On Friday, Carenza of Balmoral Urban Country Club, formerly School of Etiquette drove to us to deliver the “I love my Dad” bandanna before travelling overseas for their holiday, yesterday.
In his 17th year, Stan has significantly slowed down, sleeping deeply for most of the day. We caught him mid-doze for this picture. He would not usually pose.
On my graduated return to work, this week, I completed six hours on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday.
For two hours on Wednesday, I participated in an in-person two-hours’ workshop on improving conversations. Slido is used for participant feedback, I’m guessing to make it more accessible for everyone. I forgot and launched into a diatribe of an example of how I had fulfilled my employers goals, values, and demonstrated OARS (acronym starting O for open questions, A for affirmation, R reflecting, and S for summarising).
One of the two presenters thanked me for sharing and reminded me we were typing our responses. Whoops!
The next one, whoops that is, came when all those that were able to (I’m using a wheelie walker for mobility) needed to stand for Simon says put your hands on your head, Simon says put your hands on your shoulders, Simon says put your hands in your nose.
What an enjoyable moment until the presenter said “clap”. Guess who was the only one. Silence, faux-pas number two. Did this influence my ongoing participation? I was oblivious to the rules of Simon says. It must be five decades since I played it.
It’s been one of those weeks where everything hits at once. Great news: I don’t have dementia. I do have severe depression, and when physical pain and systemic frustration pile up like they have over the last few days, it takes everything not to let the weight crush you.
Last Thursday was a logistical nightmare that turned into a physical disaster. With our car in the garage, I had to rely on public transport to get to my hand therapy appointment at Brisbane Private Hospital. What should have been a simple commute became a grueling obstacle course—navigating a total of 109 stairs across the journey, including all 86 steps of Jacob’s Ladder.
Between a broken wheelchair lift, steep incline, and hauling myself up those steps one painful push at a time, my body took a beating. Stupidly, using my left hand at the first flight from Adelaide to Ann street to grip a handrail triggered sharp, shooting pains in my wrist right after making good progress in therapy. Worse, the exertion flared up excruciating pain below my right knee and a stabbing ache in my right hip, leaving my mobility severely compromised.
By the time I tried to head home, a packed bus meant no priority seating, forcing me to give up, hobble down Adelaide Street, and wait in Hutton Lane for my husband to collect me.
Adding insult to injury is the ongoing battle with the insurer. They previously denied my right hip claim, citing “no material change.” Yet the objective imaging tells a completely different story: moving from joint space reduction in late 2022 to severe, bone-on-bone contact, sclerosis, and large osteophytes by early 2026. Carrying a 6–7 kg laptop bag on a commute isn’t just an inconvenience—mechanically, it adds dynamic force to a joint that is already structurally failing.
To top off the noise, I’ve ditched Facebook and Instagram for the third time. Bluesky is a bit less satisfying, but stepping away from the main algorithmic circus feels necessary right now.
I’m resting, recovering, and preparing for my next steps. One foot in front of the other—even when every single step is a fight.
Yesterday, I was nursing a bit of guilt. As part of my graded return to work, I only managed two four-hour shifts last week thanks to the hip injection. This week, it’s just one four-hour shift, sandwiched between Wednesday’s Ekka public holiday and a Friday psychology appointment to assess for early onset dementia.
Even though I’ve labelled myself Gen X for decades, I was surprised to realize my work ethos is far more Boomer. Turns out I sit right on the cusp—that late-Boomer, early-Gen-X overlap often dubbed “Generation Jones” (bizarre, given my surname). It blends Gen X’s cultural cynicism with that Boomer-driven pride in showing up, doing things thoroughly, and pushing through. That goes a long way toward explaining both the lingering work guilt and the path that led to my injuries in the first place.
On Monday afternoon, my husband suggested we do something the next day. My brain immediately ran its usual diagnostic: How far do I need to walk? How much will it cost? Can we take Stan?
We considered catching a ferry, but decided to test out the hip locally instead with a flat, 30-minute stroll to Riva Kitchen and Events at Northshore Hamilton.
It was an east-west breezy kind of day. I pushed Stan’s stroller to help with my balance, while he trotted in front in a futile attempt to wear him out before we arrived. In his dotage, dining out with Stan now involves managing a relentless demand for treats—there are never enough in the whole wide world to satisfy him. Today was no exception.
Sitting there enjoying a chicken schnitzel on a bed of arrabiata, topped with wilted greens and paired with an organic Italian Pinot Grigio, I caught sight of a brick chimney stack across the river. I mentioned to my husband that it reminded me of the old kiln chimneys in Sydney Park.
From there, my mind took a complete flight of fancy, drifting back to childhood Sunday outings from Birmingham—Hartlebury Castle with its bishop’s palace and gypsy caravans, the grand Queen Anne elegance of Hanbury Hall, the secret priest holes at Harvington Hall, and the rustic converted barn workshops of the Jinney Ring Craft Centre.
Funny how much life changes, even when you navigate it with a largely laissez-faire mentality.
Yesterday, I was nursing a bit of guilt. As part of my graded return to work, I only managed two four-hour shifts last week thanks to the hip injection. This week, it’s just one four-hour shift, sandwiched between Wednesday’s Ekka public holiday and a Friday psychology appointment to assess for early onset dementia.
Even though I’ve labelled myself Gen X for decades, I was surprised to realize my work ethos is far more Boomer. Turns out I sit right on the cusp—that late-Boomer, early-Gen-X overlap often dubbed “Generation Jones” (bizarre, given my surname). It blends Gen X’s cultural cynicism with that Boomer-driven pride in showing up, doing things thoroughly, and pushing through. That goes a long way toward explaining both the lingering work guilt and the path that led to my injuries in the first place.
On Monday afternoon, my husband suggested we do something the next day. My brain immediately ran its usual diagnostic: How far do I need to walk? How much will it cost? Can we take Stan?
We considered catching a ferry, but decided to test out the hip locally instead with a flat, 30-minute stroll to Riva Kitchen and Events at Northshore Hamilton.
It was an east-west breezy kind of day. I pushed Stan’s stroller to help with my balance, while he trotted in front in a futile attempt to wear him out before we arrived. In his dotage, dining out with Stan now involves managing a relentless demand for treats—there are never enough in the whole wide world to satisfy him. Today was no exception.
Sitting there enjoying a chicken schnitzel on a bed of arrabiata, topped with wilted greens and paired with an organic Italian Pinot Grigio, I caught sight of a brick chimney stack across the river. I mentioned to my husband that it reminded me of the old kiln chimneys in Sydney Park.
From there, my mind took a complete flight of fancy, drifting back to childhood Sunday outings from Birmingham—Hartlebury Castle with its bishop’s palace and gypsy caravans, the grand Queen Anne elegance of Hanbury Hall, the secret priest holes at Harvington Hall, and the rustic converted barn workshops of the Jinney Ring Craft Centre.
Funny how much life changes, even when you navigate it with a largely laissez-faire mentality.
I took a Valium prior to having my first ultrasound-guided steroid injection into my left wrist. The intent was simple: to calm my nerves, as I feared the thought of the procedure.
There was no need for the pre-med before my right wrist injection. Being externally funded, it required only a short, easy drive from home.
Yesterday, however, my husband took me for an ultrasound-guided steroid injection into my right hip. This time, the radiology practice bulk-billed. I didn’t have to pay a $210 gap payment after my Medicare entitlement was applied, though it did mean a 40-minute drive each way to avoid the tolls. I hoped it would provide temporary pain relief and improve the mobility stolen by osteoarthritis.
Until recently, my need for medical procedures had been scant.
My blind trust in the UK’s National Health Service was forged during childhood, built on the back of my mother’s frequent inpatient hospital stays and our regular visits to the family doctor. Whenever Mom, me, and my two younger brothers had health issues, she would march us from our home in Capern Grove, left into Welsh House Farm Road, left again at Tennal Road, and right into Tennal Lane. Our destination was number two: the surgery of Dr Ezzat, who practised out of a converted interwar house built somewhere between 1920 and 1935.
Access was gained through a large timber gate, along a short path bordered by shrubs and trees, and up a couple of steps to an imposing Georgian/Art Deco portalled front door. Immediately inside, patients stood on immaculately polished, dark brown linoleum that ran throughout the building. We reported to a receptionist, summoning her attention by pressing a doorbell mounted on a cream-painted timber and obscure-glazed partition wall. A small sliding hatch would snap open; you announced your name and were told to go to the waiting room on the right.
The high-ceilinged, cream gloss-painted room had two heavily curtained windows to the right and another at the far end. There was a boarded-up fireplace to the left, and a centre table piled with ancient magazines, including Reader’s Digest.
Upon entering, you took your place on the first of many mismatching, dark Thonet bentwood dining chairs lining the room. If there were no chairs available, you stood. They creaked as you sat down and shifted your weight on the small, round, hard relief-patterned seats.
A buzzer proclaimed when the doctor was available for the next patient. The person sitting next to the inner door—on the same wall you had entered through—would get up, open the door, and vanish. Everyone else then moved along one seat, like a sombre game of musical chairs.
It could take a few hours waiting your turn in that gloomy, overheated room filled with crying babies and coughing, sneezing people. Finally, your chance arrived to proceed along a passage behind the records-reception room. You would knock on the doctor’s door, await a muffled ‘Enter’, and step into a bright, white gloss-painted room with a window overlooking the west-facing garden.
The doctor sat at a large, heavy, dark timber desk on the left, beneath a wall-mounted cupboard. You were invited to sit to their left. Dr Ezzat would turn to face you in a dark, padded leather swivel chair that had seen better days. ‘Mother, what can we do for you today?’ he would ask. This ageing, gentle, kind, and direct Egyptian man listened intently. He inspected chests with a cold stethoscope and checked tongues and throats with a routine ‘Say argh’—seemingly his remedy for all ailments.
Exiting past chrome-framed, glazed cabinets housing disturbing-looking medical instruments brought you right back to the entrance. When I grew older, I went to the doctor alone. I trusted him completely and felt safe in his care.
In my teens, however, that safety wavered. I was sent to Selly Oak Hospital in Birmingham for a blood test, likely to check for an iron deficiency. In those days, blood was painfully drawn with a thick syringe. Afterward, I couldn’t wait to escape into the fresh air. I rode the bus home experiencing violent, cold shivering. A profound, lifelong fear of needles was born.
Forever the fool, I assumed this hip steroid procedure would somehow be a similar experience to my wrists. I had researched what to expect and was somewhat surprised when I wasn’t asked to change into a gown. Instead, I was escorted by Damian, who was clad in mid-blue scrubs, straight into a large CT scan room. He briefly explained the procedure: local anaesthetic, followed by a CT-guided injection. I wondered what had happened to the ultrasound-guided version I expected.
I was asked to empty my pockets, leave my bag on a chair, and lie on a bed facing a doughnut-shaped machine. A similarly clothed second person introduced himself as the doctor’s assistant, and then introduced me to the doctor. They all wore the same uniform! The assistant reiterated the process, placed a pillow under my knees, and asked me to pull my loose-fitting shorts to my knees and slide the waistband of my underwear down. This exposed the intended site of the injection: my groin. Bizarrely, I had imagined the needle would go into the outside of my hip.
I was sent in and out of the scanner a few times while a screen above me flashed light shapes against a dark background. Next, a pale blue sterile drape was placed over the site. The doctor explained there would be a sting from the anaesthetic, followed by pressure from the steroid injection that might travel down below my knee.
Following an extremely sharp sting of the local anaesthetic, an unpleasant sensation bloomed in my groin, and I attempted to summon my bravery. Closing my eyes, I wondered if it was too late to back out—if I should just live with the ongoing pain and reduced range of motion. The machine was cranked up to full speed and volume. A strange, food-like odour permeated my nostrils, and I briefly wondered if I was cooking. Suddenly, my leg jolted as the steroid went in, sending my entire body into full tension. The doctor told me I was doing really well. I certainly didn’t feel like it, but he promised it would soon be over.
He noted that the pain relief might last for six to nine months, at which point I could have it repeated.
Once the assistant and Damian helped me sit up, my head went woozy. I told them I felt dizzy and started sweating. That teenage bus ride in Birmingham flashed vividly back into my mind. I was laid back down and asked to move onto a trolley—an unwise manoeuvre in hindsight, considering I was still recovering from carpal tunnel release surgery on my hand just three weeks prior.
I kept my eyes closed while being wheeled down a thankfully refrigerated corridor, praying they would not leave me exposed in the main waiting room. I was rewarded with a tiny, screened-off alcove in a side hallway where there was no rush for me to leave. Retrieving my phone from my bag, which had been dumped on my chest, I called my husband with an update. He was parked nearby and promised to pick me up whenever I was ready.
I gave myself five minutes, sat up, slid on my Birkenstocks, and navigated my way back to the reception area. Clinging to the counter, I waited for a form to sign, called my husband to say I was at the front, and waited to be collected and taken home.
Next time, I will definitely take a Valium beforehand.
For an idealist, reality is the foulest tasting pill to swallow, let alone digest. Gaily floating around on a cloud of optimism and wonder one second, to thudding to earth, gasping in lungs of detritus, the next.
From experience, a sound night’s sleep goes someway to reset and resume the ascension of the ladder of acceptance and commitment, through adaptation and evolution.
My delusions of grandeur know no bounds!
It is the King’s (previously Queen’s) birthday, long weekend in Queensland. A perfect opportunity to reflect on personal and financial duties whilst enjoying a break.
Balancing optimism with responsibility is a dance requiring grace and acknowledgement of reality. How do you strike that balance in your own life?
Observation by another Finding whiskers wanting Stones in glass houses! Why am I bothered? Widow tells tale of Bride’s imbibe bribe Forever begone the beard shed Then wed; to an early grave led? Rather than hark and heed Is it not better to Know and love thyself first?
I can’t remember how I came to the conclusion my paternal great grandmother’s surname was Walton. Maybe the assumption was due to COVID delirium and wishful thinking. After all living in Shropshire, there was a fair chance distant relatives may have been from neighbouring Wales. I was certainly pleased when I identified Martha’s mother had Welsh ancestry.
After receiving my DNA results, I excitedly used the above assumption to label mother and father influences.
Recent mixed emotions have negatively impacted my motivation for researching the family tree. I was pleased about unknowingly visiting places my ancestors had lived and disillusioned, I was making little progress in identifying potential Scottish, Dutch, and Danish heritage.
Then a few hints from other family trees suggested Martha’s surname was Adams with ancestors solidly from Shropshire not Wales. Hm, maybe I have my parentage confused, I thought.
Checking in on a second and third cousins’s DNA results, whom I’ve never met, revealed the maternal line is rich in family from. Welsh, Scottish, Dutch, and Danish regions. I switched the parental influences and explored a strong tie to Yorkshire and generations of Turpins. This surname has Danish heritage.
In the ‘80s, I was thrilled to visit the newly opened Jorvik Viking Center, depicting imagined tenth century scenes of York during the time of the Vikings.
Perhaps my granddad’s middle name of Havelock had been a clue all along. It has Scandinavian, Danish, and Old Norse origins.
I find it amusing the path our lives take, in my case largely unconsciously. A benefit of aging is being able to review and share threads of the journey.
On this Thursday commute, I’m listening to the original 1979 Broadway cast recording of Stephen Sondheim’s musical adaptation of Christopher Bond’s play Sweeney Todd on Spotify. Len Cariou and Angela Lansbury star as lead characters Benjamin Barker and Mrs Lovett.
My fascination with the darkness of humanity as described in books began as soon as I was old enough to venture to a public library, unaccompanied by an adult. My junior years were spent engrossed in tales of Egyptian reincarnation, vampires, hauntings, ghosts, the supernatural, and witchcraft.
I fondly remember multiple borrowings of the above hardback, The Dracula Myth by Gabriel Ronay, 1972* from Harborne Library. It introduced me to 15th century, Vlad III (Dracul), ruler of Wallachia, in modern day Romania. He ordered two Turkish envoys be impaled because they refused to remove their turbans, and 16th century, Hungarian Countess Elizabeth Báthory who bathed in the blood of virgins to keep her youthful looks.
In the ‘70s, whilst holidaying with my family in the Channel Islands, I devoured the contents of the above paperback, a memoir of ‘Edward Paisnel, a predatory paedophile nicknamed the Beast of Jersey, who was convicted in 1971 for an 11-year reign of terror. Paisnel believed himself to be the reincarnation of Gilles de Rais, and committed his crimes in the bizarre outfit depicted on the cover of this 1972 biography by his wife Joan’**.
In 1984, after completing four years at college in Worcester and Blackpool, I returned home to Droitwich Spa, completely disillusioned by the prospect of a career working in hotels. I was successful in gaining retail employment at Russell and Bromley in Worcester. It was here, I met my dear singer friend, Georg.
By then Sweeney Todd had opened in London. Georg sat me down to watch a video of this performance. I was absolutely entranced by it. I still have a CD of the original cast recording from Broadway.
My husband and I have thoroughly enjoyed seeing Sweeney Todd a couple of times at the Sydney Opera House. We also enjoyed the movie version with Johnny Depp as Sweeney and Helena Bonham-Carter as Mrs Lovett.
For me, the staged production of Sondheim’s version of this melodramatic gothic thriller will never lose its appeal.
theINFP 