Take a Break

We've learnt a very important lesson again this weekend. While most boys bounce, ours breaks.

You know how it is, around the age of 10 the male of our species gets a shot of testosterone in their system, and suddenly they are 10-foot-tall-and-bullet-proof.

They start getting into even more mischief than usual, playing hide & seek at bath or bed time (i.e. they hide, you reluctantly seek), some develop an intimate relationship with the principal's office, and more often than not engage mouth before putting brain into gear (some would argue that they never grow out of that one).

But hormones are not the only things with wings at this age; many a male has the sudden urge to fly ... on bicycles or skateboards, or off any height well above their own. If they're not careful (which, let's face it, is most of the time) they come back down to earth with a thud. 

My little man, though, came back with a crack.

It was simple enough: they were at a play centre, there was a jumping castle (AKA bouncy house), boys being boys got bored with jumping on the castle, so started jumping off it (totally against the rules and clearly signposted, but, well, these are 10 year old boys we're talking about).

While most of them made a safe landing, my son did not. And like I said, where others bounce, he broke.

Now I wasn't there (I was otherwise engaged at a funeral out of town) but I'm told that appropriate First Aid was applied, along with a mandatory rest period, before my boy hopped back up to play. Literally.

See, he has a mighty high pain threshold. A lifetime of juvenile arthritis has given him that. 

Unfortunately it's also given him brittle bones (years of steroids have leeched essential calcium), so no one thought he was that bad. Including the man of the moment.

Imagine my dismay after a day away farewelling a friend, to come home to news that our boy's left foot was "a bit" swollen, and sore. A bit?? By next morning when he hopped out of bed (again, literally) it was a football rather than a foot, and it was off to hospital we went. Exactly 9 years to the day after we first took him to Emergency with a swollen left foot!

See, it's not the first time he's fractured something. Third, actually, both prior breaks being arms (left*, and right), both from 'falling off' chairs (he had a little help both times, but that's another story).

Long story short, 3+ hours in Emergency, a few xrays later, we got the diagnosis of fractured Metatarsal #2 on the left foot, and suspected fracture of the Talus too. Terrific- like the scaphoids of before*, only the trickiest bone to diagnose, and slowest to heal.

After a decent amount of plaster cast and bandages (back slab only at this stage- for those playing along at home- due to excessive swelling of the football, er, foot), a quick lesson in using crutches, and a referral to the orthopaedic surgeon at the fracture clinic, home we go- with strict instructions for no walking whatsoever. 

Forget flying.

But because it's merely the latest challenge in a long line, and with more hormones on the horizon, our boy will bounce back.

Hopefully this time he won't break!

Jx

©2012

My Name Is Joe...

I've developed an addiction.

I don't drink, I don't smoke, I don't do drugs. Nor do I gamble, and I am married- with children- so there's NO chance of me being a sex addict ("More's the pity" I hear my Beloved mutter). I've never had what you call an addictive personality (unless one counts an ongoing love affair with chocolate products).

Nonetheless, I have picked up a bad habit.

I seem to be slightly obsessed with social media.

Not that I'm on it 24/7 (maybe 2/7 is closer to the mark) but there's something about it that draws me in on an almost-daily-basis.

I'm not the only one. You only have to check out the collection of cartoons cropping up- on the internet of course- to see much of the modern world is similarly occupied. I'm sure, if I Googled it, there'd be support groups for it.

Some of my friends seem to live online...at the very least their lives are being narrated in a suite of tweets or a posse of posts. One friend got to the point where she would actually speak in status updates. Joe Bloggs thinks that's taking things a little too far!

I am also fascinated by the fascination with the number of 'friends' or followers one has. I mean, who in the real world can honestly say just how many friends they have on any given day? Simply consider BFFs, workmates, schoolfriends, various other associates, siblings, spouses and offspring (just for the record, I have 33 'first cousins' alone, and very quickly lose count after that)... Yet we're keen to keep an eye on the number of friends on Facebook, Inc. and the like. Heaven help us if we're unfriended for any reason. (Here's where I say, by some strange quirk, my tally changes depending on the device I'm using, so I tend to stick with the one where I have the most.) (See, only slightly obsessed!)

But yes, I confess to logging on to look at what others have got to say, how others are spending their day, and occasionally come up with suitably witty or thought-provoking comments of my own, in 140 characters or less (insert appropriate emoticon here).

In a world where so much is seen, not necessarily heard, one wants to be seen to be having as much fun as everybody else; hopefully the grass isn't greener on the other side of the screen.

Conversely, if things are a little rough in the real world, it's nice to escape to a virtual reality where one can hang with friends, blast those bubbles, or build a 'ville with no ill will.

So I admit my addiction, minor it may be, and happily click away each day, albeit at the expense of my study or the housework at times. (Seriously, who wouldn't rather surf the 'net than sort socks - we all know how much fun that can be, right?!)

Yes here I state that I am just a little OC with my PC.

And you know what? I "Like" it!

Now, I was going to write some more, but someone's just commented on my profile pic...

Jx

©2012

Yellow Belly

I am a coward.

Bit strange me saying that as I have never been known to back down from a fight, even stepping up for someone else at times. And one of my most useful (and most used) mantras is : "Feel the fear and do it anyway" (thank you Susan Jeffers). I'm forever telling my kids that it's ok to be nervous, that butterflies in the tummy can be good, and the true definition of bravery is being scared of something but having a go regardless- the ol' "get over it, get on with it" mentality.

But today I am a coward.

Too afraid and uncertain of how to act, what to say, that instead I'm keeping quiet.

Not that I'm not worried my silence will send the wrong message. It's just, I don't know what message to send.

So  I sit.

And send none.

And then fret that my fear will take too long and I'll miss the chance to say anything at all.

Here's my dilemna: two people are in two different hospitals, neither of them near, both fighting for their lives. It's been a while since I had an actual conversation with either of them and now the clock is ticking. Fast.

What do you say to someone you once had no trouble filling hours talking to? How do you express the feelings you yourself can't even clearly understand?

And when is the right time, when time is running out?

I've previously pondered the dynamics of human relationships that get waylaid by life. Friendships that are interrupted by the very act of living. Some you can pick up where you left off- if only the chance comes up. And I've philosophised before about the family connections that get cut off by word or deed - or both- from one party or the other. But the human animal is a funny creature- one that relies heavily on "later"...until it's too late.

So, coward that I am, and desperate to not have the final memories be bad ones or sad ones, I haven't actually spoken to either of these people, who were once so dear to me. I've sent balloons to one, SMSed the other, and left a slightly cringe-worthy message on the machine of the mother of my friend, I was so tongue-tied at the time.

Me, the one who they say was born talking (if family mythology can be believed). Me, who could allegedly talk under water with a mouth full of marbles (an untested rumour). Me, who has been known to get paid to speak for a living.  Me, who is sadly, strangely, silent now.

I simply cannot find the words. Nor trust my voice not to break.

A coward indeed.

And I am so afraid that when I find my courage, it'll be just too late to say anything at all.

Jx

©2012

Burn Baby Burn

There are times in your life where you can sit back comfortably and say "Well I'm never doing that again!"

This is not one of those times.

Seeing how I can't sit comfortably at all.

But I'm never doing that again, all the same!

The 'that' that I am talking about is falling for one of those Group Buying sites, which purport to offer bigger better bargains on a whole host of needful things.

Foolishly my hips and I thought I needed to try the new body-shaping salon at our local shopping centre.

It sounded promising enough (well they always do don't they?) Save 70% on Two Sessions where "you could lose centimetres" from a chosen body part, without anaesthesia, scars, and no discomfort, if you can believe the hype.

I should've known something was up when the store itself wasn't actually named on the voucher, simply 'Shop 21' at the given address. Next hint was when I called the listed number and got an answering machine: "Sorry we can't take your call right now, but please leave a message and we'll get back to you." Again, no name, so no message from me.

Attempt number 3 proved a little more positive and I got to speak to an actual person- albeit one with a very strong accent.  I tentatively booked in for the next day.

Came the day I headed for the address, clutching the precious piece of paper that promised so much and trotted along with my hopes and my head up looking for the elusive 'Shop 21'.

I was received with great welcome and the offer of Chinese Green tea, which I respectfully declined...I was keen to start losing those centimetres!

Shown into a cubicle barely big enough for the bed, I was told to remove my jeans and lay down.  At least I think that's what I was told. So that's what I did. On her return the friendly little female fired up the machine destined to do the dirty work. Next thing that should've suggested this process was probably not recommended by doctors were the words 'Explosive Speed Grease' exploding across the front of the thing (What the hell?), but no, having spent my money with the rest of the Group, I was determined to suck it up, or at least let the machine do it for me...

First step, squirting cold conductor gel onto my flabby bits, followed by a gentle soothing massage with probe number one whose ultrasonic pulses start attacking the fat cells inside (the Radio Frequency mode).

Sorry, did I say 'soothing'? The thing emitted such a painfully high pitch while it worked that I was sure dogs from surrounding suburbs would come running to see what all the fuss was about. Either that or disappear in the opposite direction. Which is what I should have done. 

The sound was a strange robotic chime that went straight to the very centre of my hearing centre, which is a whole lot worse than it sounds (think Dentist drill times 100). It set my teeth on edge, and apparently also had a similar effect on my muscles as the friendly little female had to remind me to "Relax". (Guess she couldn't gently massage my gluteus maximus while it was maximised...) Trying to follow her instruction to "Enjoy the music" I had to tune out the squealing in my head to focus on the easternised version of a popular song: Simon and Garfunkel's 'Sounds of Silence'. (Does that sound like irony to you?)

Phase Two was a heat treatment designed to start breaking down the fat cells, ready for easy removal by the body (the delightful sounding Fat Cavitation). Unfortunately, the aforementioned female didn't reapply the gel and I started leaping off the bed every time she hit a dry patch of skin with the heat probe. "Solly! Solly!" she said as she then squirted enough gel to cover the necessary bits...along with my undies, the towel attempting to cover what remained of my modesty, and the bed itself. So now I'm lying there, butt in the air, in a puddle of cold conduction fluid. My only saving grace was that I had worn the 'good' undies.

Having survived Phase Two it was onto the final step- Lymphatic Drainage- a mini vacuum cleaner type attachment that promised to somehow start sucking that fat right outta there.

By now I was way beyond relaxation, way beyond enjoying the sounds of silence, and much more in tune with my body saying it was not at all happy with my choice today.

So I wasn't particularly peeved when the friendly little female told me that my two hips equalled two sessions and my voucher was now used up. I walked out of there a lot faster than I walked in, and was indeed starting to 'feel the burn'. So much for 'no discomfort'! Unfortunately, I kept on feeling the burn well into the night (rather like sunburn on the inside), despite drinking the recommended water, and applying cool packs to the affected areas. By 5am, I was totally over the sensation, so here I am, sitting on a cold pack, dosed up on painkillers, with just as many centimetres as I set out with.

So no, I am absolutely, definitely, positively, and painfully never doing that again.

And as for Group Buying, methinks I have been well and truly burned.

Jx

©2012

Kits in the Kitchen

There's a drum kit sitting smack bang in the middle of my kitchen at the moment.

We're talking bass drum, snare, tom-tom, and a hi-hat.

Why is it in my kitchen?

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

If you ask my Beloved, that is.

If you ask me - well, I actually can't post my reply here, being a PG-rated site and all.

See, our daughter, aged 8, has joined the school band. And after in-depth testing of rhythm, tone, and embouchure, the music teachers in their wisdom decided that the instrument of choice for our girl would be the glockenspiel ... and drums.

Coming from a fairly musical family, I get that she has some natural aptitude. I mean to say, you could pretty much set up a band of any sort using members of our family, across multiple generations. And anyone who knows us will tell you that any time any number of us are together out comes the guitars and gear and the jam session begins. It's the Irish in us coming out. To be sure.

But glockenspiel?

And drums?

Most kids get given one instrument, however our teacher decided to use Miss V as a guinea pig and have her learn two at once. Kinda like a one-woman percussion section.

When our son joined the band he got the trumpet and followed in my (brief) footsteps as cornet player in the school band, back in my day.  Happy to say I didn't embarrass myself when he brought the thing home and could still make a noise, even though it was one that may have had the 'Great Satchmo' Louis Armstrong turning in his grave (I would say 'Rest In Peace' but that's not likely with us on the trumpet).

So when our little girl decided she too would try out for the band, we expected her to get a similar thing, maybe some 'girly' instrument like the flute.

But no, glockenspiel and drums it is.

So glockenspiel and drums are what's taking up residence in our residence. Albeit in the kitchen.

Thing is, there's not a lot of space at our place. The 3 bedrooms are already filled with bodies and bits. And the living room is no place to make music that could wake the dead.

Unlike my father when we were young, we're not about to kick kids out so that there can be a dedicated 'music room' (sometimes I swear he'd escape in there just to drown out the arguments of three feisty females crammed in one small room).

So we're attempting to clear out the old garage, where many a great muso has had their start.

Unfortunately we didn't do so before we brought the drum kit home. It couldn't stay in the car, even though the cymbal was playing its own catchy little jazz beat every time I hit a bump (tcch tch tch tcch tch tch tcch). So my Beloved brought it in and dumped it in the kitchen.

You try making dinner with a bass drum between you, the stove, and the cutlery drawer!

I can only say the beating of the skin was somewhat louder than the curses that came out each time I booted the bass, or caught myself on the little lugs en route to the dining table (which incidentally, has a trumpet case sitting on it for some strange reason).

After a number of drum solos inadvertently performed by each member of the family in their turn taking dirty dishes to the sink, I asked my Beloved when he envisages the kit and kitchen might part ways: "As soon as we get a decent spot cleared in the front room to set it up," is his not-so-promising reply.

Looks like I'm going to have to fine tune my footwork if the family expects to be fed on a  regular basis between now and then.

And if you can't stand the beat, well, stay out of my kitchen!

Jx

©2012

104 Needles

That's how many, on average, my son has in any given year.

104 times each and every year I must prepare medication, draw it up into a syringe, before sticking the sharp end into my little boy.

More, if you count the extra shots for blood tests he needs to monitor the effect of what we inject.

You better believe both he and I hate it every single time.

See, despite being diagnosed with supposedly the 'best' type of Juvenile Arthritis there is (if there is any such thing as 'good' JIA), with traditionally the best prognosis for remission- medicated or spontaneous- by the time a child hits adolescence; my child isn't following the textbooks and instead of stopping the meds, we've had to increase instead.

9 years into this JIA journey, he and I are still finding a way to making medicine more fun.

When your child is first diagnosed with a disease like Juvenile Arthritis, a parent- usually the mother (nothing against dads, it's just the way it is) gets a fast track to a medical degree, without the fancy certificate to whack on your wall.

You pick up the lingo almost by osmosis to understand the parade of practitioners you pass on the path to a pain-free childhood. I can discuss ANA, CRP, ESR, FBC, and LFTs with the best of them (my Beloved however has missed a few lessons and doesn't yet know his RFs from his ABCs).

You also get a few tips on how to administer medication at home that is more at home in a hospital. If you're lucky, it comes as a liquid that's fairly well received. Tablet form's a little harder to swallow. If you've ever given a pet a pill, you'll know just how hard it can be. One of the tricks is hiding crushed tablets in foodstuffs of similar colour until they catch on - despite our best intentions our son still has an aversion to yellow food (Methotrexate is yellow). He's not alone, studies have shown kids all over the world have had the same reaction to cheese, custard, bananas, even egg yolks.

When all else fails, it's needle time.

For someone who's never given an injection before, it's a pretty daunting task.  Tougher still if you're among the many who have needle phobia and faint at the sight of blood (my Beloved again).

They tell you to practice on an orange, or any citrus fruit with a skin similar to that of a human body - just take an empty syringe and practise poking the needle through. A little deeper for intramuscular injections, a little less for subcutaneous (see, told I could do medico-speak).

Braver folk take the next step and stick it into themselves, to find the spot that's as painless as possible.  I've only ever done so by accident (it wasn't that painless, incidentally), and over the years I've become much better at avoiding needlestick injuries.

There are also ways to numb the site so it'll be alright on the night. But EMLA® and AnGEL® both take time to work...time for fretting about what's to come.  Ice can numb the skin, but also makes it tougher to pierce and it's more like poking through a watermelon than an orange. After a few years of tears, the doctors told us as long as the skin itself is clean, you can go without, which reduces the pre-emptive fear somewhat, if not the sting itself.

We've come through it about 364 times so far. That's like a needle every day for a year, with a day's grace for Christmas.

And so twice a week for the next year or so we will do it again, and my little boy and I will share the pain with the purpose of one of these drugs working one day.

104 more chances to stop a disease in its tracks, and bring an end to using my son as a human pincushion for the rest of his life.

I don't want to think about how many needles we'll be up to, if we don't.

Jx

©2012