Philomath(s)

 I am a girl who loves numbers.

I know that it is not cool, that it has never been cool and is indeed part of what makes me decidedly uncool.

That is okay.  I have never been cool.

Every day these days I juggle numbers.

In my work, I juggle numbers that I do not discuss.  Not because I do not love the work that I do and the people that I work with.  But that is a different world.

There are numbers that I am currently having to subtract from work.

There is a decent balance to withdraw from luckily.  I do not have to weigh the values too harshly. 

Every day it is a vastly a different number that I must start from.  A precise, to the minute number.

I have had to learn that it is approximately 26 minutes from the car leaving garage here to the car park there.  Dependent on factors beyond my control like roadworks or red lights.

Yet I rely on 26 minutes induced stress.  Before I leave, I have to subtract at least 28 (because its a find a mask and a decent walk from the car park) from any of the random numbers I am assigned for that day and aim to leave before that moment.  Or at the very latest that I am to leave.

There is generally a 10 minute process from sanitizing hands, greeting desk ladies and scannning barcode to take a water, take a mentos, take a seat and relax.

There are two rooms in operation.  Both on time states the screen in the reception.

I then get ushered - through this way to a room.  This room has three doors ahead.

The three doors read from left to right:

1. Change Room Three,
2. Change Room One, and 
3. Change Room Two.

Today I got Change Room Two.

I have never had Change Room Two before.

All three change rooms are nearly the same but slightly different.

A cubicle.  A small bench.  A mirror.  Three signs with associated buttons.  A door at either end.

I can lock both doors. I do.

De-mask, drink some water, suck the mentos, change from clothing and underwear to robe.

Drink more water, chew the mentos, put my mask on and leave by the other door.

Take a seat in the runway.

If I am lucky, I get to read half a page of the book I am reading.  (link to Booktopia listing of Live Fearlessly by Dr Emilia Dauway - not a paid gig, just if you wanted to know.  Given my progress, there will be much book left when I finish my treatment.)

 I am called through.  I need to confirm who I am, where I live and what I am doing here.

I de-mask and ascend to become radiant.

Ha.

Without going into details how, my tattoos are aligned, my breathing monitored and a warmed blanket placed between me and the machines.

First, there are two x-rays taken to ensure that I am positioned to within the millimetre.  During each I am to hold my breath for 25 seconds.  It is counted through.  25 seconds.  Then 15.  Then (sometimes) 10.  Then 5 (and one even gives a full countdown from that point.)

Then the bed moves - slightly.  There is always music in the background.

A very eclectic selection.

The machine moves around me and I get counted down - 25 seconds, and when I am ready 25 seconds and then a short one at 10.  I think that truly they are just throwing random numbers at me to soothe, as some they tell me 15 to go but I have counted only 7 and other times my count nearly mimics there own.  

The machine moves around again and I know that we are done with just on half the the first half.  I start to do equations in my head.  How long to go.  How many left.  Are we there yet.

Then I am congratulated for doing so well for the first half and am I up to doing the second.

Of course I am.

 I am realigned and the bed moves for the right this time.

Once they have announced they have left the room, there is always THAT part of my body that says, actually, not 100% okay over here.

Yesterday, my nose suddenly became itchy.  You cannot move with this treatment, let alone scratch your nose.

I start counting down their routine.  There are 8 breath holds to go.  170 seconds.

145 seconds.

120 seconds.

95 seconds. 

70 seconds.

Short one.

Last bit.  Spin the machine.  Don't think about the nose.

35 seconds to go.

10 seconds - 5, 4, 3, 2 and I am done.

I am now 40% done.

Because of another appointment with the nurse after, I did not have enough numbers left after I had taken that away from the end of the day, but most days I return to work when I return home.  See if my numbers are needed.

Today is payday.

It is June.

It is time to get my head around the numbers that I play with but have never really understood.

As long as the numbers on one side sort of look like the numbers on the other I get through another day and count my blessings.

There are those that are living life so they would look at mine and see lack.

And there are others that are living life so they would look at mine and see excess.

And I breathe.

Quality Time, Candles, and tattoos

 As I said, I visited the folks a few weeks ago.

There are three possible ways to get there sort of directly.

There is the dirt way, which is currently out of action due to the desire for those who would not have it so.  

There is the bitumen, which is slightly longer and makes more sense if you are going to my sisters place.

And then there is The Pinnacle.

I am sure to have many photos of the road to The Pinnacle from this side.  I have some photos (and one particular memory) of the road from the other side of The Pinnacle.

I probably even have photos FROM The Pinnacle (every time my daughter travels across it, she has to memorize it in digitally for a friend).

Due to the dirt way being out of action, it was our route of choice upon this occasion.

On the way out, Paris was my companion.  There was both a ban on screens AND the joy of a communications black spot, so we listened to an audiobook.  Every time there was a glance of one character to another that had an underlying frisson, I got hit in the left arm.

On the return, an all grown up 'Salina was Paris' chauffeur and I got to finish the job I had started with Dad before I drove home - unaccompanied.  Three precious hours of people free time and no work tasks invading me or anyone NEEDING me.

Folks, you cannot PURCHASE such joy.

There is nigh on 200km of road between their place and mine.

There is a ribbon of bitumen winding along many narrow valleys of (currently) green (although on occasion, pallid grey or heartbreaking brown) until you come to the most bizarre little town imaginable huddled on the left of the strip of road - and just after that you make a sudden right turn.

Then your ribbon of bitumen goes up and down and becomes dirt and up and down and there is a grid and KABOOM - the landscape changes.

Forestry (which is a government department and used to be a business enterprise) is - was - the main industry here, with rows of planted pine forests and moonscapes of cleared hills and tangles of potato-vine and cats claw tying together thickets and scrub.

And then another grid and you travel along the bottom of this magical area of massive trees and crossing a creek multiple times and flats with signs of human existence in the form of old yards and signposts to homesteads hidden away.

You then windingly climb up over hills and around bends, all the while keeping in mind the intermittent warnings signs that FORESTRY TRUCK USE THESE ROAD and to share this road with a semi-trailer laden with logs sends a shiver.

Finally you go over rock and hewn tracks are shielded on one side with more rock but the other side plummets down through trees to unseen ground below.

Once you are over, it is one of those roads that seems to both go on forever and yet seems much shorter than you remember.

That bridge.  A bit of bitumen.  A turn off to a right to an area you don't know, but have seen the sign for from the other end too.

And then a T-intersection with the highway that carries the freight - and people in caravans and motorcyle enthusiasts and day trippers - all along the east coast of our state.

It also marks when I get back into mobile signal.

Driving along this highway, accompanied by a sight that I don't have lots of photos of - mainly because I am always the one driving and Paris doesn't think it as amusing as I.

Its lots of stick figure men holding strings of wire - for miles and miles.  (A. electrical pylons - or transmission towers apparently - and B. the only downside of metric is kilometres and kilometres just doesn't roll off the tongue)

I know they aren't really stick figure men - but from a distance and with enough time (inside my head, at least) they start to look like it.  Sometimes they are configured differently, so one might be holding his hand up and other might be bending to the right.  I don't know, it just tickles me).

This is real road now.  There are full line markings and even overtaking lanes - and roadworks, there always appears to be roadworks.

We are still amongst hills, so the wider road sweeps down and across bridges and around corners, but with trucks and motorbikes and caravans and cars all joining you and sometimes racing you and sometimes biding their time patiently or making you wait upon their timetables.

And they same coming at you the other way.

And then the phone rang.

Now, when you have had an hour or so inside your own head and there is a car about an hour ahead of you with your two most precious cargo on board, you ALWAYS pull over and answer the phone.

It was a bad line, but eventually I got the gist.

Last year, at the school that Paris now attends, there was an Open Day.

It was hot - and crowded.

There was a crafty sort of lane and 'Salina and Paris and I had promenaded along and admired and bought and admired.

One of the stalls was regarding a charity that is worldwide but grassroots - Day for Girls

Its a great concept - the local chapter here has monthly Sew n Pack days - unfortunately the joys of permanent full time work is that such delights are out of reach, being held on weekdays.

So my contribution to this very worthy cause was to buy some raffle tickets.

And here, however long later, was the phone call announcing that I had won.

The best bit?

Within a week of that photo being taken, the prizes - candles - came into very good use.

We had (another) rain event, and one particular evening it was decided by the weather gods that we needed to learn how to truly enjoy the delights and so switched off our lights to let our other senses take control.

Thanks to these candles (and some that are always on hand because the weather gods do like to frolic at times) we held the darkness back just that little bit more and had a candlelit meal.

(BTW - the rest of the car trip was uneventful)

Oh, and the tattoos?  Yes, I had to hand in my cleanskin card because I have now been tagged.

I still haven't actually started treatment yet - some time tomorrow I should be getting a phone call advising whether it will be next week - maybe the 6th - or the 8th - or even the week after - or not.  You know.  

I'm part of the system now, and given the delicate balance of wanting to know when things are happening because it is easier to stress less when you have more knowledge VS bureaucrats who speak in tongues, not always effectively, not always to each other and not always with the right tone of voice connecting with each other. 

Ommmm. 

I do know that Paris is taller than me now, and about to overtake 'Salina.  I am officially the shortest in my family.

I know that there will be 15 zaps between now and the End of Financial Year.

And I know that I can hold my breath for 25 seconds.

And I can breathe.