A lot of bad things happened to our family last year. Not least of them was the loss of our beloved little dog, Harlan. Harlan was a eight year old Cavalier King Charles spaniel. We adopted him in 2009 to be a companion for our other Cavvy, Jasper.
We had bought Jasper as a puppy from a breeder. Jasper was always Imogen's dog and she named him after a character in the Twilight books and movies. At the time, Immy was deeply into all things Twilight. She now denies any association with it. At twelve you are allowed such liberties.
We adopted Harlan from a family who was moving to Vietnam. Camilla learned of him through a Cavvy rescue website and his family brought him to our place to meet us and Jasper, so we could all determine whether it would be a feasible arrangement for all stakeholders.
It was clear from the outset that Harlan was a very different dog to Jasper. The drive made him carsick and he greeted us by vomiting on our tiles. Unlike Jasper, who was young, lean and energetic but stupid, Harlan was older and wiser. He was a little fat and a little slow getting around. Whilst Jasper had the orthodox good looks of a show dog, Harlan was funny looking and we suspected that he was well short of a purebred. He looked as if he could have easily had a wombat somewhere in the family tree. Jasper barely ate whilst Harlan was a true gourmand, looking to experience the many delicacies of people food as often as he could. The only athletic skill he possessed was an ability to leap onto a chair then a table, with astonishing speed and vigour, in order to access a plate of food that had been left for him to enjoy. Usually the meal was Charlie's.
Harlan enjoyed his moments of solitude and would find safe places in cupboards and under beds to savour being alone. He played with Jasper but only on his terms. He had no desire to be the dominant dog in our pack of two, and delighted in just being the beta male.
Harlan and I bonded. He invariably chose to sit with me on the couch or run to me for some roughhousing. He would howl with delight whenever I got home. A curious and endearing howl that was more of a yodel. Camilla joked that Harlan was my kindred spirit in dog form. We were great mates.
You may be thinking that a cavvy is hardly a man's dog. Well let's turn our mind to some real men who have owned cavvies. The starting point is of course Charles the First, who a man of profound influence with strongly held views in politics and philosophy. Charles the Second was a man's man of a king, who sowed his wild oats with gay abandon. Ronald Reagan owned cavvies, and he was the prototype conservative cold warrior President with a heart of iron. Robbie Farah owns cavvies and he packs into scrums in first grade Rugby League. My cousin Steve owns cavvies and he's a hard working tiler. Whilst not a man, my dear friend Emma has owned cavvies and she has always encouraged me to be more positive, an essential skill for getting through the long days and nights in hospital. I understand that Chuck Norris owns three fierce cavvies with spiked collars, who can menace even Cerberus. Cavvies are cool and real men like them.
Harlan developed a liking for cane toads. For the benefit of foreign readers, cane toads are large ugly toads that were introduced into North Queensland to control the effect of cane beetles. As is often the case, the cure proved worse than the affliction and cane toads have since dominated most habitats, urban and non-urban, across the State and beyond. It is not uncommon to see and hear dozens and dozens of them lazing in a steamy suburban backyard during Summer. Part of growing up in Queensland involves learning to strike a cane toad with a nine iron.
Cane toads secrete poison from their backs so most native predators stay well away from them. Thus far, only the clever crow has learned how to successfully tackle a toad. The crow will flip the toad on its back and attack the non-toxic underbelly. Most dogs are smart enough to stay away from toads. Even Jasper could work it out. Harlan, however, was a different story. He loved them and developed a liking for the taste of toad poison.
Throughout the day, Harlan would dig around the yard, looking for toads. He would sniff around nooks and crannies, hoping to cause a toad to jump into licking range. Every night, we had to ensure he was locked indoors before dark. A few times, we had to rush him to the veterinary hospital after he'd overdosed on toad poison. Camilla and I often said that one day the toads would get him. It was just a matter of time.
But it wasn't the toads that got him in the end. When our house became uninhabitable after the flood, Jasper and Harlan went to live with Shelley and Casey, and their dog Carlos. Carlos is a big white exuberant labrador. He and Jasper got on famously. Harlan, on the other hand, did not enjoy the new pack paradigm. He missed his toads and his best mate. After a few months in his new home, Harlan grew grumpy and tired. Then he got sick.
Ironically, Harlan developed cardiomyopathy, the same affliction I was to suffer a few months later. He got extremely sick and we started giving him expensive medication for his heart. Some of these drugs are part of the colourful cocktail I now take every day. We made arrangements for him to come and live with us at the townhouse, to see out his last few weeks with his family. We did what we could to make his last days happy ones and he became pleasant and endearing again.
Then one day, he got too sick for it to continue. He was in pain and there was no prospect he would get any better. We took him to the vet, said our goodbyes and gave him a last cuddle. Camilla has a great photo of me and Harlan, taken that day,which she often uses as her screen saver. The vet put him to sleep and we were sad for weeks. He was a great dog and is sorely missed.
After a few weeks, we adopted a new cavvy. She is a ditsy pup called Bobbi. Bobbi is pure red and, like Jasper, show dog attractive. But she is dumb. Very dumb. She makes Jasper look smart. Nonetheless, she is sweet and affectionate and gets along famously with Jasper. Charlie and Imogen love her dearly.
I still miss Harlan and always will. He was different and special. It will be a wonderful event for me to get back home, eventually, but I wish my little mate could have been there to be a part of it.
Until next time,
Thursday, 12 April 2012
Pinochet vanquished
Today I received some excellent news. My sternum wound, the evil Pinochet, will not require reconstructive surgery. The vacuum dressing has been removed and awarded a medal of valour. I now have a soft dressing in place, with no discomfort and no restrictions upon my arm and shoulder mobility. The wound is expected to fully heal of its own volition. The dictator is living in exile, a broken and powerless man.
On the down side, I got sick on painkillers again. I react very badly to many painkillers. They make me dizzy, nauseous and sweaty and induce horrendous vomiting. It's like getting badly drunk back in the student days, without the preceding good time. We have now tried Endone, Fentonil, Tramedol and Hydro Morphine. Each has caused the same reaction, to some degree. It is important that we find an effective painkiller before the transplant surgery. My delightful pharmacist, Suzanne, is assiduously working on the problem and I am confident she will come up with an answer.
Well done to my team at work for a resounding win in Court yesterday. They prepared the case quickly, clinically and thoroughly. They even indulged the old man to participate with a bit of strategy and research.
I am now back on antibiotics because my VAD wounds have been bleeding profusely. They required four dressings over 24 hours. I suspect that in the dying days of the regime, Pinochet sent a few troops across the border to wreck some mayhem. Nothing I haven't dealt with before so no biggie in the scheme of things.
Oh, I've been forgetting to mention the outcome of the Scrabble game with my mother in law. Please don't draw an adverse inference from my silence on the topic. I beat her by 99 points. She is a decent player so I was pretty chuffed and have now officially retired from the game. She can foist her contrived non-words upon the rookie crowd.
Until next time,
On the down side, I got sick on painkillers again. I react very badly to many painkillers. They make me dizzy, nauseous and sweaty and induce horrendous vomiting. It's like getting badly drunk back in the student days, without the preceding good time. We have now tried Endone, Fentonil, Tramedol and Hydro Morphine. Each has caused the same reaction, to some degree. It is important that we find an effective painkiller before the transplant surgery. My delightful pharmacist, Suzanne, is assiduously working on the problem and I am confident she will come up with an answer.
Well done to my team at work for a resounding win in Court yesterday. They prepared the case quickly, clinically and thoroughly. They even indulged the old man to participate with a bit of strategy and research.
I am now back on antibiotics because my VAD wounds have been bleeding profusely. They required four dressings over 24 hours. I suspect that in the dying days of the regime, Pinochet sent a few troops across the border to wreck some mayhem. Nothing I haven't dealt with before so no biggie in the scheme of things.
Oh, I've been forgetting to mention the outcome of the Scrabble game with my mother in law. Please don't draw an adverse inference from my silence on the topic. I beat her by 99 points. She is a decent player so I was pretty chuffed and have now officially retired from the game. She can foist her contrived non-words upon the rookie crowd.
Until next time,
Tuesday, 10 April 2012
Odds and Ends
It's time to give a general update as to the State of the Union here on Desolation Row.
I managed to get home each afternoon for the four days which comprised the Easter break. This was exhausting but very worthwhile. There is no place like home. There really isn't.
I managed to catch up with many family and a few friends, including Camilla's brother in law and nephew on holiday from England. Many thanks to the crew who assembled the new trampoline. Charlie loves it and Camilla has told me that he will often go out onto the deck just to check that it is still there.
Imogen is enjoying the school holidays and is spending much time with friends on shopping trips and sleepovers. She still make time for her Dad.
Charlie enjoyed his first Easter egg hunt, organised by his cousins. It was exhilarating to watch him participate in a structured game he understood, played with other children. He even chose to sit with the kids for lunch, rather than his Mummy. Giant strides.
Thanks to my parents for bringing down to Brisbane some of the traditional Lebanese food we eat over Easter. Each Good Friday, my Auntie Marie cooks a dish called kibbet rawhab. It is a bitter soup containing beans, chickpeas, onions, lemon and vinegar which the Maronites believe was given to Christ on the Cross. For as long as I can remember, my grandmother made the dish each year. Since her death, Marie has assumed the role. The dish is meant to be endured, rather than enjoyed, to remind the faithful of Christ's suffering. Personally, I find it delicious and eat it by the bowlful.
I could not see my sister Danielle because she is recovering from whooping cough. Hopefully I will be able to catch up very soon.
Noel is recovering well and is expected to return to the Ward very shortly. It has been deathly quiet in his absence.
Pinochet continues to heal well and there is no talk of any pecs surgery. It has not been ruled out, but is no longer being discussed. This is progress.
The VAD wounds continue to bleed heavily and lightly on and off for no apparent reason. I have suggested stigmata but my doctors are skeptical.
All the while, I continue to wait. And wait. And wait. Some things just have to be toughed out.
Until next time,
I managed to get home each afternoon for the four days which comprised the Easter break. This was exhausting but very worthwhile. There is no place like home. There really isn't.
I managed to catch up with many family and a few friends, including Camilla's brother in law and nephew on holiday from England. Many thanks to the crew who assembled the new trampoline. Charlie loves it and Camilla has told me that he will often go out onto the deck just to check that it is still there.
Imogen is enjoying the school holidays and is spending much time with friends on shopping trips and sleepovers. She still make time for her Dad.
Charlie enjoyed his first Easter egg hunt, organised by his cousins. It was exhilarating to watch him participate in a structured game he understood, played with other children. He even chose to sit with the kids for lunch, rather than his Mummy. Giant strides.
Thanks to my parents for bringing down to Brisbane some of the traditional Lebanese food we eat over Easter. Each Good Friday, my Auntie Marie cooks a dish called kibbet rawhab. It is a bitter soup containing beans, chickpeas, onions, lemon and vinegar which the Maronites believe was given to Christ on the Cross. For as long as I can remember, my grandmother made the dish each year. Since her death, Marie has assumed the role. The dish is meant to be endured, rather than enjoyed, to remind the faithful of Christ's suffering. Personally, I find it delicious and eat it by the bowlful.
I could not see my sister Danielle because she is recovering from whooping cough. Hopefully I will be able to catch up very soon.
Noel is recovering well and is expected to return to the Ward very shortly. It has been deathly quiet in his absence.
Pinochet continues to heal well and there is no talk of any pecs surgery. It has not been ruled out, but is no longer being discussed. This is progress.
The VAD wounds continue to bleed heavily and lightly on and off for no apparent reason. I have suggested stigmata but my doctors are skeptical.
All the while, I continue to wait. And wait. And wait. Some things just have to be toughed out.
Until next time,
Noah Part Two
.... continued from previous post.
Alone and anxious, I sloshed through the mud pile that covered my driveway and entered the garage. Slippery mud was everywhere and everything stank. The street was a war zone. Misplaced objects littered our yard, and the rest of the neighbourhood, covered in mud. I tried to open the door to the house but it was heavy with water and had warped out of shape. Eventually, I got it open and tentatively looked inside to take in the sights and smells of our personal Armageddon.
It was as bad as I had expected. Furniture and objects were strewn everywhere, covered in mud. Some things, like an outdoor table and chairs, had apparently been gently lifted up and gently placed down in their correct positions. Other things were lying about randomly. The smell was unbearable and I will never forget it. Our beautiful home was a gruesome and chaotic parody.
I did not know where to start or what to do. This called for serious physical labour with tools and skills. This was not a problem that called for drafting Court documents or succinctly articulating the potential liability of a receiver in effecting the sale of a particular development site. This task was beyond me. Well beyond me.
Then people started to arrive. Some were friends like Abigail and Steven Viller and Trish and Philip Stevenson. Some were neighbours, like the Uni students who had just moved into the house next door a few days before the deluge. Many were strangers. They were just everyday people who were roaming the affected suburbs with mops and brooms looking to help anyone they could. We worked all day and cleaned up much of the mess. The Brisbane City Council organised a kerbside collection where trucks would regularly stop and collect the latest piles of rubbish. Strangers dropped in with cakes and drinks. We photographed and catalogued all lost items, to support the insurance claim.
The Villers even took in Camilla's mother as a house guest for more than a week. I believe the Pope is considering sainthood.
The next day, a large group of my workmates arrived at the house with brooms and buckets. There were partners, employed lawyers, trainees and secretaries. They just wanted to work, because their mate needed a hand. Hopgood Ganim is that sort of place. We had so many helping hands already that we turned away many offers of help from passing strangers.
By this stage, the Brisbane City Council had repaired most essential services and the Premier had organised a donation fund for those victims who were uninsured. The speed of the recovery was breathtaking. It was well organised and well led by the Labor State Premier and the Liberal Lord Mayor. The people of Queensland showed the world how to quickly, efficiently and effectively deal with a major natural disaster. I felt guilty for my cynical thoughts towards the hoarders and spectators a few days earlier. As a man who assumes mediocrity in those who don't prove otherwise, I was pleasantly surprised by the communal display of generosity. It was both refreshing and uplifting.
We continued to liaise with our insurer, Suncorp. They were an absolute pleasure to deal with. They quickly approved a short term lease for a nearby townhouse and we moved ourselves and our belonging into our new temporary home. Not long before the flood, Imogen had been in hospital for surgery to remove her appendix. In true Imogen style, she never complained and simply made the best of it. She made friends with kids from other flood refugee families in the complex. We even had neighbours called Kramer!
We were fair with Suncorp and they were fair with us. We did not claim a lost Van Gogh or a case of Dom Perignon and they did not pennypinch what we did claim. Suncorp promptly engaged a builder to repair the damage and he did a pretty good job. Around many affected suburbs, residents displayed makeshift signs on their construction sites. Some praised the insurers like Suncorp who had done them good. Others criticised the many other insurers whom they felt had done them wrong.
Charlie struggled to adapt to his new routine and surroundings. It was a big ask for an autistic boy who had just started full time at AEIOU. The Centre was brilliant and provided us and Charlie with a great deal of practical support. We knew that he was in the right place.
After around six months, the construction work was over and we moved home. Even though the water level had not reached the upstairs floorboards, there was much damage to our upper level. The walls had sucked in copious amounts of floodwater and all of the upstairs carpets, curtains, mattresses and soft furnishing were covered in mildew and damaged beyond repair. Suncorp paid to replace the lot, without protest.
A few weeks after moving home, I caught a virus and got sick. The virus then attacked my heart and put my in hospital for seven months on a VAD waiting for a heart transplant. Perhaps the virus was borne upon those apocalyptic flood waters. Perhaps not. It really does not matter.
I am now less cynical and genuinely proud of Brisbane and its people. Last year, my family was pummelled by three cataclysmic events. Brisbane responded with a world class Early Intervention Centre for Charlie's autism, a world class repair and recovery effort following the flood and a world class transplant hospital to deal with my heart failure. Can any other city on the planet boast that? We have reason to have great civic pride in what we have built in this hot and steamy little corner of the globe.
I still can't bring myself to support the Brisbane Broncos. But I hate them a little less now. Mind you, not when they play Souths. This road to Damascus epiphany only goes so far.
Until next time,
Alone and anxious, I sloshed through the mud pile that covered my driveway and entered the garage. Slippery mud was everywhere and everything stank. The street was a war zone. Misplaced objects littered our yard, and the rest of the neighbourhood, covered in mud. I tried to open the door to the house but it was heavy with water and had warped out of shape. Eventually, I got it open and tentatively looked inside to take in the sights and smells of our personal Armageddon.
It was as bad as I had expected. Furniture and objects were strewn everywhere, covered in mud. Some things, like an outdoor table and chairs, had apparently been gently lifted up and gently placed down in their correct positions. Other things were lying about randomly. The smell was unbearable and I will never forget it. Our beautiful home was a gruesome and chaotic parody.
I did not know where to start or what to do. This called for serious physical labour with tools and skills. This was not a problem that called for drafting Court documents or succinctly articulating the potential liability of a receiver in effecting the sale of a particular development site. This task was beyond me. Well beyond me.
Then people started to arrive. Some were friends like Abigail and Steven Viller and Trish and Philip Stevenson. Some were neighbours, like the Uni students who had just moved into the house next door a few days before the deluge. Many were strangers. They were just everyday people who were roaming the affected suburbs with mops and brooms looking to help anyone they could. We worked all day and cleaned up much of the mess. The Brisbane City Council organised a kerbside collection where trucks would regularly stop and collect the latest piles of rubbish. Strangers dropped in with cakes and drinks. We photographed and catalogued all lost items, to support the insurance claim.
The Villers even took in Camilla's mother as a house guest for more than a week. I believe the Pope is considering sainthood.
The next day, a large group of my workmates arrived at the house with brooms and buckets. There were partners, employed lawyers, trainees and secretaries. They just wanted to work, because their mate needed a hand. Hopgood Ganim is that sort of place. We had so many helping hands already that we turned away many offers of help from passing strangers.
By this stage, the Brisbane City Council had repaired most essential services and the Premier had organised a donation fund for those victims who were uninsured. The speed of the recovery was breathtaking. It was well organised and well led by the Labor State Premier and the Liberal Lord Mayor. The people of Queensland showed the world how to quickly, efficiently and effectively deal with a major natural disaster. I felt guilty for my cynical thoughts towards the hoarders and spectators a few days earlier. As a man who assumes mediocrity in those who don't prove otherwise, I was pleasantly surprised by the communal display of generosity. It was both refreshing and uplifting.
We continued to liaise with our insurer, Suncorp. They were an absolute pleasure to deal with. They quickly approved a short term lease for a nearby townhouse and we moved ourselves and our belonging into our new temporary home. Not long before the flood, Imogen had been in hospital for surgery to remove her appendix. In true Imogen style, she never complained and simply made the best of it. She made friends with kids from other flood refugee families in the complex. We even had neighbours called Kramer!
We were fair with Suncorp and they were fair with us. We did not claim a lost Van Gogh or a case of Dom Perignon and they did not pennypinch what we did claim. Suncorp promptly engaged a builder to repair the damage and he did a pretty good job. Around many affected suburbs, residents displayed makeshift signs on their construction sites. Some praised the insurers like Suncorp who had done them good. Others criticised the many other insurers whom they felt had done them wrong.
Charlie struggled to adapt to his new routine and surroundings. It was a big ask for an autistic boy who had just started full time at AEIOU. The Centre was brilliant and provided us and Charlie with a great deal of practical support. We knew that he was in the right place.
After around six months, the construction work was over and we moved home. Even though the water level had not reached the upstairs floorboards, there was much damage to our upper level. The walls had sucked in copious amounts of floodwater and all of the upstairs carpets, curtains, mattresses and soft furnishing were covered in mildew and damaged beyond repair. Suncorp paid to replace the lot, without protest.
A few weeks after moving home, I caught a virus and got sick. The virus then attacked my heart and put my in hospital for seven months on a VAD waiting for a heart transplant. Perhaps the virus was borne upon those apocalyptic flood waters. Perhaps not. It really does not matter.
I am now less cynical and genuinely proud of Brisbane and its people. Last year, my family was pummelled by three cataclysmic events. Brisbane responded with a world class Early Intervention Centre for Charlie's autism, a world class repair and recovery effort following the flood and a world class transplant hospital to deal with my heart failure. Can any other city on the planet boast that? We have reason to have great civic pride in what we have built in this hot and steamy little corner of the globe.
I still can't bring myself to support the Brisbane Broncos. But I hate them a little less now. Mind you, not when they play Souths. This road to Damascus epiphany only goes so far.
Until next time,
God said to Noah, build me an ark.
In January 2011, South East Queensland experienced a flood of biblical proportions. Many lives were lost, towns were destroyed and a significant portion of Brisbane itself was under water. It made headlines around the globe.
The disaster was of a scale not previously seen in Australian history, because it decimated a very densely populated urban area. Greater Brisbane is a large, modern, highly developed metropolis and this made it particularly vulnerable to the colossal volume of water that spilled out of Wivenhoe dam over the course of several dramatic days. The scale of the devastation was not unlike that wrought upon New Orleans by Hurricane Katrina, or the damage sustained to Fukushima by the tsunami.. A big city and a lot of water are a catastrophic combination.
Our home got hit hard by the flood. At its peak, our block was under seven feet of smelly brown water. Our downstairs rooms were completely submerged - the water level stopped about a foot from the ceiling. Our upper storey, which fortunately contained most of our living areas, sat overlooking an enormous lake on all sides. It was the ultimate in riverfront living.
We were well aware that our property was at risk of flooding. At the time we bought the property, there were media reports speculating the possible effect of a one in a hundred year flood similar to that which Brisbane experienced in 1974. We knew from the outset that, every summer, there was a one in a hundred chance that the block would get a little wet. We even engaged a valuer to determine whether we had paid a fair price for the property in view of this risk. However, as best we could predict it a one in a hundred year flood would be expected to dump a foot or two of water onto the block, and probably fall short of the level of the house itself.
For each of the first few years after we bought the property, we took out flood insurance. The premiums were pretty expensive even though the risk of flood was very low at the time. Queensland was in the grip of a prolonged drought and dam levels were dangerously low. The meteorologists called the weather pattern El Nino. All households and businesses were subject to austere water restrictions and the prospect of a flood was far from front of mind. Some young motorists were yet to experience driving on a wet road, years after getting their driver's licence. Camilla and I made a tactical decision to drop our flood cover and save some money on our insurance premiums.
By late 2009, El Nino was gone and his sister La Nina was taking charge. The rains came. Summer was again monsoon season and many young Queenslanders witnessed their first real tropical storm. Queensland storms are spectacular displays of lightening, thunder and hail. They are as magical as they are dangerous.
In October 2010, Camilla and I reviewed our position and turned our minds to whether we should resume our flood insurance. The meteorologists were predicting a very wet Summer. We vacillated. We agonised. We decided that prudence was the better play and took out flood insurance. The premium was high, so we put it on the credit card.
For the next twelve weeks it rained almost continually. Dams filled and young drivers quickly learned how to safely manoeuvre a car on a wet road through blinding rain and hail. Children marvelled at nature's fireworks display, played encore almost every night. But Camilla and I grew worried. We checked the level of Witton Creek, about a hundred metres from our home, every time the rain got particularly heavy. It showed us that it could grow from a trickle to a torrent with alarming speed.
Then one fateful day in January 2011, it really, really began to rain. It all started in my home town of Toowoomba, which sits in the middle of an ancient volcanic crater atop the Great Dividing Range. The rain flooded the city's two gentle creeks, one of which passes through the Central Business District. They became an inland tsunami. Cars were tossed like toys and buildings destroyed. Footage of the event was beamed across the globe. We have frequently seen news vision of my cousin, Mark Fitzpatrick, pulling a victim from the thundering floodwaters. That's typical of the Fitzpatricks. Mark would not hesitate to modestly pull a stranger from peril because that's just the decent thing to do. That's the way he was raised.
The water caused substantial damage to Camilla's mother's unit, and many other properties across the City. All that water had to go somewhere, so it cascaded down the Toowoomba range and into the Lockyer Valley. It devastated Murphy's Creek, the town where my mother was born and raised. It demolished the small town of Grantham, where nearly one hundred lives were lost. The Lockyer Creek and Bremer River became walls of water. The City of Ipswich was inundated and suburbs were submerged. My cousin, Anna Costello, watched her house drown. The waters approached the roof line, I think.
The waters flowed into Wivenhoe Dam, a massive facility that had been constructed after the 1974 floods to dam the Brisbane River. The primary purpose of the dam was flood mitigation. It was to ensure that down river, in Brisbane itself, the river levels would not rise during extreme rain events to the extent they did in 1974.
Camilla and I grew nervous and we followed the news updates by the hour. The dam level at Wivenhoe exceeded the "safe" capacity of 100% and quickly filled the backup capacity such that it was approaching 200%. It became apparent that the river was going to rise, and rise high. As was little Witton Creek. It was just a question of how high and when.
Whilst the dam was rising, nervous engineers made controlled releases of water. Just how much they released, and when, is a matter of conjecture. As is how much they should have released, and when, in compliance with the dam's operating manual and best practice. The Queensland Government has since conducted a formal flood inquiry where lawyers have spent many days presenting evidence to the Commissioner, a Supreme Court Judge, as to what actually happened, what should have happened and how it can be prevented in the future. The Commissioner has concluded that the engineers essentially collaborated and prepared documents to suggest the releases had complied with the manual, when they had not. Her Honour has accepted, however, that they still achieved close to the best practical result that the circumstances allowed.
On Tuesday, 11 January 2011, I nervously went to work. However, I spent little time working. I sat on the computer monitoring the rising floodwaters. On the basis of what I read, I still believed that we were a good chance of avoiding water on our block. By late morning, the managers of our office tower decided to evacuate the building. I was well and truly ready to leave myself, so I returned home.
By early afternoon, the signs were bad and Camilla and I began to prepare for the worst. Charlie was our priority. We were conscious of evacuating earlier, rather than later, because his autism would potentially make an evacuation difficult. Our neighbours were already loading their possessions onto trucks and Witton Creek had burst its banks and spilled across the roadway.
I walked up to the local shop to buy supplies for a few days. The shelves were nearly empty. People had panicked. Residents who were nowhere near the danger zone had raided the stores just in case. Everyone wants to personalise a drama. I was livid and bought what I could.
We made arrangements to evacuate the family to my sister's house. Shelley and her husband, Casey, live in a high part of the next suburb. Their home was well and truly safe and they graciously insisted that we stay with them. I dropped off our dogs and Camilla evacuated Imogen and Charlie.
Casey and I then set about moving some things upstairs, in case our block flooded. Neither of us thought that the residence itself would flood much, if at all. We moved the television and stereo from the rumpus room, my golf clubs and most of my wine cellar. Got to ensure the important stuff is safe!
By early evening, Witton Creek was a lake and that lake was lapping our driveway. I started to think that the residence was going to suffer some damage. The worst case scenario was becoming a reality.
I slept little that night and every few hours drove to the house to watch the waters rise. Every few hours, the waters rose a few more feet. My vantage point was pushed steadily further up the slight gradient of our street. By morning, a small crowd had gathered at the edge of the lake to watch the show. To watch my home slowly fall more deeply into the floodwaters. I hated them.
The waters rose through the day and curious objects floated around the neighbourhood. All sorts of objects. A blowup sex doll was floating in my back yard. It was incredulous and provided some light relief. I wondered whether she was local. I assure you, she is not mine!
One of my neighbours paddled a canoe across our back fence to inspect the damage at close range. All the while the waters kept rising and the news services were trying to predict the peak. The coverage of the disaster was constantly played out on every television channel in the nation. The world watched Brisbane as the drama played out minute by minute.
The next day was Wednesday. That morning, Camilla and I prayed for a small miracle. We prayed that the waters would peak just short of our upstairs floorboards. And that morning they did. By a foot. At a level about two feet below where the experts were predicting. We felt lucky. We were safe and insured.
By Thursday the waters had begun to recede and by Friday I was able to return to our home on foot.
What happened next was truly wonderful. It's a great story but you'll have to wait until my next post. It's getting late and I have a little legal stuff to do. Not that my team back of the firm really need my input. They're doing a great job without me and I now accept that, so far as our jobs are concerned, we are all expendable. Nonetheless, they appear happy to tolerate my ill-informed meddling and understand that it allows me to escape Desolation Row every now and then for a little holiday to the real world.
Until next time,
The disaster was of a scale not previously seen in Australian history, because it decimated a very densely populated urban area. Greater Brisbane is a large, modern, highly developed metropolis and this made it particularly vulnerable to the colossal volume of water that spilled out of Wivenhoe dam over the course of several dramatic days. The scale of the devastation was not unlike that wrought upon New Orleans by Hurricane Katrina, or the damage sustained to Fukushima by the tsunami.. A big city and a lot of water are a catastrophic combination.
Our home got hit hard by the flood. At its peak, our block was under seven feet of smelly brown water. Our downstairs rooms were completely submerged - the water level stopped about a foot from the ceiling. Our upper storey, which fortunately contained most of our living areas, sat overlooking an enormous lake on all sides. It was the ultimate in riverfront living.
We were well aware that our property was at risk of flooding. At the time we bought the property, there were media reports speculating the possible effect of a one in a hundred year flood similar to that which Brisbane experienced in 1974. We knew from the outset that, every summer, there was a one in a hundred chance that the block would get a little wet. We even engaged a valuer to determine whether we had paid a fair price for the property in view of this risk. However, as best we could predict it a one in a hundred year flood would be expected to dump a foot or two of water onto the block, and probably fall short of the level of the house itself.
For each of the first few years after we bought the property, we took out flood insurance. The premiums were pretty expensive even though the risk of flood was very low at the time. Queensland was in the grip of a prolonged drought and dam levels were dangerously low. The meteorologists called the weather pattern El Nino. All households and businesses were subject to austere water restrictions and the prospect of a flood was far from front of mind. Some young motorists were yet to experience driving on a wet road, years after getting their driver's licence. Camilla and I made a tactical decision to drop our flood cover and save some money on our insurance premiums.
By late 2009, El Nino was gone and his sister La Nina was taking charge. The rains came. Summer was again monsoon season and many young Queenslanders witnessed their first real tropical storm. Queensland storms are spectacular displays of lightening, thunder and hail. They are as magical as they are dangerous.
In October 2010, Camilla and I reviewed our position and turned our minds to whether we should resume our flood insurance. The meteorologists were predicting a very wet Summer. We vacillated. We agonised. We decided that prudence was the better play and took out flood insurance. The premium was high, so we put it on the credit card.
For the next twelve weeks it rained almost continually. Dams filled and young drivers quickly learned how to safely manoeuvre a car on a wet road through blinding rain and hail. Children marvelled at nature's fireworks display, played encore almost every night. But Camilla and I grew worried. We checked the level of Witton Creek, about a hundred metres from our home, every time the rain got particularly heavy. It showed us that it could grow from a trickle to a torrent with alarming speed.
Then one fateful day in January 2011, it really, really began to rain. It all started in my home town of Toowoomba, which sits in the middle of an ancient volcanic crater atop the Great Dividing Range. The rain flooded the city's two gentle creeks, one of which passes through the Central Business District. They became an inland tsunami. Cars were tossed like toys and buildings destroyed. Footage of the event was beamed across the globe. We have frequently seen news vision of my cousin, Mark Fitzpatrick, pulling a victim from the thundering floodwaters. That's typical of the Fitzpatricks. Mark would not hesitate to modestly pull a stranger from peril because that's just the decent thing to do. That's the way he was raised.
The water caused substantial damage to Camilla's mother's unit, and many other properties across the City. All that water had to go somewhere, so it cascaded down the Toowoomba range and into the Lockyer Valley. It devastated Murphy's Creek, the town where my mother was born and raised. It demolished the small town of Grantham, where nearly one hundred lives were lost. The Lockyer Creek and Bremer River became walls of water. The City of Ipswich was inundated and suburbs were submerged. My cousin, Anna Costello, watched her house drown. The waters approached the roof line, I think.
The waters flowed into Wivenhoe Dam, a massive facility that had been constructed after the 1974 floods to dam the Brisbane River. The primary purpose of the dam was flood mitigation. It was to ensure that down river, in Brisbane itself, the river levels would not rise during extreme rain events to the extent they did in 1974.
Camilla and I grew nervous and we followed the news updates by the hour. The dam level at Wivenhoe exceeded the "safe" capacity of 100% and quickly filled the backup capacity such that it was approaching 200%. It became apparent that the river was going to rise, and rise high. As was little Witton Creek. It was just a question of how high and when.
Whilst the dam was rising, nervous engineers made controlled releases of water. Just how much they released, and when, is a matter of conjecture. As is how much they should have released, and when, in compliance with the dam's operating manual and best practice. The Queensland Government has since conducted a formal flood inquiry where lawyers have spent many days presenting evidence to the Commissioner, a Supreme Court Judge, as to what actually happened, what should have happened and how it can be prevented in the future. The Commissioner has concluded that the engineers essentially collaborated and prepared documents to suggest the releases had complied with the manual, when they had not. Her Honour has accepted, however, that they still achieved close to the best practical result that the circumstances allowed.
On Tuesday, 11 January 2011, I nervously went to work. However, I spent little time working. I sat on the computer monitoring the rising floodwaters. On the basis of what I read, I still believed that we were a good chance of avoiding water on our block. By late morning, the managers of our office tower decided to evacuate the building. I was well and truly ready to leave myself, so I returned home.
By early afternoon, the signs were bad and Camilla and I began to prepare for the worst. Charlie was our priority. We were conscious of evacuating earlier, rather than later, because his autism would potentially make an evacuation difficult. Our neighbours were already loading their possessions onto trucks and Witton Creek had burst its banks and spilled across the roadway.
I walked up to the local shop to buy supplies for a few days. The shelves were nearly empty. People had panicked. Residents who were nowhere near the danger zone had raided the stores just in case. Everyone wants to personalise a drama. I was livid and bought what I could.
We made arrangements to evacuate the family to my sister's house. Shelley and her husband, Casey, live in a high part of the next suburb. Their home was well and truly safe and they graciously insisted that we stay with them. I dropped off our dogs and Camilla evacuated Imogen and Charlie.
Casey and I then set about moving some things upstairs, in case our block flooded. Neither of us thought that the residence itself would flood much, if at all. We moved the television and stereo from the rumpus room, my golf clubs and most of my wine cellar. Got to ensure the important stuff is safe!
By early evening, Witton Creek was a lake and that lake was lapping our driveway. I started to think that the residence was going to suffer some damage. The worst case scenario was becoming a reality.
I slept little that night and every few hours drove to the house to watch the waters rise. Every few hours, the waters rose a few more feet. My vantage point was pushed steadily further up the slight gradient of our street. By morning, a small crowd had gathered at the edge of the lake to watch the show. To watch my home slowly fall more deeply into the floodwaters. I hated them.
The waters rose through the day and curious objects floated around the neighbourhood. All sorts of objects. A blowup sex doll was floating in my back yard. It was incredulous and provided some light relief. I wondered whether she was local. I assure you, she is not mine!
One of my neighbours paddled a canoe across our back fence to inspect the damage at close range. All the while the waters kept rising and the news services were trying to predict the peak. The coverage of the disaster was constantly played out on every television channel in the nation. The world watched Brisbane as the drama played out minute by minute.
The next day was Wednesday. That morning, Camilla and I prayed for a small miracle. We prayed that the waters would peak just short of our upstairs floorboards. And that morning they did. By a foot. At a level about two feet below where the experts were predicting. We felt lucky. We were safe and insured.
By Thursday the waters had begun to recede and by Friday I was able to return to our home on foot.
What happened next was truly wonderful. It's a great story but you'll have to wait until my next post. It's getting late and I have a little legal stuff to do. Not that my team back of the firm really need my input. They're doing a great job without me and I now accept that, so far as our jobs are concerned, we are all expendable. Nonetheless, they appear happy to tolerate my ill-informed meddling and understand that it allows me to escape Desolation Row every now and then for a little holiday to the real world.
Until next time,
Sunday, 8 April 2012
Let it bleed
Life on a VAD is precarious. There are many things that can and do go wrong, and I have had my share of them during the time the Impaler and I have been joined at the hip.
The nurses need to ensure that I am constantly monitored, so that any potential complications are identified as soon as possible. Every four hours whilst I am awake, my temperature, blood pressure, pulse and blood saturation are each checked and recorded. Several times a day, the Impaler is checked and a note is made of the flow rate and the fill rate. Every day, I am examined by a cardiologist.
The hospital staff need to know where I am at all times and I cannot ever be more than 30 minutes from the hospital.
The worldwide statistics for VAD patients are not pretty. Around half do not live long enough to obtain a transplant. That is, however, quite misleading to my own situation. In many countries, notably the States, VADs are widely used as destination therapy. A small VAD is implanted and attached to the patient and it is not contemplated that the patient will ever undergo a heart transplant. The patient is intended to live with the VAD for the duration of their life. For me, the Impaler is intended to be a bridge to transplant. My doctors are looking to keep me healthy and minimize the effect of complications until a suitable donor organ becomes available. Given that I am young and strong, and on the transplant list, there is a low likelihood that I will die on the waiting list prior to transplant. Nonetheless, the risk is a very real one and my patient management practices reflect that.
The most nefarious complications which a VAD patient can experience are clotting, infection, bleeding and machine failure.
It is imperative for the blood of a VAD patient to be significantly thinned, to allow it to properly flow through the plastic tubes going to and from the pump chamber. This means I must take blood thinning medication every day. One of these, Warfarin, was once used to kill rats. If the blood of a VAD patient is not thin enough, it can clot and cause a stroke. This happened to me about a week into the coma. Dr Thomson was required to perform emergency surgery at my hospital bed to remove the clot, which I believe was near my heart. Fortunately, I have not experienced any further clotting issues since then.
VAD patients are at increased risk of infection. The pump chamber is connected to two plastic tubes which are inserted into the abdomen. One is connected to the left ventrical of the heart and the other to the aorta. This creates a portal between the organs and the outside world. It also creates an environment that is conducive to bacteria and viruses. They love to live on the tubes. It is like purpose built apartment living for them. I have had at least three infections since the Impaler was inserted into my belly. The first was a nasty fungal infection which ravaged my body and very nearly killed me. I think it was called Candida Liberata. It took weeks for the Infectious Diseases doctors to identify and treat. The other infections have been much less serious, and have responded well to oral and IV antibiotics.
Because my blood is thin, I tend to bleed. I bleed badly from the VAD wounds. The nurses must redress them every day and often twice daily. I bleed from the sternum wound. I bleed from shaving cuts. I bleed from the nose. I am not squeamish at the sight of blood. I have seen enough of it to last a lifetime.
A VAD is just a machine and machines fail. I must take a backup VAD with me everywhere I go, in case the Impaler malfunctions. Further, I need to carry hand pumps in case both machines fail. I have had a few mechanical problems with the VADs I have been connected to. Some have been minor and a couple more serious. Nonetheless, each problem has been identified and dealt with, calmly and confidently.
I have now got through seven months with the Impaler. It has done well to keep me alive and keep me on the transplant list. It is extremely restrictive to living life and I often get frustrated that I cannot easily perform the basic functions I previously took for granted. However, it is significantly better than the alternative.
Until next time,
The nurses need to ensure that I am constantly monitored, so that any potential complications are identified as soon as possible. Every four hours whilst I am awake, my temperature, blood pressure, pulse and blood saturation are each checked and recorded. Several times a day, the Impaler is checked and a note is made of the flow rate and the fill rate. Every day, I am examined by a cardiologist.
The hospital staff need to know where I am at all times and I cannot ever be more than 30 minutes from the hospital.
The worldwide statistics for VAD patients are not pretty. Around half do not live long enough to obtain a transplant. That is, however, quite misleading to my own situation. In many countries, notably the States, VADs are widely used as destination therapy. A small VAD is implanted and attached to the patient and it is not contemplated that the patient will ever undergo a heart transplant. The patient is intended to live with the VAD for the duration of their life. For me, the Impaler is intended to be a bridge to transplant. My doctors are looking to keep me healthy and minimize the effect of complications until a suitable donor organ becomes available. Given that I am young and strong, and on the transplant list, there is a low likelihood that I will die on the waiting list prior to transplant. Nonetheless, the risk is a very real one and my patient management practices reflect that.
The most nefarious complications which a VAD patient can experience are clotting, infection, bleeding and machine failure.
It is imperative for the blood of a VAD patient to be significantly thinned, to allow it to properly flow through the plastic tubes going to and from the pump chamber. This means I must take blood thinning medication every day. One of these, Warfarin, was once used to kill rats. If the blood of a VAD patient is not thin enough, it can clot and cause a stroke. This happened to me about a week into the coma. Dr Thomson was required to perform emergency surgery at my hospital bed to remove the clot, which I believe was near my heart. Fortunately, I have not experienced any further clotting issues since then.
VAD patients are at increased risk of infection. The pump chamber is connected to two plastic tubes which are inserted into the abdomen. One is connected to the left ventrical of the heart and the other to the aorta. This creates a portal between the organs and the outside world. It also creates an environment that is conducive to bacteria and viruses. They love to live on the tubes. It is like purpose built apartment living for them. I have had at least three infections since the Impaler was inserted into my belly. The first was a nasty fungal infection which ravaged my body and very nearly killed me. I think it was called Candida Liberata. It took weeks for the Infectious Diseases doctors to identify and treat. The other infections have been much less serious, and have responded well to oral and IV antibiotics.
Because my blood is thin, I tend to bleed. I bleed badly from the VAD wounds. The nurses must redress them every day and often twice daily. I bleed from the sternum wound. I bleed from shaving cuts. I bleed from the nose. I am not squeamish at the sight of blood. I have seen enough of it to last a lifetime.
A VAD is just a machine and machines fail. I must take a backup VAD with me everywhere I go, in case the Impaler malfunctions. Further, I need to carry hand pumps in case both machines fail. I have had a few mechanical problems with the VADs I have been connected to. Some have been minor and a couple more serious. Nonetheless, each problem has been identified and dealt with, calmly and confidently.
I have now got through seven months with the Impaler. It has done well to keep me alive and keep me on the transplant list. It is extremely restrictive to living life and I often get frustrated that I cannot easily perform the basic functions I previously took for granted. However, it is significantly better than the alternative.
Until next time,
Saturday, 7 April 2012
The fourteenth post
I am hurriedly pushing through a short fourteenth post because I don't want to be stuck on thirteen.
One of my cardiologists saw Pinochet today and was impressed that the wound continues to heal nicely. He is a young Doogie Howser type doctor who must be almost ready to start shaving. Nonetheless, he is very good and I have complete trust and confidence in him.
Souths won again on Thursday. A good omen, but a few of our superstars have now sustained serious long term injuries.
I am in the middle of a brutal game of computer Scrabble with my mother in law. I will get home this afternoon to finish her off. I tabled an eight letter word on my second go and had formed another using all my letters on my fourth - reunions. It hung off chin to form chino. It straddled a triple word score and would have netted me over a hundred points. She objected and the computer upheld her objection. After it had allowed her footle and eek. Is chino a fair word in Scrabble? Gerard, please help me out here, buddy. I'm miles ahead of her but anything short of a bloodbath will be unacceptable.
I make the compelling submission that chino raised no concern with my spell checker this morning. Footle however did not make muster. I rest my case.
Until next time,
One of my cardiologists saw Pinochet today and was impressed that the wound continues to heal nicely. He is a young Doogie Howser type doctor who must be almost ready to start shaving. Nonetheless, he is very good and I have complete trust and confidence in him.
Souths won again on Thursday. A good omen, but a few of our superstars have now sustained serious long term injuries.
I am in the middle of a brutal game of computer Scrabble with my mother in law. I will get home this afternoon to finish her off. I tabled an eight letter word on my second go and had formed another using all my letters on my fourth - reunions. It hung off chin to form chino. It straddled a triple word score and would have netted me over a hundred points. She objected and the computer upheld her objection. After it had allowed her footle and eek. Is chino a fair word in Scrabble? Gerard, please help me out here, buddy. I'm miles ahead of her but anything short of a bloodbath will be unacceptable.
I make the compelling submission that chino raised no concern with my spell checker this morning. Footle however did not make muster. I rest my case.
Until next time,
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