Harlan was funny looking and we suspected that he was well short of a purebred. He looked as if he could have easily had a wombat somewhere in the family tree. Jasper barely ate whilst Harlan was a true gourmand, looking to experience the many delicacies of people food as often as he could. The only athletic skill he possessed was an ability to leap onto a chair then a table, with astonishing speed and vigour, in order to access a plate of food that had been left for him to enjoy. Usually the meal was Charlie's.

Harlan enjoyed his moments of solitude and would find safe places in cupboards and under beds to savour being alone. He played with Jasper but only on his terms. He had no desire to be the dominant dog in our pack of two, and delighted in just being the beta male.

Harlan and I bonded. He invariably chose to sit with me on the couch or run to me for some roughhousing. He would howl with delight whenever I got home. A curious and endearing howl that was more of a yodel. Camilla joked that Harlan was my kindred spirit in dog form. We were great mates.

You may be thinking that a cavvy is hardly a man's dog. Well let's turn our mind to some real men who have owned cavvies. The starting point is of course Charles the First, who a man of profound influence with strongly held views in politics and philosophy. Charles the Second was a man's man of a king, who sowed his wild oats with gay abandon. Ronald Reagan owned cavvies, and he was the prototype conservative cold warrior President with a heart of iron. Robbie Farah owns cavvies and he packs into scrums in first grade Rugby League. My cousin Steve owns cavvies and he's a hard working tiler. Whilst not a man, my dear friend Emma has owned cavvies and she has always encouraged me to be more positive, an essential skill for getting through the long days and nights in hospital.  I understand that Chuck Norris owns three fierce cavvies with spiked collars, who can menace even Cerberus. Cavvies are cool and real men like them.

Harlan developed a liking for cane toads. For the benefit of foreign readers, cane toads are large ugly toads that were introduced into North Queensland to control the effect of cane beetles. As is often the case, the cure proved worse than the affliction and cane toads have since dominated most habitats, urban and non-urban, across the State and beyond. It is not uncommon to see and hear dozens and dozens of them lazing in a steamy suburban backyard during Summer. Part of growing up in Queensland involves learning to strike a cane toad with a nine iron.

Cane toads secrete poison from their backs so most native predators stay well away from them. Thus far, only the clever crow has learned how to successfully tackle a toad. The crow will flip the toad on its back and attack the non-toxic underbelly. Most dogs are smart enough to stay away from toads. Even Jasper could work it out. Harlan, however, was a different story. He loved them and developed a liking for the taste of toad poison.

Throughout the day, Harlan would dig around the yard, looking for toads. He would sniff around nooks and crannies, hoping to cause a toad to jump into licking range. Every night, we had to ensure he was locked indoors before dark. A few times, we had to rush him to the veterinary hospital after he'd overdosed on toad   poison. Camilla and I often said that one day the toads would get him. It was just a matter of time.


But it wasn't the toads that got him in the end. When our house became uninhabitable after the flood, Jasper and Harlan went to live with Shelley and Casey, and their dog Carlos. Carlos is a big white exuberant  labrador.  He and Jasper got on famously. Harlan, on the other hand, did not enjoy the new pack paradigm. He missed his toads and his best mate. After a few months in his new home, Harlan grew grumpy and tired. Then he got sick.

Ironically, Harlan developed cardiomyopathy, the same affliction I was to suffer a few months later. He got extremely sick and we started giving him expensive medication for his heart. Some of these drugs are part of the colourful cocktail I now take every day. We made arrangements for him to come and live with us at the townhouse, to see out his last few weeks with his family. We did what we could to make his last days happy ones and he became pleasant and endearing again.

Then one day, he got too sick for it to continue. He was in pain and there was no prospect he would get any better. We took him to the vet, said our goodbyes and gave him a last cuddle. Camilla has a great photo of me and Harlan, taken that day,which she often uses as her screen saver. The vet put him to sleep and we were sad for weeks. He was a great dog and is sorely missed.

After a few weeks, we adopted a new cavvy. She is a ditsy pup called Bobbi. Bobbi is pure red and, like Jasper, show dog attractive. But she is dumb. Very dumb. She makes Jasper look smart. Nonetheless, she is sweet and affectionate and gets along famously with Jasper. Charlie and Imogen love her dearly.

I still miss Harlan and always will. He was different and special. It will be a wonderful event for me to get back home, eventually, but I wish my little mate could have been there to be a part of it.

Until next time,