Manic and melancholy

It's New Years Eve; our first wedding anniversary. We have an adorable, perfect,  13-day-old daughter. Renovations have just completed on our home. And as we watch the fireworks explode above the river on a perfect Brisbane summer night, I'm trying to offer M-A reasons not to die.

Unfortunately, my arguments are futile against the vile vine that has coiled itself around her mind, swallowing any sun long before it provides any light or warmth.

I am unable to empathise. The deepest I've delved into the depths of my own disposition, produced a darkness sufficient only to replace my morning salutations with grudging grunts; and it was resolved with a double espresso.

But I have witnessed more closely than one would ever wish, the symptoms of this disease.  It is more than mental. It physically flattens. It steals the victim's energy, making it unavailable for sudden, spontaneous movement (like facial expressions, or laughter) and transforms it into relentless anxiety and self-destructive thoughts.

Perception of time is altered. An hour spent staring at the ceiling, imprisoned in a custom-designed hell, is far longer than the 60 minutes it comprises. Each day survived is a significant victory, but takes a heavy toll. A week is almost inconceivable. The months it will likely take for the episode to pass...

The trivia of everyday life irritates. This is at least consistent. It would be incongruous to be enumerating ways to cease one's existence, whilst being remotely concerned as to whether it was cool for this time of year, or that the cricket team is doing well.

Apparently it was Samuel Johnson who coined it the black dog. We find the term a useful avatar, but please don't visualise a black-coated Labrador with lolling tongue and drooping eyes. Picture instead a giant, glistening, sinew-bound, raven hell-hound; snarling, fangs dripping. It bites hard, and shakes the victim violently. There is no breaking free. The only available strategy is playing dead, and hoping that when it is done you are still only playing.

Medicine is mostly impotent, possessing no weapons capable of deterring it at the peak of its rage.   
In some ways, mental-health lags the rest of medicine by centuries.  Potential treatments are discovered accidentally, with no proven theory as to why they might work.  Anti-depressant drugs are the high-technology equivalent of applying leeches or letting blood (in my opinion).  They are not exposed as snake-oil only because depression, as its moniker indicates, is an episodic illness.  People are prescribed the drugs (which conveniently are extremely vague as to how long they take to produce a result), and eventually, they improve (as they otherwise would).  Again, this is just my ill-informed opinion.  Personal results may vary.  Please consult your doctor if symptoms persist.

As humans, we simply don’t understand how our brains function. It seems a philosophical question of the type Hofstadter would ponder: Can an intelligent system comprehend itself? (i.e. the human-brain). But fuck the philosophy, I just want my wife back.

We are drowning in a dark and stormy ocean.  I am paddling furiously, trying to keep our heads above water, while M-A begs me to let her drown.  The fact that it is an episode, that it will certainly pass, is the life-saver we cling to.  Without it, we would certainly sink.

The metaphor is lame, I know.  But I resort to it only because I can’t realistically describe it.  Combinations of the strongest adjectives sound insipid when I read them while looking at her face.
And I see only the visible affect.  Her eyes reveal tiny reflections of the horrible maelstrom inside.  Occasionally I make the mistake, not of thinking I understand, but of forgetting that I don’t.  Then I go to hug her before bed; to tell her that she is strong; that she can face another day.  My hand inadvertently slides under her pillow and discovers the hidden handful of pills which will ensure she will never have to.  And I remember that I have no idea.
         
There are two M-A’s: high and low; manic and melancholy.
 
When she is high, no one enjoys life more.  She is a complete extrovert; organised; capable; carefree.  She loves food, activity, work, and most of all, people.  Simple things thrill, like a good Avocado or a sunny day.

When she is low, all the above is false; the exact opposite the truth.  The term ‘bi-polar’ is completely appropriate.
  
Perhaps this is true for everyone, only to varying extents.  At what point does it become pathological?  If M-A was offered a deal in which she could avoid the lows, in return for lowering the highs, would she accept?  Would I?    

Like I repeatedly whisper to her, it will be OK.  This will pass.  Manic M-A will return.  And so will melancholy…

Match Report: Custard SC vs Brisbane Lions

Friday the 27th of May saw Custard on the road to Far-North-Queensland, to challenge the Brisbane Lions at Prentice Park.

The game's referee apparently decided that braving the scrotum-shrinking cold to get abused by lunchtime-legends wasn't worth the lucrative fee on offer. Fortunately, someone not so rational was found, and was convinced to man the whistle.

With success, comes the clones. After dominating Friday Div 1 in the 2010 season, sports scientists swarmed to study every aspect of Custard's game, but none more so than the renowned warm-up routine. From the Commercial League to the Champions League, teams can now be seen clustering on the edge of the penalty-area, awaiting their turn to have take a shot with a single, half-flat, ball. And high-knees across the field while singing Backstreet Boys tunes has become de rigueur in performance academies everywhere.

But, after a number of games in which the only factor limiting how quickly the opposition could score was the friction of the air as the ball travelled through it, and at the urging of the season's marquee signing Jeremy Lindsay, a more conventional approach to warm-up was taken.

The most thorough pre-game preparation in the club's history paid dividends, as Custard dominated the opening stages. Chris Marie would have been smiling down from Heaven
England, as the passing-game he instigated tore the Lions open. The cousin-combination of Tim Blumke and Steve Smith were too much to handle down the right-hand side, while Brett Bevan and Andrew Rhule were causing problems on the left. The blitzkrieg down the flanks left the Lions exposed in the middle, and the opening goal was fired from the right-cannon of Daniel Panasiuk, showing he can score off the boot as well as the head. The famous Prentice Park BBQ-on-the-balcony crowd were baying for a repeat of his celebration sans-shirt from the previous game. After that incident, some of the more insecure Custard players had discretely pleaded with him to display some modesty, lest they be shown up in front of their WAGs*. On this occasion, the hairless-Ukranian was merciful.

Having barely touched the ball, the Lions evidently sensed weakness in their opposition, because despite having pre-game enthusiastically agreed to a 70 minute match, they reneged and insisted on the full 90 being played. Perhaps they thought the old men of Custard couldn't run for 90-minutes. Or maybe that we would fall asleep before the final whistle? Regardless, they welshed on a deal. And if there's one thing that riles Rhule more than unsporting-conduct, its being made to miss Friday night NRL. Big mistake Lions...

The carnival de Custard continued. Jez was dancing through defenders, and drove a couple of shots barely wide. Blumke found himself in open space and charging towards the Lion's keeper before unselfishly passing (some crueller commentators suggested it was because the Custard moniker was inspired by the power of his left boot), and Jeremy's low cross was prodded home by Brett Bevan. Earlier in the day, Panasiuk had been the victim of a cruel Blumke hoax, informing him the game had been cancelled. Having thought the highlight of his week had been taken, he was now savouring each second. He put a delicate dink past the Lions defenders, and into the path of Stevie Smith, who while begging gravity to bring the ball to striking height, was surely haunted by ghosts of early season misses. He waited patiently for the ball to settle on the notoriously bobble-prone surface, before burying the ball, his own demons, and perhaps the Lions along with them?

The Lions few threatening moments were diffused by the Pickerill-Thomas tag-team, with Jacob enjoying a relatively quiet night in front of the goal (surely a nice change after the opening games of the season). The occasional Lions incursions down the left-hand side were dealt with by Nathan Pickle, and Custard weren't out of goals yet. Blumke again found himself free with only the keeper in front. And this time the ball was on his dominant right foot. He performed the closest thing to a one-two play that Custard have shown, driving the ball into the keeper's torso, claiming the rebound, and tapping it home.

Half-time: Custard 4-0 to the good.

The second-half began, and it started to appear the Lions were right in enforcing the full 90, as they dominated a Custard team already thinking about their Friday night blankets and hot-chocolates. Cracks were showing in castle Custard, as we regressed to the time-tested tactic of kicking the ball as hard as we could in whichever direction we happened to be facing. The Lions converted the pressure, scoring a deserved goal.

The Lion's cause was helped by the Blue card shown to Pana midway through the half. Though it may have seemed a harsh decision from a distance, the broadcaster's shot-gun microphone clearly caught the Custard midfielder offering to buy the referee a beer if he produced the Blue card, and the ten minutes rest that comes with it.

The remainder of the half was an unspectacular grind. Custard did enough defensively to thwart the Lions, but never showed the clean passing of the first half. Jez maintained his relentless work-rate and composure, while Steve Smith and Brett Bevan continued to worry the defense. Steve's second goal, although it may not make the highlight reel (unless there is a montage of knee'd goals from close range), was a deserved return to the goal-scoring form of last season.

Andrew Rhule again showed his versatility, playing every position on the park, and extracting every drop of drama from the game. With the scores at 5-1, and the crowd more interested in Angry Birds on their iPhones than the game, Rhule received the ball at left fullback, before falling like an Australian on an ice-rink, leaving the ball, and one last opportunity, for the Lions forwards.

A confident Custard next week return to Chelmer to face North Brisbane.

* News of the World claims to have evidence that a number of high-profile Custard players visited cosmetic surgeons during the week, inquiring about abdominal implants and body-hair removal. There was also talk on Twitter of a mini-bus full of Custard players arriving at the surgery of a clinic specialising in vasectomies. Apparently Captain A.C. Rhule's graphic post-game description of his daughter's birth convinced the boys to have their tubes tied. This unfortunately came to late for Michael Richardson, who was overheard questioning an obstetrician as to whether general anaesthetics were offered to fathers during labor.

Our wedding

We had finally settled on a time and place.
The time was to be sunset on the 31st of December, 2010.  It had seemed far in the future; you know it is going to happen, but you don’t feel those intense emotions (like anticipation…or dread).  Yet time did what time does.  Which is to evaporate away, leaving behind only the sediment of the never-ending ‘todo’ list.


The place was Coochiemudlo Island.  It had been M-A’s first choice from the beginning.  I had initially resisted, but in the end I was won over by the attraction of a beach-front wedding, on new year’s eve, in a marquee where we decide when the night is over.
But don’t try this at home kids.  Planning a marquee wedding on an island, on new year’s eve comes with some… logistical difficulties.

“No, there is no bridge”.  

Fortunately I had appointed an excellent event organiser (who was also cast in the role of bride).  So I knew the things that could be controlled, would be.  Which leaves the things that can’t be…







    

M-A and I were on the ferry, heading for the island on the 28th of December (three days before the wedding), and it was possibly the worst weather I had ever seen.  The normally calm, deep-blue ocean had become a bumpy shit-brown, from the 30 knot winds and rain water running off the land.  And when we arrived at the house, Dad was digging a trench around it to try and prevent the house from flooding.

“What were we thinking?”

Luckily, we scored an almost perfect day.  Clear blue skies, not too hot, and the winds were even from the south (which meant our north-facing beach was protected).



Surprisingly, I really enjoyed the ceremony.  While we were all waiting for M-A to arrive, people kept asking “Are you nervous?”.

“Should I be?”

It was awkward waiting.  The celebrant had attached a microphone to me, and I was instructed to not walk past the speakers, at the risk of damaging the hearing of 100-ish guests.  So, there I was, looking out on our family and friends, but unable to walk over to them; constrained by an invisible leash.

Fortunately M-A was roughly on time (when the island is only 1km across, there isn’t much excuse not to be), and the leader melody of Pachelbel's Canon began to play. 

Maya, Cal, Kate and Jaime preceded to lay an aisle of flowers. 

The dress had been kept secret from me.  M-A had dropped a number hints about it being ‘unconventional’ (not difficult to believe, knowing her), and made a show of checking what colours I was planning to wear, so they wouldn’t clash.  I had no idea what to expect.  I wouldn’t say I was anxious…okay, maybe anxious is the right word.  Red?  Blue? A tutu? Trousers?! 

It was perfect. And she was beautiful. Wouldn’t you agree?



Wanting to personalize the day as much as possible, we had decided to write our own vows.  We had assumed that these would replace the traditional vows.  But when the time came, the celebrant began to recite them for us to repeat.  It was my turn first, and I complied, while M-A and I exchanged perplexed looks.

How can he have forgotten?  We sent him our vows?

While I was reluctantly reciting the very words we had not wanted to (promise, cherish, urgh) M-A had resolved to delicately question it when her turn came (a difficult proposition when 100 people are watching and you are speaking into a microphone).  She whispered “We have written our own vows”. 

“I know” whispered the celebrant with an indignant look.

Whether he had forgotten or not, we will never know, but we then proceeded to read our real vows.  The ones we had crafted, and that held meaning for us.

While writing our vows, we had wanted to keep them from each other, for maximum impact on the day.  But this posed a concern:  What if they don’t match?

Given marriage vows are not something one writes on a regular basis, it is easy to imagine an awkward situation if the length or tone of the two sets of vows were not within an acceptable range.  If the bride were, for example, to deliver a 5 minute soliloquy preaching her undying love and commitment, which was then matched by “I really, really like you” from the groom…

To prevent this situation, we appointed a mediator.  Our friend Rachel Roche kindly agreed to vet our vows beforehand. 

I found my vows to be a trickly little piece to compose.  Charting a course for romantic, yet formal and reserved, it is easy to wind up wrecked on the reefs of nauseating, sterile or soporific.  I certainly saw plenty of ship-wrecks in the samples that our celebrant sent.  Here’s what I settled on:

Mary-Anne,
I offer you all that I have to offer,
I aspire to provide for you a life, better with me by your side than it could ever be otherwise,  
And to be the husband that you deserve.

As one would expect, M-A’s were slightly more verbose, and slightly more emotive, but that is the point of writing your own vows.  They reflect the individuals.

As the ceremony concluded, we realised we hadn’t considered our escape route. The expected course was to walk back down the aisle, through the assembly.  But I am daunted by the aisle-walk even when I’m in the aisles rather than the walker.  So, we made the decision to exit back-stage, onto the beach; everyone can follow us!

Canapés, photos and drinks as the sun goes down…













Once the horizon had eaten the sun, our guests were ushered into the marquee. 

As part of our personalization campaign, we planned to take the microphone and walk amongst the tables, individually introducing all our guests.  We had never seen it done, but we felt it would be good to let everyone know who they were spending new year’s eve with.  But mostly, we felt we it would be a good chance to inflict a little amplified embarrassment on our loved ones, in front of an audience, and with no opportunity for retribution. 

It was great fun, and I’m really glad we did it.

 

The food was brilliant.  And the catering-staff were better than we could have hoped for.







Once people had shared some nourishment and libations, our master of ceremonies, M-A’s eldest brother Doug, announced the speeches. 

My father, and M-A’s parents, Bryan and Pam, spoke.  Their speeches were in the zone.  Sweet enough to get a few ‘Awww’s, but not so intense as to induce the emotional equivalent of a diabetic coma.  And they said everything that needed to be said, without dragging on so long that people start staring at their empty glasses, secretly begging them to refill.  There was even some prop-comedy:  Bryan, having in the past being heckled by his children for reading long speeches from A4 full-text, produced a wad of paper and began to do exactly that, before shredding and scattering it like confetti.

It was about then that I discovered that I was the victim of a pick-pocket.  My own speech notes, carefully placed in one of my many pockets, had been stolen.  It was the only plausible explanation.  It wasn’t that I was planning to read from them, but my nervous-level did increase knowing I wouldn’t have them.  Fortunately we were using my MacBook as our jukebox, and I had it open on the screen, just in case.

Again, I rather enjoyed the experience.  It was satisfying the have the chance to thank everyone who made possible the life we enjoy.

My understanding of the plan was that I was to make the main speech, and M-A was to follow with the many thanks.  In other words, I believed I there was no rebuttal.

I got roasted.  Lovingly roasted, but still roasted. 

The next few hours were exactly what I had hoped for.  All our family and friends together.  Aware that it was likely the only time in our lives it will happen, I really wanted to play it in slow-motion.  Without that option, I consciously tried to savour each moment.

An idea we had recycled from Doug and Geli’s wedding was to have a painting table, where throughout the night guests would receive a small piece of a large photograph, which they then attempt reproduce onto a canvas tile. 

Voila…

 

Obviously artistic abilities vary, but that is the point.  Generally, I was impressed with the performances, but individual mention must be made regarding the bottom of the Eiffel Tower.  Tamete, I don’t know how many hours this took you, but it was worth it.  This piece makes the original photo look low-fidelity!  I also liked that Rob decided to exercise a little creativity and invent some birds soaring around the Tower.  He apparently was happy with his work, as he also signed his piece. 

I would normally not target an artist’s work for criticism, but I’ll make an exception for family.  I may not be prettiest of subjects, but I still think Nathan’s work on my nose is not a fair representation.  Lovely work on the color-mixing…  He did make amends, spending hours a few days later creating a fine replacement.

Time went too quickly, and soon it was announced that everyone should move down to the beach to welcome 2011 and watch the firework displays.  So we yanked a few Hawaiian torches from the garden, and crossed the road, Survivor-style.

We counted-down.  I (and I assume everyone else) was expecting the fireworks to be distant (as in Cleveland and Stradbroke Island distant), so I imagine that if my nervous system hadn’t been impaired by more than a couple glasses of bubbly, I would have been rather more shocked when decorative missiles began launching from the beach either side of us.

 

Everyone looked admiringly at me, I suppose assuming that I had planned it.  I wish I could I say that I had, but I believe it was simply some island-locals, with a penchant for pyrotechnics and a sense of occasion.



After a while spent enjoying the beautiful night, and experimenting with sparklers and slow-shutter-speeds, there was really nothing left to do…

Except, of course, to do our best to ensure no alcohol would remain unconsumed and to dance maniacally for hours.

The year MMIX

January 1:  I know its just another day; an arbitrary date that consuls of the Roman Empire took office.  If we hadn’t switched from the Julian calendar, this day wouldn’t even by January 1.  On the other hand, it may be as good a day as any to reflect on the previous twelve months that were 2009.

I greeted 2009 lost in a blue cloud (and not metaphorically); blinded and coughing violently.  It was an expensive, but humorous, start to the year.

The first days of 2009 were spent trading London-white for Agadir-brown (that came out sounding like we were dealing in illicit substances; I was just trying to find a fancy way of saying ‘sun-tanning’).  This was followed by a few days exploring the maze of Marrakech.  12 months and many cities later, Marrakech still rates as a highlight.

Upon returning to London, we had some decisions to make.  Both the lease on our London home and our UK working-visas were set to expire mid-March.  Our housemates were returning home.  It was deep into a bitter winter, and our immune systems were weakened enough that a bout of home-sickness had taken hold.  BUT, M-A was registered to run the London Marathon in April, AND there were still so many places we wanted to visit.

The plan: Work until our visas expired; purchase a motorhome; travel continental Europe for 6 weeks; stash the van wherever we are and jet back to London for the Marathon; resume our travels for another 6 weeks; return to London and sell the motorhome; head back to Oz, arriving just in time for Paul and Kristii’s wedding; restart our lives…again…

Plan in hand, Jan-March was spent working and sleeping, with the remainder split between drinking pints of beer and watching football (which fairly well surmises London in winter).  Speaking of football, watching Arsenal play at Emirates Stadium was another highlight (even if they did save their lamest performances of the season for the times I attended). 

Professionally, these final months working in London were rewarding.  I was working with a great crew at uSwitch, and I’m proud of what we achieved in a short time.  It was refreshing to work for a company where the technology wasn’t just an enabler for their core business, it was the core business.  It was without a doubt the most efficient and vibrant environment I had worked in.  This combined with a good social bond, made going to work each day challenging, rewarding, and fun.  You can’t ask for more.

Also, we weren’t entirely inactive…

February 22: Amy, Jeremy, M-A and I took the train down to Brighton for the weekend, where M-A and I ran the half-marathon; this was part of her preparation for the London Marathon.  It was a tough run; an undulating course with strong winds.  Brighton is a fun place, and we all enjoyed the weekend.

 

March 13: it came quickly.  We said our good-byes (although temporarily; we would reunite in Oz) to Tim, Kate, Andy, and 58 Fortune Green Rd.  A tip: Moving is definitely made easier when you can park your new home outside your previous one.

The next three months were amazing.  They were the headline of our 2009, and I truly believe they will be a highlight of our lives.  I still have work to do in logging these adventures.      

April 26: the middle of our travels; and as planned, we returned to London where M-A completed the London Marathon in 4 hours and 36 minutes.  She had prepared thoroughly:  In the freezing pre-dawn of London, she ran.  On Christmas day, while the rest of us indulged, she ran.  Across the continent, past bicycle-riding, baguette-carrying Frenchmen, past the over-exposed white flesh of holidaying Brits, past wolf-whistling Italian grandfathers, she ran.  It was a great accomplishment.

In the ‘plan’, we had allocated 10 days in London to sell the motorhome, before our flight to Oz.  This had been a compromise between wanting to spend as long as possible travelling, and leaving enough time to ensure we recouped as much of our outlay as possible.  As the three months passed, our nervousness increased.  We knew this would prove the difference between the trip being too-scared-to-even-calculate-what-it-cost-but-totally-worth-it expensive, and eating-home-brand-noodles-for-dinner-for-the-rest-of-our-lives expensive.  But, as with almost the entire trip, it went according to script.  Amy and Jez were generous enough to provide us with a roof while my eBay and Gumtree ads worked their magic.

June 8, and the final tube ride to Heathrow marked the end of a chapter.  London disappeared below, and Brisbane appeared on the horizon.

Just days after arriving back in Oz, we attend Kristii and Paul’s wedding.  It was a beautiful weekend, a great welcoming home for us, and the first of 8 (!) weddings we would attend before the year was done.

We based ourselves with my parents at Coochiemudlo Is. while we found somewhere to live, having decided to leave our house rented.  M-A returned to work immediately, leaving me with the task of finding a suitable residence.  I would have happily traded places.  After a frustrating week or so of attending inspections, I found what I believed then (and still do now) to be a more-than-adequate place to rest our heads.  

For there to be good times, there must be bad times (or else they would all  just be times, right?). 

August 18: I think a fractured skull probably qualifies as a bad time.  And if the problem wasn’t enough to qualify as a bona fide low-point, the solution surely was.  This event relegated most of life to an afterthought for six weeks. 

Having recovered from the surgery, it was time to repair another aspect of my life.  After finding somewhere to live, I had returned to my pre-UK employer, Avanade.  I knew it wasn’t working out the way I had hoped, but the injury had prevented me from dealing with it earlier.  In hindsight, there were multiple factors: I missed the freedom I had as an independent contractor in London, to choose roles that interested me; I missed the money I had as an independent contractor in London; the roles I had in the time since re-joining Avanade were terrible, that rare combination of boring and stressful; I felt I had learned many things in the past 18 months about the process of developing software, and had matured professionally to the point where I was ready to take more responsibility for the outcome of a project; I felt the roles that were coming through at Avanade were not giving me an opportunity to implement these lessons.

September 29: I accepted a 6-month contract with Suncorp, having interviewed the previous day.  The role was just what I was looking for: a green-field project, in the banking sector, using the ASP.NET MVC framework, and an Agile environment.  The project was to first re-write their internet banking site (it had been created over a decade earlier, in classic ASP, and had become difficult to maintain and add new features), and second to implement a suite of new features.  Leaving Avanade was awkward, but it was the right thing for me to do, and I was excited.  The only problem was, the role didn’t start for three weeks.  I had just finished on a role with Avanade, and knowing they wouldn’t start me on another once I had given notice, I offered the option of finishing virtually immediately.  More holidays…Just what I needed!

Work and weddings.  Steve and Kerren; Nigel and Danielle; Kiran and Leanne;  Paul and Amy; Kath and Greg; Michael and Kristen.  These, and the associated Bucks\Hens celebrations filled our weekends for the latter half of the year.  M-A and I are truly grateful for the invitations to attend these occasions.

December 13; Speaking of weddings, this was M-A’s birthday, and a chance for me to plan something without her becoming suspicious.  So I did.        

December 31; We started the year at the beach, and we finished the year at the beach.  Okay, the beaches were maybe 18,000km apart.  We’re spending the final week of the year with Paul and Kristy, Jordan and Kristen, at Point Lookout on Stradbroke Island.  Surfing, boating, swimming, tennis, barbeques, afternoon drinks; there is no better way to end the year.

It seems to be true that as you get older, the years pass ever more quickly.  But 9 countries, 4 residences (including the motorhome), 3 employments, 8 weddings, and a proposal served to slow the process.  2009 felt like a long year, and I attribute that to us treating it like it was an ‘adventure year’; something out of the ordinary.  So, having discovered the secret to slowing time’s passage, I’ve got a plan: treat every year like it’s an adventure.  It’s tiring, for sure.  But totally worth it.

Bring on 2010…   

A question

Perhaps the seemingly endless array of weddings we have attended in the past 6 months inspired me.  Perhaps the years of playful sledging, subtle hints and not so subtle threats, and once proud men tumbling like dominoes all around finally wore me down. Or, more likely, I simply felt the time was just right… 

On a fine summer’s Sunday, which also happened to be M-A’s birthday, I led her on a bike ride to a mystery location (although the fact that she started leading the way makes me believe she may have figured our destination).

The destination was the University of Queensland’s Great Court; metres from where we first met; where we spent much of our early time together, studying, working, and playing; and surely a beautiful spot in its own right.  We shared a picnic lunch on a shaded patch of grass, before I asked M-A if she would like her birthday present.  I handed her a poem I had composed in stolen minutes over the preceding week. 

I had attempted to have the poem pose the question.  Evidently, it was too subtle, for when she had finished reading it, M-A simply smiled at me expectantly.  I suspect she realised she may have missed something when I handed her the distinctively shaped box.

But still she made me ask the question.  She answered in the affirmative.

Wounded Part III: Paper underpants

‘I am Jack’s swollen head’.

The voices start to fade in. I open my eyes. It feels like one second ago that the room disappeared. In reality over four hours have passed.

I have a tube feeding saline solution into my left hand. I have a tube draining blood from behind my right ear. I am an over-complicated machine for turning water into blood.

My head is bandaged, and throbbing a little. I am wearing nothing but ill-fitting paper underpants, and some anti-DVT stockings.

And now, just to complete the utter demolition of both my comfort and dignity, the nurse informs me that if I can’t urinate in the next 45 minutes, she’s going to insert a catheter.

But I’m not going down that road without a fight. I drink so much water that I’m surely violating water restrictions, and strain so hard to piss that I’m at risk of popping some of the 56 staples holding my head together.

Fortunately I succeed.

Considering what has just been done, I’m in surprisingly little pain. I assume it is due to the morphine they injected before I woke up, but the hours pass and the pain stays away.

The combination of sharing the room with three other patients, the nurse injecting antibiotics every few hours, and the constant beeps, wheezes and clicks going on means I don’t sleep much that night. Eventually the sun rises, and soon after one of the surgeons comes to admire his work. He’s pleased with the result, and that I’m not in pain. He says I need to have some x-rays taken, and I can go home.

Thank-you sincerely to everyone for the well-wishes and thoughts. It really does help to know you all care.

And thank-you to the nurses and doctors, who did a great job. I am still very satisfied with our public health system.

‘All the King’s horses and all the King’s men, couldn’t put Humpty together again’.

Humpty really should have seen a maxillofacial surgeon.

Brain-injury smurf is one of the lesser known smurfs

I don’t know if the reverse-sideways-Mohawk will catch on

Two weeks later: Sporting a few scars and a new hairstyle, but feeling pretty good

Wounded Part II: Not invincible

Actually, I suppose that’s a double negative. Maybe it should just be ‘vincible’. Anyway, I’m broken.

Once the dressing had been removed and the swelling had subsided, I had a strong suspicion that I may have fractured my skull. Perhaps it was the canyon in my forehead that gave me the clue? I went back to my GP who referred me for some scans.

I was expecting confirmation of a fracture. I was not expecting this:

You don’t need a decade of medical school to see there’s something wrong with that picture.

I’m booked in for surgery on Thursday (10/09/09). I had already accepted my fate before I met with the surgeon. I was actually quite keen just to get it over and done. That was until he told me how they were going to access the fracture: A coronal-flap with a mid-facial de-gloving.

If you’re imagining something like this:

then you get a point.

If you’re picturing this:

…you can have half a point.

I’m only joking because if I don’t I’ll cry. I don’t like having my blood pressure taken…and they’re going to peel my face off!

The worst part is waiting. No, that’s probably not true; I imagine the worst part will be when I wake up and my face is attached by staples. But the waiting is bad. I just want it to be over.

Before:

After: