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,
Saturday, 29 September 2012
Monday, 6 August 2012
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,
___________________________________________________
Tuesday, 26 June 2012
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:
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,
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:
- I am immuno-suppressed;
- At least 94% of Brisbane is sick at the moment; and
- 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.
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,
Wednesday, 13 June 2012
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,
Friday, 1 June 2012
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,
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,
Wednesday, 23 May 2012
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,
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,
Monday, 14 May 2012
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,
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,
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