Magpie's Nest

"It is What It is"

Okay. I'm confessing. The 'friend' with grade one spreading-but-contained-uterine cancer is actually me/myself and I. I don't know why I was trying to protect your delicate sensibilities. You're an adult. You also probably have a mother/sister/cousin/aunt/friend who might benefit from my Cautionary Tale. I've no medical training whatsoever. You need to consult a doctor for anything remotely medical. I did. And after a radical hysterectomy I am healing ready for the next stage.

But therein lies the sting in my cautionary tale.

Post-menopausal bleeding. "Common in women your age" I was told by the medical profession. Yet, no matter who I disclosed to, this 'common' thing that was happening to me had not been happening in my wide circles. Women talk, and if they don't talk, they whisper at least! No one, but no one had an anecdote about someone they knew that was similar to my story as a woman ten years past menopause. Sure, there were plenty of younger women stories, but nothing with this pattern.

And that was fairly unusual for me. Come on now! You know we talk! And I'll admit I am less inhibited than many women in this respect, but even I couldn't read between the lines. Apparently this was my unique problem, like the previous thyroid cancer, and the colostomy etc.

Initially when I observed watery bleeding I thought I'd somehow had a freak accident and cut myself unknowingly. So did my GP. I used Ovestin cream and hoped it would get better. It didn't. It got worse. Maybe it's my crazy body being slow to respond, I thought? I went back to the GP. He wrote a referral to a gyno. I had time to spend a month in London. By then I was bleeding every day, sometimes quite heavily.

I returned to Australia and saw the gyno who examined me with internal ultrasound in his rooms. He scheduled me for day surgery. That was early June last year. The investigation showed slight thickening of the endometrial wall, but no pathology to worry about. The ovary looked cystic. I kept using Ovestin after a long period of not wanting to, hoping that my body would get its act together and heal me! There was no timeline to report back negotiated. Did I/we miss something?

My partner accompanied me to each visit, so there you had a veterinary epidemiologist and a multi-skilled head of English, neither of whom could get a handle on how long was long enough before we fussed again. So, I kept bleeding. I mentioned it to my old GP, and to my new GP, because we had retired south. I changed medicos, not brains. I did not slip between systems. Same answer. I was handed more Ovestin scripts.

I bled daily for eighteen months before my hysterectomy. I was so over blood stains. I bought black clothes so I wouldn't have to cope with blood stains.

In February my darling sister-in-law was anxious at the lack of action, as was my vet. So I caved in, told the knee replacement to take a number and stand in line, and demanded of a new GP that this bleeding be investigated! I had an internal and external ultrasound, and they contacted me the next day, ironically when I was in Sydney having a cuppa with said sister-in-law. The uterine thickness had doubled and the ovary looked suspect. After that it was scans, more day surgery where a grade one carcinoma was identified, and a total of three different gynos as I was referred higher up the gyno food chain. Each visit, scan etc took time to arrange.

So,that's how I got to meet the lovely female gyno with the frangipani flowered stationery, and here I sit, sore and sorry, but not missing my uterus at all. The cancer had spread up the fallopian tube and into the ovary. And here I sit wondering how a tough, assertive, pushy ex-head of English let herself get 'pushed' around by three lovely medicos, with whom I had a trusting relationship, and still much respect for.

I understand that the semantic item 'practice' as applied to medicine means simply that. Medicos are not God. But goodness, what hope do we women have if a bossy britches like me took it all lying down, in a 'they know best' manner.

Is it the public medical thing that says ten minutes= 2 issues, and how do I choose? I have a complex medical history. Is it the medical arrogance that greets patients who Google symptons and dismisses checklists on cancer organisation sites? Is it our passivity as patients?

I set up a support stream on Facebook and let the love of friends buoy me along.

So now, I'm putting my personal experience out there so that you or someone you care about has an earlier alert system in place.

My cancer seems to have been contained and I can only await the next thrilling step into radiation. Stay tuned.

And consult a doctor again and again, if you have even the vaguest concern.

 

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Sheer Madness! Are We All This Crazed?

This used to be my playground.

It was the smell of the bush, that aromatic gum tree and wet bush smell, that hit me with the force of memory. It is the unmistakeable smell of Oatley Park on the George's River. It is probably the unmistakeable smell of many Australian childhoods. But this smell of Oatley Park bush was mine.

We used to come here all the time when we were small. Clambering through the bush, scouring the river's edge. A friend learning photography took many black and white photographs of a barefoot, sixteen year old me in jeans and old t-shirt, long hair getting in the way as I gazed at Flannel flowers, or posed artistically in the windows of the old castle. I cringe at my poses, but recall the day with great pleasure. We took our newborn on his very first picnic here with the other new parents from Sister Smith's Arncliffe parenting class of 1980-81. And then my father used to pick up the same little toddler and take him for a walk here with the family dog every Sunday morning without fail. My playgroup and Nursing Mother's groups used to picnic near the steam rollers, and just the other day, my brother -planning a trip to visit the parents - asked if we would join them in Oatley Park for a picnic, bread rolls and cheese in the park, his idea of bliss.

Today, we sat and watched the large group of intensely coloured Rainbow Lorikeets scrabbling around on the ground. What a view! I could feel the healing energy seeping into my very marrow.

This seat is ideally placed to contemplate why anyone who lived within a stone's throw of this natural beauty would not actively make an excursion here weekly, if not daily?

What is the complacency that we use to tell ourselves that our lives are too busy to sit and absorb the calming energy that such a natural manmade feature as this provides?

My parents are now 86. They can still drive much further than this spot. What madness stops them from regularly packing a picnic lunch and learning the lessons that the park still has left to teach them? My husband and I discussed this very point. I grew irritated when he commented that that was age. If this 'blindness' is what age is all about, then shoot me now!

Mind you, the beach below is now in my backyard, with the river beyond, and yet there we are sitting within the confines of four walls! Sheer madness!

 

 

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A Lounge By Any Other Name?

Badly designed lounge rooms and badly designed lounge furniture can be very real relationship deal breakers! And I speak not only of humans.

British Philosopher Alain de Botton writes comprehensively about the architecture of happiness, and I am a total convert to his analyses of how the spaces we inhabit affect our degree of generalised well-being. But I am also deeply interested in the sociology of lounge furniture and its impact on our degrees of perceived intimacy. Lousy furniture can make or break a domestic relationship!

The ways in which we navigate emotional intimacy can be gauged and affected by the degrees of physical closeness that we feel comforted by and comfortable with. I'm not talking about La Grand Seduction. I am talking about family closeness.

Biologists and psychologists and animal behaviourists all tell us that hugs can be healing and affirming, that without enough of them small babies can grow into damaged people.

People do have widely varying needs for the reassurance of physical touches such as hugs, and often there can be a mismatch in the need for hugs in a relationship. Negotiating this potential minefield may involve a trip to a furniture store!

With friends, our lounge room functions adequately for positive social exchanges: we can face each other, make eye contact and we do not have to shout. We can engage.

Yet, I can hardly wait until our new lounge furniture arrives. Our two beautiful Norwegian single chairs do all that their brochure says BUT they do not allow for the physical closeness of a shared couch. Hugs are difficult to exchange without severe contortions so they have lessened dramatically. This impacts on a relationship in subtle, but significant ways.

Small dogs struggle to share space and a lap without being squished. So often, the little dog on the bottom rung of the status ladder trots up eagerly,assesses the available space left, then gives up and trots back to her bed. It breaks my heart!

Important 'people' to take into account in the matter of sharing closeness are children and animals. They won't understand your decision to allow inanimate objects to dictate their feelings of acceptance and closeness and security. A couch that allows the whole family to snuggle up to read a good book or watch a movie or just talk, need not be expensive. It just needs to be!

 

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A Woman's Touch?

I don't really want to get all sexist here, but this topic has me intrigued. My friend has a new gynaecologist and that oncologist is a woman, the first 'woman' specialist she has ever encountered, and already she can see 'la difference'. It is stark and startling.

The good doctor uses flowery stationery to communicate! Not the cold, impersonal crispness of a business letter. Her communications vibrate with implicit messages of good will, positive thinking, and a generalised 'life is beautiful' subtext. Astounding to my friend because of the implied warmth and humanity from a professional.

Her gynaecologist's business card is decorated with frangipani. She found this sensitivity and personalisation ... wonderful. It communicated a message that stated baldly that this may be an oncologist dealing with life's imponderables, but that didn't have to make the rest of life ugly and fearful.

The good doctor also uses the same images on her business letters stating the ugly truths of private health insurance and the specialist gap. Somehow it softened the financial blow. At least it came with a bunch of virtual flowers.

It is dire enough to be facing uterine cancer, but in having a doctor that cares enough to communicate using uplifting images, my friend knows that she will be in good hands. Would that we all could receive this message from those tasked with guiding us through some of our darkest hours.

Has anyone else encountered this style of communication from the so-called 'healing' professions? There should be more of it surely?

 

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A sense of place takes a while to acquire. Before, winter meant small fluffy dogs coming in from the cold and smelling of wood smoke. In this new locale I am learning to recognise new patterns: the boogie boards stacked in a neat row behind the pink and blue bicycles on the front porch, theft seeming to be the last thing on anyone's mind. Location is in the bicycles whizzing by with adapted luggage racks specially designed to hold a surf board. How did all those boys - young and old - know that today's late afternoon was perfect for a surf. I watched at least six board riders tackling the waves, and was passed by a few more rushing down to catch the last wave of the weekend.

My first coastal Magpie. It seemed like an omen after these many long, fraught months. A beach loving, Ti-tree perching Magpie telling me that the Grand Sea Change had finally been achieved and that I had morphed into a coastie.

(F)retirement: A Progress Beach-side Report

When it all boils down to it, life is really all about finding the next feed.

In our new beach-side setting meal times are all over the place. Today - Thursday, in fact, meals are sparse and few because we are living with Michael Mosely's Fast Diet.

Today is a fast day. 500 calories for me and 600 for him. We had rolled oats porridge for breakfast with milk,berries, LSA and nuts. I simply can not give up my morning and evening cuppa with a dash of milk so we are trying to adjust the overall daily calorie load for that. Herbal tea and water highlights the rest of the day. I am trying not to obsess about the small piece of Scotch Fillet and vegetables that I will prepare for us for this evening's meal.

By now you've probably heard about 5:2 or the Fast Diet. I'm trying it because every other approach seems to have failed in the long term and because the behavioural changes required are not huge, which is the point. Anything that the doctor tells me about health issues all seem to be affected by weight.

I have lost weight before, but it required enormous discipline and after 60 years I am stll trying to still the emotional eater in me. When the Vet is very stressed, as he has been over the last 6 months, he loses weight no matter what he eats. When I am very stressed, as I have been over the last 6 months, my guards are down and I reach for the sugary concoction with coffee and the weight stacks on.

The Body Trim approach contained far too much protein for me and I hated eating  frequent small snacks. I dislike protein bars and find them very irksome. However, this approach is obviously well-structured and works for some.

I lost about 12 kilos on the 'No Sugar' mindset, but the behavioural changes required for a comfort eater were huge, especially when going out for coffee. Virtually no one stocks light savoury snacks to have with a coffee when all around you are tucking into cakes. However, I fully appreciate the 'No Sugar' approach and I have made huge adjustments in how I eat. I no longer drink fruit juice. I avoid high sugar foods, and I count sugar grams per 100 gram serving size. I plan to keep on doing as much as I can there, but I don't live in a social vacuum and there are dietray traps all around. It's a huge minefield out there!

However, the weight has piled back on despite these adjustments, which is disastrous for my legs/knees, thyroid medication and just about anything else you can think of. I think that weight issues for 60 year old women must be a lot more complex than people realise.

My husband, despite all, is a wonderful support and is accompanying me on this Fast Diet journey for the health benefits this approach purports to produce. This is a great help in behavioural terms because I am not forced to watch him eat.

We've been doing this for a few weeks now and are managing it quite well, despite my despair at my weight not melting away. Nothing has shifted.

As on all restrictive diets you find yourself obsessing about food a little at first, but it is actually relatively easy to do. The point is that counting calories/portion sizes etc is not an 'all the time' thing; it is just two days a week.

My medical practice has suggested that I see a dietician, and I will - eventually. After years of reading up about food issues, I honestly question what a dietician can add that will change my life. And what if she/he advocates some sugar or 'a balanced' diet? What then?

Meanwhile, here at the (F)retirement House Near the Beach, gardens are being created and renovations are being planned.

This morning after breakfast we walked down to the beach, and as we walked along the sand, marvelled that this activity was no longer relegated to longed-for holidays.

Beach House Visitors Welcome

This is one of a pair of Yellow-tailed Black Cockatoos feeding in our garden one morning this week.

We felt blessed, even if I was too twitterpated to get the better camera, or to fiddle with focus etc.

I have discovered that I adore the view from within my new studio. I sit at the computer; or cuddle up on the couch with a dog or two and a book; or sit at the table puzzling out designs, or the execution of a particularly tricky construction problem; or puddling with paint, and I am happy, again. Mostly.

And there is always the sound of the sea. The constant 'swash' of the waves fills me with echoes of an unfamiliar emotion. I never knew that this sound had been missing from my life until I heard it constantly again after 55 years. It's a long time to wait, but here it is, in my life again. Not a tropical Papua New Guinean swash to be sure, but enough buckle and splash to send joy through the cells of this ageing body.

And as I communicate with you my brain is assembling lots of images of buckling clay and puzzling out ratios such as humidity and sunlight on drying clay, and wondering what the hell is going on with it all. This is part of an 'Objectnalia' series. Or, it was going to be until disaster struck.

Too much afternoon sunlight I suggest. I caught Sunlight pouring in the western window this afternoon. I haven't the heart to draw the curtains whilst the clay dries out so I'll just have to find another place for slow-drying clay.

Perhaps I should just go and ease the pain by picking up a paintbrush and having a glorious dabble?

Magpie's Nest Dust Settles Down ( a little more ) by the Seaside

This is actually near the head of the Shoalhaven River, but I am sure you get my drift. We bought fish and chips last week and sat by the river gazing out at the seagulls and the boats, and simply enjoyed our new style of office and its lack of politics. This boat ramp is about 4 minutes drive from the new Nest.

Emotional turmoil and moving house  has seen the Magpie's Nest stress levels richochet right off the Richter scale, but the roller coaster appears to be putting on some brakes and coasting momentarily. One can only fervently hope, in every real sense of that word.

We hired a trailer today, and because we had the booking we vainly hoped that the torrential rain would give us a break, but it was not to be. Instead, we got wet, recycled rubbish of the botanical and dining setting kind, and felt a very strong sense of accomplishment, it being generally acknowledged that dogged persistence in pouring rain and mud is character building. Consider our characters built.

Many times I have questioned my sanity in the last five months. A week or so ago I felt that I was going to be forever 'camping' in the beach house, but slowly things are starting to take shape. We are very conscious that this is a lull as the DA for the renovated verandahs goes through the approvals process at the local council. When that happens we will be painting like mad, just ahead of the builders as they start erecting the new structures.

I haven't made time to make new friends as yet, and this may not necessarily be a blessing as support and distraction are known antidotes to stress. But who am I to consider the wisdom of the ages?

Thank goodness for technology and far flung old friends, including one who got me started on the beach hut path with my BijouxCeramicButtons.

Local stores in the coastal village of Gerringong promote the notion of beach by selling beach hut motif products. The top hanger is now in my kitchen, and the bottom one is in my friend's house. I have started making ceramic beach hut buttons for beach bunting for my new kitchen shelves to hide the joins; and other little beach hut 'objectnalia'. 

Just loving my new studio here in the beach house.

 

In his book on travelling, the philosopher Alain de Botton references an artist who maintains that anyone can learn to draw in order to record travel impressions. Our Big Sea Change has opened up a whole new world of impressions. Today we took the MouseWolves on a picnic to Lake Conjola. So very, very restful, for all. Soul food.