I never thought I'd still be waiting for a heart at Easter. Back at the outset of my long, long stint in hospital, I had envisaged getting a heart before my fortieth birthday in late February, a quiet Easter recuperating at home and a triumphant return to work by 1 July. I have learned that this thing does not respond to my deadlines and is very much my boss. My sadistic, capricious, selfish and relentless boss.
I was awoken very early this morning, before six in fact, by the sight of a large woman in a bonnet and Easter garb hovering over my bed. At least this is what I thought I saw in the semi-darkness and my semi-consciousness. It could well have been a psycho killer. I yelled and sat up bolt upright, the latter being an ill-advised manoeuvre when attached to a machine. She dropped two tiny chocolate Easter eggs on my tray. I smiled and thanked her and then violently killed her in my mind.
I later learned, with little surprise, that she was a member of the Hospital kitchen staff. One of the people who wheel around the trolley that delivers to patients a substance the Hospital ambitiously calls food. I have donned it the Slops Trolley. The food here is truly abysmal.
You can probably sense that I have been a little grumpy of late. I suppose I have, a little. It's especially hard to be in hospital over the holiday season. This year, I had planned to pop down to Bluesfest at Byron Bay with my best mate, Rhino. Rhino and I have been good buddies since our school days. He is now a country lawyer with a large family. Rhino was my best man at our wedding and is Imogen's godfather. He is a clever and decent bloke and we have shared countless great times together over many years. His only shortcoming is an inability to properly charge for his services. His clients would be well aware that they get a big city brain for a very country price.
Last year Rhino and I camped out at Bluesfest to see Dylan. We have seen Bob a number of times together. Rhino brought his son, Ben, to see the man. Bob was in good form and we saw some other first rate acts, including Elvis Costello and Michelle Shocked. I am not a natural camper. The only stars I usually sleep under are the five little stars from the hotel guide. But I was happy to rough it for Bob and we had such a good time that we declared it an annual pilgrimage.
This year, I missed seeing the Pogues. They are playing today. The Pogues are, for the uninitiated, a rowdy drunken Irish rock band who grew to infamy in the Eighties. They are my all time favourite group, eclipsing even the Waterboys, the Stones, the Floyd and the Clash. Their frontman, Shane MacGowan, is to my mind the only lyricist who could give Dylan a shake. As a young man I grew to love the Pogues, and Irish music in general, because I would often frequent the Toowoomba Irish Club to listen to a legendary covers band called the Cornerboys. They played all the old classics and newer material from the likes of the Dubliners, the Pogues, Christy Moore and the Saw Doctors. The crowded room was packed with young people, middle aged people and the older crowd, all drinking Guinness and Jamesons and singing along to standards like Whiskey in the Jar, the Auld Triangle and the Leaving of Liverpool.
I first met Camilla at the Irish Club. Well sort of. I had known her vaguely a few years back when we had both worked at Hannas, a clothing shop owned by my cousins. I was only sixteen or seventeen at the time, but I was Lebanese and family so I was allowed to use the till. Some employees had been there for twenty years and could not do that! Anyway, we did not know each other well as workmates and at the time of our meeting at the Irish Club we were essentially strangers.
Camilla asked me to dance with her. I was stunned. I lacked a great deal of confidence with the ladies and thought I was a little odd looking, to put it diplomatically. Pretty girls never asked me to dance. She was either very drunk or looking to win a bet. As it turned it, she was neither.
Camilla has always been an independent woman. One of her friends thought that she was mad to approach me because I looked shifty. She warned Camilla to watch her bag. Camilla took no heed and we danced, badly but merrily.
I knew that night that I was on to something good. We danced and sang many songs together. She has later told me that her only moment of uncertainty arose when I raucously sung the "Big Chest" refrain to Big Strong Man. She thought I may have had something else in mind. Such vanity!
After the Irish Club closed, we walked the streets together and talked. About everything. Two weeks later I proposed to her.
I have never seen the Pogues live and for many reasons it was important to me that I see them when they toured Australia. My disappointment prompted me to place a post on their website, explaining my non-attendance and asking them to tour again in the near future. I have never done such a thing before but many long weeks in hospital makes a man act a little strange. To my surprise, I received a response from Phil Chevron, a member of the band. Phil wrote a great song about Irish immigration to the States called Thousands are Sailing. It's worth checking out.
Phil wished me well for the transplant. I was chuffed. Project Heart can only be enhanced by having the Pogues behind it in spirit.
So I wish a very happy Easter to my growing legion of readers and well-wishers. Hopefully that new life concept which is inherent in the season will trickle down to a new heart in the very near future.
Until next time,
Saturday, 7 April 2012
Thursday, 5 April 2012
The first noel
The other bloke at the hospital who has been on a VAD awaiting a heart transplant is a chap called Noel Tacey. Since late January, Noel and I have been the only people on VADs in Queensland.
Noel is a tall and lanky boilermaker, aged in his mid fifties. He runs his own business manufacturing water treatment plants. The business employs his two sons, who are also his best mates.
Noel is a classic Aussie larrikan. He is loud and cheeky and makes friends readily. He's a great story-teller, but not a reader. He likes motorbikes and rock music. He has no time for rules or politics. He's the sort of bloke that would frequent Moe's Tavern. He is good with tools and I suspect that he owns many guns. In the States, you'd call him him Alabama Man. In Britain, you'd call him Essex Man. In the context of this blog, I guess you could call him Bellbowrie Man.
Noel and I are polar opposites in both personality and appearance. You could not imagine two more different men. Yet we became firm friends and conversation has always flowed easily between us. We would walk around the hospital together with our VADs, looking like the two guys from Midnight Cowboy.
Noel calls me Norman Gunstan, because my VAD wounds tend to bleed. That's an in-joke for the older Australians amongst us. Those who remember the Seventies. I really cannot properly describe Norman Gunstan to those who have never seen him. Suffice to say, he is an intense mock-journalist who cuts himself shaving a lot, necessitating pieces of tissue being placed on his many shaving cuts. The joke was funny the first few times Noel told it. On the sixty seventh time, it was a little tired.
Noel and I have rooms close to each other and he often appears at the door, Kramer style, for a chat. There is a lot of Kramer in Noel. He even looks a little like him. Noel has a wonderful back catalogue of anecdotes which he is very adept at spinning. I suspect that some are true.
I am very fond of Noel, as are our nurses. He is decent, kind, and excellent company.
Noel has been enjoying this blog. A few days ago, I asked him whether I could buy his stories. I was conscious of the value in keeping my little rag fresh and interesting and was concerned that I would eventually run out of material.
I was not clever enough to come up with this idea myself. The genius behind the idea was Camilla's. She reminded me of the classic Seinfeld episode where Jay Peterman had bought Kramer's stories for use in his memoirs. I love Peterman. This was a chance to do something Peterman would do.
My erstwhile trainee lawyer, Anna, prepared a formal deed of assignment and Noel signed it. The intellectual property in and to his stories now belongs to my me, or more correctly a shelf company I acquired to hold the asset.
So in future blogs, you will read of how I visited East Timor as a young boilermaker and lifted a tribal chief onto my shoulders. You will read how I injured myself and the Impaler horseplaying with my sons. You will hear about my father being nicknamed Crowbar because he is short and dark and good in a fight. You will read about me dirtbiking through the scrub and welding in my workshop.
Yesterday, Noel received a new heart. He had been waiting in hospital for over six months, I think. I am delighted for him and wish him the very best for his recovery.
So now it's just me and the Impaler. In the timeless words of Billy Bragg we are waiting for the great leap forwards. We can wait a little longer.
Until next time,
Noel is a tall and lanky boilermaker, aged in his mid fifties. He runs his own business manufacturing water treatment plants. The business employs his two sons, who are also his best mates.
Noel is a classic Aussie larrikan. He is loud and cheeky and makes friends readily. He's a great story-teller, but not a reader. He likes motorbikes and rock music. He has no time for rules or politics. He's the sort of bloke that would frequent Moe's Tavern. He is good with tools and I suspect that he owns many guns. In the States, you'd call him him Alabama Man. In Britain, you'd call him Essex Man. In the context of this blog, I guess you could call him Bellbowrie Man.
Noel and I are polar opposites in both personality and appearance. You could not imagine two more different men. Yet we became firm friends and conversation has always flowed easily between us. We would walk around the hospital together with our VADs, looking like the two guys from Midnight Cowboy.
Noel calls me Norman Gunstan, because my VAD wounds tend to bleed. That's an in-joke for the older Australians amongst us. Those who remember the Seventies. I really cannot properly describe Norman Gunstan to those who have never seen him. Suffice to say, he is an intense mock-journalist who cuts himself shaving a lot, necessitating pieces of tissue being placed on his many shaving cuts. The joke was funny the first few times Noel told it. On the sixty seventh time, it was a little tired.
Noel and I have rooms close to each other and he often appears at the door, Kramer style, for a chat. There is a lot of Kramer in Noel. He even looks a little like him. Noel has a wonderful back catalogue of anecdotes which he is very adept at spinning. I suspect that some are true.
I am very fond of Noel, as are our nurses. He is decent, kind, and excellent company.
Noel has been enjoying this blog. A few days ago, I asked him whether I could buy his stories. I was conscious of the value in keeping my little rag fresh and interesting and was concerned that I would eventually run out of material.
I was not clever enough to come up with this idea myself. The genius behind the idea was Camilla's. She reminded me of the classic Seinfeld episode where Jay Peterman had bought Kramer's stories for use in his memoirs. I love Peterman. This was a chance to do something Peterman would do.
My erstwhile trainee lawyer, Anna, prepared a formal deed of assignment and Noel signed it. The intellectual property in and to his stories now belongs to my me, or more correctly a shelf company I acquired to hold the asset.
So in future blogs, you will read of how I visited East Timor as a young boilermaker and lifted a tribal chief onto my shoulders. You will read how I injured myself and the Impaler horseplaying with my sons. You will hear about my father being nicknamed Crowbar because he is short and dark and good in a fight. You will read about me dirtbiking through the scrub and welding in my workshop.
Yesterday, Noel received a new heart. He had been waiting in hospital for over six months, I think. I am delighted for him and wish him the very best for his recovery.
So now it's just me and the Impaler. In the timeless words of Billy Bragg we are waiting for the great leap forwards. We can wait a little longer.
Until next time,
Wednesday, 4 April 2012
They said I gotta go to rehab
Back in early November, I think, I was brought out of a long induced
coma. I cannot recall the precise moment I woke up. There was no distinct
transfer from being asleep to being awake. It was a slow and gradual process
over a few days.
My body had been put through the wringer, ravaged by a malevolent infection. I think it was calledCandida Liberata. Happy for any medico to correct this if need be.
The infection had made me very, very sick. I am told that I was the sickest man in Queensland at the time. At once stage I was attached to around a dozen machines, including a respirator, a dialysis machine and the Impaler. It took around ten staff to move me and my paraphernalia to obtain a scan. I was barely alive. Dr Thomson has told me that he has only ever seen two other patients survive from such a poor state. A few times, he told Camilla that I would not pull through.
Somehow my body clung to life and with the assistance of a powerful arsenal of drugs warded off the infection. Camilla and my parents kept a bedside vigil. They experienced an unimaginable hell, as did Imogen. As did my other friends, relatives and workmates. I sincerely wish that my near and dear could have been spared that experience. It was a supersized sh*t sandwich with all the trimmings.
Coming out of the coma, I can vaguely recall being in a room somewhere (it didn't feel like a hospital) where parts of the walls and furniture would morph into twisted, animated creatures. It felt like the nurses were constantly trying to restrain me and were yelling at me to cease screaming. I thought that I was howling like a banshee, but unsure if I was thinking it or doing it. It must have been the sort of hallucinogenic drug haze that was the firmament for Dylan to craft his greatest albums like Highway Sixty One Revisited and Blonde on Blonde. Bob can have that stuff all to himself. Why anyone would want to voluntarily subject their consciousness to such a state is something I will never understand. Kids, don't do drugs.
I then recall being immobile in a hospital bed unable to move or speak. I was just too weak to lift a hand. I slept most of the day and night but was becoming increasingly aware of my surroundings and able to understand what people were telling me. I was in the Intensive Care Unit with a nurse rostered to care for me one on one twenty four seven. I saw dozens of doctors.
I can recall Melbourne Cup day, early in November. I was aware that the race was coming up and I recall my father handing me a form guide, asking me to select a horse so he could back it for me. By this stage I could lift my arms a bit, but could not read or properly manoeuvre my hands. I gave him my shaky hand and we caused my finger to sort of fall on a horse's name. I can't remember the name of the horse, but it was a pretty average one and was paying long odds. Dad popped down to the TAB and backed the horse for me. I then sort of watched the race on a television. I cannot recall much as my vision was very poor. I really just knew that it was on. Anyway, my horse did well. Very well. He hit the line in a photo finish. It took quite a while for the stewards to review the footage, and I remember the suspense. As it transpired, my horse was beaten by a nose. A fair effort really. Not the most scientific way I have been known to bet on a horse but commendable in the circumstances.
Then started my long and difficult rehabilitation. All the muscles in my body were completely wasted for lack of use. It is amazing how quickly and completely the muscles atrophy when they are not used. My nurses told me that I would need three to five days of recovery for every day in the coma for my body to completely heal itself. This was a best case scenario of six months.
We started with the basics. I still had a trachea fitted so I needed to learn to speak again. My nurses were able to insert a speaking valve whenever I gave them a shaky hand signal and, for short periods at a time, I used it to speak. I could only manage a few words or, more accurately, word type sounds. My brain was very slow and it was difficult to get them out.
My speech and cognitive function improved quickly. The trachea was removed and I was able to engage in conversation. I was still slow to think and my speech was slurred. Two of my partners, Bruce and Darrell, came to visit me. They have since told me that they left the hospital gravely concerned that I would never recover full intellectual function. I am normally pretty sharp and reasonably articulate. The man they spoke to that day was neither.
I started speech therapy, occupational therapy and physiotherapy. I was frustrated with my feeble body but more frustrated that my mind was slow. To me, this was far worse than any physical impairment. I could not imagine myself living and working in a manner that did not challenge me to think. When formally tested, I struggled to count back from one hundred in multiples of seven. I could not recall names or events. I confused reality with the alternative reality I had dreamed in the coma. I thought my sister Shelley had had twins and I asked her about them. Thankfully, not least of all to her, she had only had one baby. A gorgeous boy called Ben. He was born the day I first went into surgery, I think. He and the Impaler are therefore almost the same age. Ben is much nicer and causes fewer problems.
The mind came back first. Pretty quickly, in hindsight but agonisingly slowly at the time. A few weeks post coma, I was thinking and speaking clearly and my vision was good. I could have easily come out of the coma blind, mentally impaired or physically impaired. It was a blessing that I recovered complete mind and sight. The nurses called me their miracle man. It was a miracle indeed.
The body was much slower to heal and the physios had their work cut out for them. We were starting from a zero base and it took weeks for me to learn how to stand for a few seconds. I then started walking with a frame. First to the door. Then about ten metres. Then a little more. These tasks completely exhausted me, but I was determined to one day walk like a man again. It seemed light years away.
By early December, I had made sufficient progress to leave ICU to be taken to a ward. I then took up domicile in Ward 1B, where I still remain. Domicile, not residency. Ward 1B is not home, even a temporary one. Home remains in Indooroopilly.
The physios kept pushing my body and I was able to ditch the frame and start pushing around the Impaler. This was a terrific moment for me. There were two other VAD patients on the Ward, Noel and Catherine, who were confidently pushing their VADs in front of them like shopping trolleys. They were walking around like real people. I did not think I'd ever be able to reach that point and I was envious of them. I could barely manage pushing the Impaler for twenty metres.
The physio who became my primary therapist is a delightful lady called Lisa Moore. Lisa is amazing. Over the last few months she has assisted my to rebuild my wreckage of a body to the point where I am walking the treadmill for thirty continuous minutes with incline intervals.I am leaving the hospital for regular outing home and elsewhere. I attend barbeques and go to restaurants. I have never been at all interested in personal fitness and the like and it was difficult to accept the treadmill as a new friend. I could not see how it would ever get along with my other good mates like the television, the wine cabinet, the bookshelf and the stereo. It just was not me. However, necessity creates strange bedfellows and I am now committed to a new life that ensures I make time for regular exercise. We've even bought our own treadmill for when I return home.
My rehab is still ongoing and my body is far from recovered. The Impaler uses energy as quickly as a Chevy Impala guzzles petrol. I get exhausted easily. I still have some residual numbness in the right shin and foot and occasionally in my right hand. However, I am now strong in mind and reasonably strong in body, such that I am ready for transplant surgery.
Until next time,
My body had been put through the wringer, ravaged by a malevolent infection. I think it was calledCandida Liberata. Happy for any medico to correct this if need be.
The infection had made me very, very sick. I am told that I was the sickest man in Queensland at the time. At once stage I was attached to around a dozen machines, including a respirator, a dialysis machine and the Impaler. It took around ten staff to move me and my paraphernalia to obtain a scan. I was barely alive. Dr Thomson has told me that he has only ever seen two other patients survive from such a poor state. A few times, he told Camilla that I would not pull through.
Somehow my body clung to life and with the assistance of a powerful arsenal of drugs warded off the infection. Camilla and my parents kept a bedside vigil. They experienced an unimaginable hell, as did Imogen. As did my other friends, relatives and workmates. I sincerely wish that my near and dear could have been spared that experience. It was a supersized sh*t sandwich with all the trimmings.
Coming out of the coma, I can vaguely recall being in a room somewhere (it didn't feel like a hospital) where parts of the walls and furniture would morph into twisted, animated creatures. It felt like the nurses were constantly trying to restrain me and were yelling at me to cease screaming. I thought that I was howling like a banshee, but unsure if I was thinking it or doing it. It must have been the sort of hallucinogenic drug haze that was the firmament for Dylan to craft his greatest albums like Highway Sixty One Revisited and Blonde on Blonde. Bob can have that stuff all to himself. Why anyone would want to voluntarily subject their consciousness to such a state is something I will never understand. Kids, don't do drugs.
I then recall being immobile in a hospital bed unable to move or speak. I was just too weak to lift a hand. I slept most of the day and night but was becoming increasingly aware of my surroundings and able to understand what people were telling me. I was in the Intensive Care Unit with a nurse rostered to care for me one on one twenty four seven. I saw dozens of doctors.
I can recall Melbourne Cup day, early in November. I was aware that the race was coming up and I recall my father handing me a form guide, asking me to select a horse so he could back it for me. By this stage I could lift my arms a bit, but could not read or properly manoeuvre my hands. I gave him my shaky hand and we caused my finger to sort of fall on a horse's name. I can't remember the name of the horse, but it was a pretty average one and was paying long odds. Dad popped down to the TAB and backed the horse for me. I then sort of watched the race on a television. I cannot recall much as my vision was very poor. I really just knew that it was on. Anyway, my horse did well. Very well. He hit the line in a photo finish. It took quite a while for the stewards to review the footage, and I remember the suspense. As it transpired, my horse was beaten by a nose. A fair effort really. Not the most scientific way I have been known to bet on a horse but commendable in the circumstances.
Then started my long and difficult rehabilitation. All the muscles in my body were completely wasted for lack of use. It is amazing how quickly and completely the muscles atrophy when they are not used. My nurses told me that I would need three to five days of recovery for every day in the coma for my body to completely heal itself. This was a best case scenario of six months.
We started with the basics. I still had a trachea fitted so I needed to learn to speak again. My nurses were able to insert a speaking valve whenever I gave them a shaky hand signal and, for short periods at a time, I used it to speak. I could only manage a few words or, more accurately, word type sounds. My brain was very slow and it was difficult to get them out.
My speech and cognitive function improved quickly. The trachea was removed and I was able to engage in conversation. I was still slow to think and my speech was slurred. Two of my partners, Bruce and Darrell, came to visit me. They have since told me that they left the hospital gravely concerned that I would never recover full intellectual function. I am normally pretty sharp and reasonably articulate. The man they spoke to that day was neither.
I started speech therapy, occupational therapy and physiotherapy. I was frustrated with my feeble body but more frustrated that my mind was slow. To me, this was far worse than any physical impairment. I could not imagine myself living and working in a manner that did not challenge me to think. When formally tested, I struggled to count back from one hundred in multiples of seven. I could not recall names or events. I confused reality with the alternative reality I had dreamed in the coma. I thought my sister Shelley had had twins and I asked her about them. Thankfully, not least of all to her, she had only had one baby. A gorgeous boy called Ben. He was born the day I first went into surgery, I think. He and the Impaler are therefore almost the same age. Ben is much nicer and causes fewer problems.
The mind came back first. Pretty quickly, in hindsight but agonisingly slowly at the time. A few weeks post coma, I was thinking and speaking clearly and my vision was good. I could have easily come out of the coma blind, mentally impaired or physically impaired. It was a blessing that I recovered complete mind and sight. The nurses called me their miracle man. It was a miracle indeed.
The body was much slower to heal and the physios had their work cut out for them. We were starting from a zero base and it took weeks for me to learn how to stand for a few seconds. I then started walking with a frame. First to the door. Then about ten metres. Then a little more. These tasks completely exhausted me, but I was determined to one day walk like a man again. It seemed light years away.
By early December, I had made sufficient progress to leave ICU to be taken to a ward. I then took up domicile in Ward 1B, where I still remain. Domicile, not residency. Ward 1B is not home, even a temporary one. Home remains in Indooroopilly.
The physios kept pushing my body and I was able to ditch the frame and start pushing around the Impaler. This was a terrific moment for me. There were two other VAD patients on the Ward, Noel and Catherine, who were confidently pushing their VADs in front of them like shopping trolleys. They were walking around like real people. I did not think I'd ever be able to reach that point and I was envious of them. I could barely manage pushing the Impaler for twenty metres.
The physio who became my primary therapist is a delightful lady called Lisa Moore. Lisa is amazing. Over the last few months she has assisted my to rebuild my wreckage of a body to the point where I am walking the treadmill for thirty continuous minutes with incline intervals.I am leaving the hospital for regular outing home and elsewhere. I attend barbeques and go to restaurants. I have never been at all interested in personal fitness and the like and it was difficult to accept the treadmill as a new friend. I could not see how it would ever get along with my other good mates like the television, the wine cabinet, the bookshelf and the stereo. It just was not me. However, necessity creates strange bedfellows and I am now committed to a new life that ensures I make time for regular exercise. We've even bought our own treadmill for when I return home.
My rehab is still ongoing and my body is far from recovered. The Impaler uses energy as quickly as a Chevy Impala guzzles petrol. I get exhausted easily. I still have some residual numbness in the right shin and foot and occasionally in my right hand. However, I am now strong in mind and reasonably strong in body, such that I am ready for transplant surgery.
Until next time,
Tuesday, 3 April 2012
Pinochet
My sternum wound is long and jagged. It looks remarkably like a map of Chile, covered in blood. Hence I have dubbed it Pinochet.
This morning, my medical team gathered around Pinochet as we took down the vacuum dressing and he revealed himself in his gory glory. There were present two cardiac surgeons, a cardiologist and four nurses. Pinochet snarled at them in a guttural Hispanic accent, and told them to vamoose. They ignored him and pressed on with their examination.
In short, the wound continues to heal well. The team will review it in a few days' time. In lawyerworld it's a bit like adjourning the trial for the parties to engage in settlement discussions. For now, the reconstructive surgery is on hold to allow the wound to continue to heal.
Pinochet is inherently evil, just like his namesake. The regime is shaky, but still clinging to power. I remain ready for the pecs surgery, if it must happen, but am looking forward to some time at home at Easter. Precious time I thought I wouldn't get. Thank you, St Charbel. I judged you too harshly. Thank you, Greg Inglis. Buy of the Century.
This Friday is Good Friday. In the morning, my medicos will review Pinochet. In the afternoon, Souths play the Bulldogs. Let's hope it is indeed a good Friday.
Until next time,
This morning, my medical team gathered around Pinochet as we took down the vacuum dressing and he revealed himself in his gory glory. There were present two cardiac surgeons, a cardiologist and four nurses. Pinochet snarled at them in a guttural Hispanic accent, and told them to vamoose. They ignored him and pressed on with their examination.
In short, the wound continues to heal well. The team will review it in a few days' time. In lawyerworld it's a bit like adjourning the trial for the parties to engage in settlement discussions. For now, the reconstructive surgery is on hold to allow the wound to continue to heal.
Pinochet is inherently evil, just like his namesake. The regime is shaky, but still clinging to power. I remain ready for the pecs surgery, if it must happen, but am looking forward to some time at home at Easter. Precious time I thought I wouldn't get. Thank you, St Charbel. I judged you too harshly. Thank you, Greg Inglis. Buy of the Century.
This Friday is Good Friday. In the morning, my medicos will review Pinochet. In the afternoon, Souths play the Bulldogs. Let's hope it is indeed a good Friday.
Until next time,
Why do Lebanese men wear gold chains?
My father, Ronnie Betros, was born in a small village called Kfarsghab in the mountains of North Lebanon. Please don't attempt to pronounce it if you aren't Lebanese. It requires deft manoeuvres of the tongue involving copious amounts of spit. Let's just call it the Village.
Dad immigrated to Australia just after the end of the Second World War when he was a young boy. He was raised within the small, tight Lebanese community of Toowoomba. Whilst the family were devout Maronite Christians, they became active members of the local Catholic Church. Rome is OK with the Maronites, even though they are an Eastern sect. The Maronites gave a lot of help to the Crusaders in the course of their jolly jaunts to the Near East and the two Churches have been in communion ever since.
Dad wasn't christened Ronald. Few Lebanese boys are. He was actually christened Elias. The milkman decided to call him Ronnie and the name stuck. It now appears on his passport and driver's licence. Personally I prefer Elias, and Charlie's middle names are William and Elias, after his two grandfathers. Camilla's late father, William Dent, was a well known and widely respected gentleman in his own right and I will deal with him in later posts.
Dad must have been a quiet radical of sorts because he married a white girl. My mother, Margaret Costello, was from a hard working decent Irish Catholic family who raised cattle on the land at the foot of the Toowoomba range.
Mum and Dad have always enjoyed a happy and prosperous marriage. They did a wonderful job raising me and my two sisters, Michelle and Danielle. Recent events arising from my illness have shaken them to their foundations, but they are stronger than they think and like the rest of our family will somehow get through.
My sisters and I are proud Lebanese Australians. The Lebanese have had some bad press in Australia in recent times. Much has been said and written about the problems caused by gangs of young, violent men of Middle Eastern appearance who roam the streets of suburban Sydney and Melbourne. This is, I emphasise, completely at odds with the experiences I have had with my extended family. My family, like many other Lebanese families, has been wiling to embrace the Australian way of life and integrate into the broader society, whilst retaining its own identity, history and tradition.
The Lebanese community has produced some outstanding Australian achievers.
The most outstanding of them, to me anyway, is Jacques Nasser, who rose through the ranks to become the CEO of the Ford Motor Company in the States. He is presently the global Chairman of BHP Billiton and has been awarded both the Order of Australia Medal and the Order of Ellis Island Medal. Not a bad effort.
We have produced many great sportsmen, like Nick Shehadie who captained the National Rugby Union side and went on to become Lord Mayor of Sydney. Other sportsmen we claim include Ben Elias, Hazem el-Masri, Tim Mannah and Robbie Farah, all great Rugby League players. Benny is a boy from the Village, like my father.
We have produced a great writer in David Malouf, a State Premier in Steve Bracks and a State Governor in Marie Bashir. A controversial and fiercely independent member of the lower house of the Australian Parliament, Bob Katter, is of Lebanese ancestry.
We have produced some fine Australian businessmen, like John Symonds (the founder of Aussie Home Loans), Ron Bakir (who founded the Crazy Ron's mobile phone chain) and Steve Ackerie (whose Stefan hair salons are a true Queensland icon). Other less savoury businessmen who are Aussie Lebs include Tony Mokbel and John Ibrahim.
One of our own, Joe Hachem, became a world champion poker player.
In my own extended family, we boast two members of the judiciary and a Macquarie Street specialist doctor.
Another notable Aussie Leb who profoundly changed my own life is a colourful Brisbane lawyer called Joe Ganim. Many years ago, Joe and his best mate, Paul Hopgood, started a legal firm as brash young men. That firm grew and prospered quickly and is now a major player in the Australian legal market, employing over a hundred lawyers.
A little over five years ago, I ran into Joe in the street. It was obscenely early in the morning and I was grabbing a coffee on the way to work. I was with another legal firm at the time.
Joe was dressed in expensive running gear and was covered in sweat. It appeared that he had been jogging, or at least walking pretty fast. His chunky gold chains were swaying and clinking and a rug of luxuriant chest hair refused to be contained by his tight, white jogging shirt.
Joe asked me, "When are you going to join my firm? I've asked you a couple of times before and I'm going to try again."
At least I thought that is what he said. He was puffing so hard that I was contemplating calling an ambulance.
I told Joe that I was interested and he smiled and flashed a gold tooth. A few weeks later I started working for Hopgood Ganim. I am now one of two Australian Lebanese partners of the firm. My dear mate Freda Wigan is the other. She practises in Family Law so she is ipso facto clinically insane. Joe has now semi-retired (ie he now does only eighty hour weeks) and remains a consultant to the firm.
Hopgood Ganim has been very good to me and Camilla whilst I have been holed up in hospital. The firm philosophy is Business Mateship and it's not just a slogan. The people in the firm make sure they try to live it every day. My partners and colleagues often visit me and help out Camilla whenever they can. Our General Manager cut her lawn one day whilst I was in the coma. Not that I would have otherwise cut it myself. The only tool I can successfully use around the house is the chequebook. To me, manual labour is a Spanish bricklayer.
When I get well, my father is going to take me to Lebanon. I want to see the Village. Or villages, more correctly. There are actually two. The higher village in covered in snow over winter so everyone relocates to the lower village down in the valley. Everyone moves twice a year. Like they have done for centuries.
Lebanese people are clever and tough. Our forebears invented the alphabet and modern sailing. I really want to see the country of my fathers before I die of old, old, old age. I want to see Byblos, the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world. I want to see the towering Roman ruins of Baalbek. I want to play blackjack at Jounieh. I want to see the port cities of Sidon and Tyre, mentioned frequently in the Bible. I want to see the cedars at Becharre, a few miles from the Village. I want to visit wineries in the Bekaa Valley. I want to see the catacombs and churches used by ancient maronite monks like St Charbel. I've said a few prayers to St Charbel but he's proven to be quite useless at getting me a heart so I'm switching to St Jude.
For now, it's matter of staying in hospital and waiting. No choice, really. I suppose it's a chance to live the pure life of a monk for a while. Mind you, I did not even vaguely consider the monastic option when making my career choice.
The title of today's blog poses a question: Why do Lebanese men wear gold chains? Ten points for the answer. It's hidden in the text.
Until next time,
Dad immigrated to Australia just after the end of the Second World War when he was a young boy. He was raised within the small, tight Lebanese community of Toowoomba. Whilst the family were devout Maronite Christians, they became active members of the local Catholic Church. Rome is OK with the Maronites, even though they are an Eastern sect. The Maronites gave a lot of help to the Crusaders in the course of their jolly jaunts to the Near East and the two Churches have been in communion ever since.
Dad wasn't christened Ronald. Few Lebanese boys are. He was actually christened Elias. The milkman decided to call him Ronnie and the name stuck. It now appears on his passport and driver's licence. Personally I prefer Elias, and Charlie's middle names are William and Elias, after his two grandfathers. Camilla's late father, William Dent, was a well known and widely respected gentleman in his own right and I will deal with him in later posts.
Dad must have been a quiet radical of sorts because he married a white girl. My mother, Margaret Costello, was from a hard working decent Irish Catholic family who raised cattle on the land at the foot of the Toowoomba range.
Mum and Dad have always enjoyed a happy and prosperous marriage. They did a wonderful job raising me and my two sisters, Michelle and Danielle. Recent events arising from my illness have shaken them to their foundations, but they are stronger than they think and like the rest of our family will somehow get through.
My sisters and I are proud Lebanese Australians. The Lebanese have had some bad press in Australia in recent times. Much has been said and written about the problems caused by gangs of young, violent men of Middle Eastern appearance who roam the streets of suburban Sydney and Melbourne. This is, I emphasise, completely at odds with the experiences I have had with my extended family. My family, like many other Lebanese families, has been wiling to embrace the Australian way of life and integrate into the broader society, whilst retaining its own identity, history and tradition.
The Lebanese community has produced some outstanding Australian achievers.
The most outstanding of them, to me anyway, is Jacques Nasser, who rose through the ranks to become the CEO of the Ford Motor Company in the States. He is presently the global Chairman of BHP Billiton and has been awarded both the Order of Australia Medal and the Order of Ellis Island Medal. Not a bad effort.
We have produced many great sportsmen, like Nick Shehadie who captained the National Rugby Union side and went on to become Lord Mayor of Sydney. Other sportsmen we claim include Ben Elias, Hazem el-Masri, Tim Mannah and Robbie Farah, all great Rugby League players. Benny is a boy from the Village, like my father.
We have produced a great writer in David Malouf, a State Premier in Steve Bracks and a State Governor in Marie Bashir. A controversial and fiercely independent member of the lower house of the Australian Parliament, Bob Katter, is of Lebanese ancestry.
We have produced some fine Australian businessmen, like John Symonds (the founder of Aussie Home Loans), Ron Bakir (who founded the Crazy Ron's mobile phone chain) and Steve Ackerie (whose Stefan hair salons are a true Queensland icon). Other less savoury businessmen who are Aussie Lebs include Tony Mokbel and John Ibrahim.
One of our own, Joe Hachem, became a world champion poker player.
In my own extended family, we boast two members of the judiciary and a Macquarie Street specialist doctor.
Another notable Aussie Leb who profoundly changed my own life is a colourful Brisbane lawyer called Joe Ganim. Many years ago, Joe and his best mate, Paul Hopgood, started a legal firm as brash young men. That firm grew and prospered quickly and is now a major player in the Australian legal market, employing over a hundred lawyers.
A little over five years ago, I ran into Joe in the street. It was obscenely early in the morning and I was grabbing a coffee on the way to work. I was with another legal firm at the time.
Joe was dressed in expensive running gear and was covered in sweat. It appeared that he had been jogging, or at least walking pretty fast. His chunky gold chains were swaying and clinking and a rug of luxuriant chest hair refused to be contained by his tight, white jogging shirt.
Joe asked me, "When are you going to join my firm? I've asked you a couple of times before and I'm going to try again."
At least I thought that is what he said. He was puffing so hard that I was contemplating calling an ambulance.
I told Joe that I was interested and he smiled and flashed a gold tooth. A few weeks later I started working for Hopgood Ganim. I am now one of two Australian Lebanese partners of the firm. My dear mate Freda Wigan is the other. She practises in Family Law so she is ipso facto clinically insane. Joe has now semi-retired (ie he now does only eighty hour weeks) and remains a consultant to the firm.
Hopgood Ganim has been very good to me and Camilla whilst I have been holed up in hospital. The firm philosophy is Business Mateship and it's not just a slogan. The people in the firm make sure they try to live it every day. My partners and colleagues often visit me and help out Camilla whenever they can. Our General Manager cut her lawn one day whilst I was in the coma. Not that I would have otherwise cut it myself. The only tool I can successfully use around the house is the chequebook. To me, manual labour is a Spanish bricklayer.
When I get well, my father is going to take me to Lebanon. I want to see the Village. Or villages, more correctly. There are actually two. The higher village in covered in snow over winter so everyone relocates to the lower village down in the valley. Everyone moves twice a year. Like they have done for centuries.
Lebanese people are clever and tough. Our forebears invented the alphabet and modern sailing. I really want to see the country of my fathers before I die of old, old, old age. I want to see Byblos, the oldest continuously inhabited city in the world. I want to see the towering Roman ruins of Baalbek. I want to play blackjack at Jounieh. I want to see the port cities of Sidon and Tyre, mentioned frequently in the Bible. I want to see the cedars at Becharre, a few miles from the Village. I want to visit wineries in the Bekaa Valley. I want to see the catacombs and churches used by ancient maronite monks like St Charbel. I've said a few prayers to St Charbel but he's proven to be quite useless at getting me a heart so I'm switching to St Jude.
For now, it's matter of staying in hospital and waiting. No choice, really. I suppose it's a chance to live the pure life of a monk for a while. Mind you, I did not even vaguely consider the monastic option when making my career choice.
The title of today's blog poses a question: Why do Lebanese men wear gold chains? Ten points for the answer. It's hidden in the text.
Until next time,
Monday, 2 April 2012
Charlie
This month is Autism Awareness Month. It's an opportunity for the community to seek a better understanding of those who suffer from an Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD), like our four year old son, Charlie.
Charlie did not speak for the first three years of his life. He did not even babble. He did not play with other children. He took comfort in repetitive behaviours like opening and closing doors and flushing toilets. The experts call this stimming. He stimmed for hours. Literally.
Charlie was terrified of having his hair washed or cut and would appear to be possessed by a demon whenever he thought someone was going to subject him to such torture. He would not watch children's programs on television, but delighted in viewing the Foxtel Help Channel. He taught himself how to use the remote control and watched his favourite bits over and over again for hours. Literally.
Charlie often experienced dramatic meltdowns, both at home and in public. He would scream and bite, out of fear that some harm was coming to him. He had no way to communicate to his parents his many fears about the terrifying world around him. Camilla became covered in bite marks and scratches. Elderly strangers would frown and tsk tsk at her, suggesting that she impose a little discipline in her parenting, like they did in my day!
Charlie would look for doors and other escape routes and run like Forrest Gump whenever he got a chance. He would just run. Hard and fast to nowhere in particular. Straight towards busy roads.
Charlie would only eat certain foods and only wear blue shirts.
Just after his second birthday, Charlie was formally diagnosed with ASD. It is a neurological disorder. His brain is wired differently to the neurotypical child. There is no cure and much debate as to the cause. Medical science knows comparatively little about it or how to treat it.
Camilla and I were devastated but determined. We read as much as we could and sought out people who had been down this rocky road before us. He was our precious baby boy and we would do whatever it takes.
We discovered that the medical world was trumpeting a therapy called Early Intervention. When the autistic child is aged from around two to six, the brain is still malleable and developing. An intense program of speech therapy, occupational therapy and several other therapies can assist the brain to develop in a more neurotypical fashion. The changes can be permanent and result in a lifetime of difference.
This gave us hope and we searched for an Early Intervention Centre in Brisbane. We had vaguely heard of a place called AEIOU through its advertising and discovered it in our web searching. It seemed good. Damned good. It had a very long waiting list but we quickly joined the end of the queue.
At the beginning of last year, Charlie started at AEIOU. It is good. Damned good. Charlie is doing remarkably well. We have a different son. He now speaks in rudimentary sentences.
AEIOU stands for Autism Early Intervention Outcomes Unit. It was established by a couple called James and Louise Morton. James is an oncologist and Louise is, by all reports, a sheer force of nature. I have not yet met them, but admire them greatly. James and Louise themselves have a boy with ASD. A few years ago he was placed in a Government trial program and did very well. However, the Government ceased funding the program and the centre closed. James and Louise then decided to fight autism themselves. They used their savings to buy an old church at Moorooka and set up a new program to replicate the one the Government had jettisoned. Their son got the benefit of it for a few short months, until he started school.
AEIOU now has a number of centres across Queensland which are helping Charlie and around 200 other little angels just like him. The staff to student ratios are high and the staff are dedicated. AEIOU provides tremendous support for families and even helps ASD kids to transition to mainstream schools with follow up support. It adopts a holistic approach, but not in a hippy trippy way. In a practical way, hour after hour, day after day. The program is intense and in order to succeed it demands long weeks for little children. Charlie loves the place.
Autistic kids are beautiful. Charlie is affectionate and full of personality. He is handsome and clever. He is by no means a lesser person; just different.
A year of AEIOU has produced a transformed boy, but he is still autistic. Charlie still escapes and runs, still has meltdowns and still fears many aspects of the world around him. But he can now tell us about his fears. He can tell us that he is afraid to enter a room because the toilet seat or piano lid may be down. Camilla will then take any necessary action to correct the offending object and assure him that has been done. Together they will enter the feared area of the house and Charlie will relax knowing that all is good in his world for the moment.
Charlie now plays around other children and talks about them. We are confident that he will start playing with them soon.
It's extremely hard being away from home, leaving Camilla to fight the battle against autism without me. Camilla is a remarkable woman and is doing a sterling job. I proposed to her after two weeks with little hesitance and the confidence of youth. I have never regretted the decision and am privileged to be her husband.
Charlie will attend AEIOU for the rest of this year and then, hopefully, transition to mainstream school. I am determined to be there on his first day. Holding his little brown hand. Hopefully, I can let his hand go for a second or two and he will remain standing by me and not run. If not, I'll run after him and catch him.
Charlie is now visiting my parents in Toowoomba for a few days, to give Camilla a well-earned break. My parents and Camilla's mother have been tremendously supportive in fighting the good fights against autism and heart failure and Charlie loves them dearly.
We are lucky. I earn enough money to enable Charlie to attend AEIOU. Autism affects one child in around 140 so there are plenty of Charlies out there. Many are born to families that cannot afford Early Intervention. That is sad and wrong. It's a genuine tragedy. I hope we get it right with the new National Disability Insurance Scheme the Australian Government is putting together. We simply can't afford not to.
Check out AEIOU at aeiou.org.au. Send them lots of money.
Until next time,
Charlie did not speak for the first three years of his life. He did not even babble. He did not play with other children. He took comfort in repetitive behaviours like opening and closing doors and flushing toilets. The experts call this stimming. He stimmed for hours. Literally.
Charlie was terrified of having his hair washed or cut and would appear to be possessed by a demon whenever he thought someone was going to subject him to such torture. He would not watch children's programs on television, but delighted in viewing the Foxtel Help Channel. He taught himself how to use the remote control and watched his favourite bits over and over again for hours. Literally.
Charlie often experienced dramatic meltdowns, both at home and in public. He would scream and bite, out of fear that some harm was coming to him. He had no way to communicate to his parents his many fears about the terrifying world around him. Camilla became covered in bite marks and scratches. Elderly strangers would frown and tsk tsk at her, suggesting that she impose a little discipline in her parenting, like they did in my day!
Charlie would look for doors and other escape routes and run like Forrest Gump whenever he got a chance. He would just run. Hard and fast to nowhere in particular. Straight towards busy roads.
Charlie would only eat certain foods and only wear blue shirts.
Just after his second birthday, Charlie was formally diagnosed with ASD. It is a neurological disorder. His brain is wired differently to the neurotypical child. There is no cure and much debate as to the cause. Medical science knows comparatively little about it or how to treat it.
Camilla and I were devastated but determined. We read as much as we could and sought out people who had been down this rocky road before us. He was our precious baby boy and we would do whatever it takes.
We discovered that the medical world was trumpeting a therapy called Early Intervention. When the autistic child is aged from around two to six, the brain is still malleable and developing. An intense program of speech therapy, occupational therapy and several other therapies can assist the brain to develop in a more neurotypical fashion. The changes can be permanent and result in a lifetime of difference.
This gave us hope and we searched for an Early Intervention Centre in Brisbane. We had vaguely heard of a place called AEIOU through its advertising and discovered it in our web searching. It seemed good. Damned good. It had a very long waiting list but we quickly joined the end of the queue.
At the beginning of last year, Charlie started at AEIOU. It is good. Damned good. Charlie is doing remarkably well. We have a different son. He now speaks in rudimentary sentences.
AEIOU stands for Autism Early Intervention Outcomes Unit. It was established by a couple called James and Louise Morton. James is an oncologist and Louise is, by all reports, a sheer force of nature. I have not yet met them, but admire them greatly. James and Louise themselves have a boy with ASD. A few years ago he was placed in a Government trial program and did very well. However, the Government ceased funding the program and the centre closed. James and Louise then decided to fight autism themselves. They used their savings to buy an old church at Moorooka and set up a new program to replicate the one the Government had jettisoned. Their son got the benefit of it for a few short months, until he started school.
AEIOU now has a number of centres across Queensland which are helping Charlie and around 200 other little angels just like him. The staff to student ratios are high and the staff are dedicated. AEIOU provides tremendous support for families and even helps ASD kids to transition to mainstream schools with follow up support. It adopts a holistic approach, but not in a hippy trippy way. In a practical way, hour after hour, day after day. The program is intense and in order to succeed it demands long weeks for little children. Charlie loves the place.
Autistic kids are beautiful. Charlie is affectionate and full of personality. He is handsome and clever. He is by no means a lesser person; just different.
A year of AEIOU has produced a transformed boy, but he is still autistic. Charlie still escapes and runs, still has meltdowns and still fears many aspects of the world around him. But he can now tell us about his fears. He can tell us that he is afraid to enter a room because the toilet seat or piano lid may be down. Camilla will then take any necessary action to correct the offending object and assure him that has been done. Together they will enter the feared area of the house and Charlie will relax knowing that all is good in his world for the moment.
Charlie now plays around other children and talks about them. We are confident that he will start playing with them soon.
It's extremely hard being away from home, leaving Camilla to fight the battle against autism without me. Camilla is a remarkable woman and is doing a sterling job. I proposed to her after two weeks with little hesitance and the confidence of youth. I have never regretted the decision and am privileged to be her husband.
Charlie will attend AEIOU for the rest of this year and then, hopefully, transition to mainstream school. I am determined to be there on his first day. Holding his little brown hand. Hopefully, I can let his hand go for a second or two and he will remain standing by me and not run. If not, I'll run after him and catch him.
Charlie is now visiting my parents in Toowoomba for a few days, to give Camilla a well-earned break. My parents and Camilla's mother have been tremendously supportive in fighting the good fights against autism and heart failure and Charlie loves them dearly.
We are lucky. I earn enough money to enable Charlie to attend AEIOU. Autism affects one child in around 140 so there are plenty of Charlies out there. Many are born to families that cannot afford Early Intervention. That is sad and wrong. It's a genuine tragedy. I hope we get it right with the new National Disability Insurance Scheme the Australian Government is putting together. We simply can't afford not to.
Check out AEIOU at aeiou.org.au. Send them lots of money.
Until next time,
Sunday, 1 April 2012
Football is not life or death
I have for many years been a supporter of the South Sydney Rugby League football team.
Souths are a little different. They are called the Rabbitohs, after the peddlers who sold rabbits around the streets of Redfern at the turn of the last century. The Club mascot is a fairly gentle looking fluffy white bunny. It is an old and proud working man's Club with tradition and spirit.
Supporting Souths builds character and resolve. The club may have won more premierships than any other, but it has won absolutely nothing for forty years. The lads made the semis twice in the late eighties and were knocked out of the finals early a couple of years ago. Given that there are eight teams allowed to play in the finals each year, Souths' perennial capacity to finish near the bottom of the ladder almost every year I have supported them is a remarkable underachievement. They were even expelled from the competition for a couple of years, until a Federal Court Judge determined the expulsion to be unlawful for contraventions of the Trades Practices Act. It was a clever and dedicated bunch of lawyers who managed to get them over the line, by the way.
Souths are now owned by Russell Crowe, the superstar actor. Rusty is a bloke I secretly admire. He's very bright and charismatic, but still likes a beer and a bit of roughhousing with the lads. He gets cranky and throws telephones at hotel staff, yet also quietly donates obscene sums of money to charity. From all reports he leaves the players and administrators of the Club to attend to their own business, without giving "helpful" advice as to how to tackle or how the website should look.
For the last few seasons, Souths have been financially stable and Rusty's supernova standing has enabled the Club to assemble a group of very talented players. This year, we have added a gun coach. The lads can now hold their own against any of the opposition and, just maybe, the Club is on the verge of achieving big things.
Souths started the season patchily. They thrashed one of the average sides (Penrith), gallantly lost to two seriously good sides (Melbourne and Brisbane) and threw away a match-winning lead in the final minutes to lose to another average side (Sydney Roosters).
Yesterday, they aimed up for their fifth game of the season, against the Wests Tigers. The Tigers are another old, proud working man's outfit. They have performed pretty well over the last few years but started the season poorly. It was a game ready for the good guys to win.
I try to get home for a few hours at a time on weekends and was well enough to get home for the big match. Camilla had organised a barbeque with Lord and Lady Bellbowrie, and heirs and issue, to attend.
The match was tight, rugged and low-scoring. However, the Tigers kicked away in the second half and held a commanding 16-4 lead with four minutes to go. Then the Rabbitohs's hooker scored his second try of the game and we were down by six with only two minutes to go. Bellbowrie and I looked at each other and dared to dream. Bellbowrie is not a league man. In Australia they play Rugby Union in the better schools and Bellbowrie is a student of the more gentlemanly game. His boys call league bad rugby. Nonetheless, Bellbowrie is a true sports connoisseur and he was enjoying the spectacle. For the record, I absolutely love Rugby Union as well. It is an obligatory lawyer thing, but also a wonderful game in its own right.
I said to Bellbowrie, cautiously, "You know I've got the pecs surgery riding on this game?. I had irrationally required the gods to send me an omen. If the Rabbitohs won I would not need the reconstructive surgery prior to transplant. Completely silly for a man of logic, but I had done it anyway. You do these things after nearly seven months in hospital.
Bellbowrie frowned. He knew Souths well and was disappointed I had hitched my wagon to such a dim, dim star.
Anyway, Souths miraculously scored with seconds to go, from a perfect grubber kick by a second rower of all people! The rookie halfback playing his fifth game calmly potted the conversion from near the sideline. Scores level on full time! On to extra time!
The Rabbitohs took command of extra time and calmly and clinically rucked the ball up the paddock into field goal range. The ball was passed to our superstar fullback, Greg Inglis, and he took a wobbly shot at field goal. It hit the uprights, fell and hit the crossbar and sneaked across. Rabbitohs win! Somehow. In the most unlikely and nailbiting of circumstances.
We then enjoyed some exquisite rib fillets with excellent wine. A Lakes Folly 2009 Cabernet. Much befitting the win and the fine crew we had assembled for dinner.
This morning, Doctors Thomson and Javorsky examined my sternum wound. They were delighted with the extent to which it has healed, and now wish to review it in a few days. If it continues to heal, we may avoid the pecs surgery. Still too early to call but the signs are good.
My recent experiences have taught me that football games are not life or death affairs. I am not on the field and do not even know any of the players. Whether my side wins or loses does not make my life better or worse. Indeed, my rugby team, the Queensland Reds, actually won the Super Fifteen last year. I was at the game, cheered them on and downed a million beers afterwards. They have never won the title before and will almost certainly never win it again (although I am happy to be proven wrong on that). A few weeks later I was in a coma.
I no longer sweat the small stuff. A football game is just a football game. It's not as important as having a functional heart.
Until next time,
Souths are a little different. They are called the Rabbitohs, after the peddlers who sold rabbits around the streets of Redfern at the turn of the last century. The Club mascot is a fairly gentle looking fluffy white bunny. It is an old and proud working man's Club with tradition and spirit.
Supporting Souths builds character and resolve. The club may have won more premierships than any other, but it has won absolutely nothing for forty years. The lads made the semis twice in the late eighties and were knocked out of the finals early a couple of years ago. Given that there are eight teams allowed to play in the finals each year, Souths' perennial capacity to finish near the bottom of the ladder almost every year I have supported them is a remarkable underachievement. They were even expelled from the competition for a couple of years, until a Federal Court Judge determined the expulsion to be unlawful for contraventions of the Trades Practices Act. It was a clever and dedicated bunch of lawyers who managed to get them over the line, by the way.
Souths are now owned by Russell Crowe, the superstar actor. Rusty is a bloke I secretly admire. He's very bright and charismatic, but still likes a beer and a bit of roughhousing with the lads. He gets cranky and throws telephones at hotel staff, yet also quietly donates obscene sums of money to charity. From all reports he leaves the players and administrators of the Club to attend to their own business, without giving "helpful" advice as to how to tackle or how the website should look.
For the last few seasons, Souths have been financially stable and Rusty's supernova standing has enabled the Club to assemble a group of very talented players. This year, we have added a gun coach. The lads can now hold their own against any of the opposition and, just maybe, the Club is on the verge of achieving big things.
Souths started the season patchily. They thrashed one of the average sides (Penrith), gallantly lost to two seriously good sides (Melbourne and Brisbane) and threw away a match-winning lead in the final minutes to lose to another average side (Sydney Roosters).
Yesterday, they aimed up for their fifth game of the season, against the Wests Tigers. The Tigers are another old, proud working man's outfit. They have performed pretty well over the last few years but started the season poorly. It was a game ready for the good guys to win.
I try to get home for a few hours at a time on weekends and was well enough to get home for the big match. Camilla had organised a barbeque with Lord and Lady Bellbowrie, and heirs and issue, to attend.
The match was tight, rugged and low-scoring. However, the Tigers kicked away in the second half and held a commanding 16-4 lead with four minutes to go. Then the Rabbitohs's hooker scored his second try of the game and we were down by six with only two minutes to go. Bellbowrie and I looked at each other and dared to dream. Bellbowrie is not a league man. In Australia they play Rugby Union in the better schools and Bellbowrie is a student of the more gentlemanly game. His boys call league bad rugby. Nonetheless, Bellbowrie is a true sports connoisseur and he was enjoying the spectacle. For the record, I absolutely love Rugby Union as well. It is an obligatory lawyer thing, but also a wonderful game in its own right.
I said to Bellbowrie, cautiously, "You know I've got the pecs surgery riding on this game?. I had irrationally required the gods to send me an omen. If the Rabbitohs won I would not need the reconstructive surgery prior to transplant. Completely silly for a man of logic, but I had done it anyway. You do these things after nearly seven months in hospital.
Bellbowrie frowned. He knew Souths well and was disappointed I had hitched my wagon to such a dim, dim star.
Anyway, Souths miraculously scored with seconds to go, from a perfect grubber kick by a second rower of all people! The rookie halfback playing his fifth game calmly potted the conversion from near the sideline. Scores level on full time! On to extra time!
The Rabbitohs took command of extra time and calmly and clinically rucked the ball up the paddock into field goal range. The ball was passed to our superstar fullback, Greg Inglis, and he took a wobbly shot at field goal. It hit the uprights, fell and hit the crossbar and sneaked across. Rabbitohs win! Somehow. In the most unlikely and nailbiting of circumstances.
We then enjoyed some exquisite rib fillets with excellent wine. A Lakes Folly 2009 Cabernet. Much befitting the win and the fine crew we had assembled for dinner.
This morning, Doctors Thomson and Javorsky examined my sternum wound. They were delighted with the extent to which it has healed, and now wish to review it in a few days. If it continues to heal, we may avoid the pecs surgery. Still too early to call but the signs are good.
My recent experiences have taught me that football games are not life or death affairs. I am not on the field and do not even know any of the players. Whether my side wins or loses does not make my life better or worse. Indeed, my rugby team, the Queensland Reds, actually won the Super Fifteen last year. I was at the game, cheered them on and downed a million beers afterwards. They have never won the title before and will almost certainly never win it again (although I am happy to be proven wrong on that). A few weeks later I was in a coma.
I no longer sweat the small stuff. A football game is just a football game. It's not as important as having a functional heart.
Until next time,
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