The land of the long weekend

 We do love a long weekend, and thanks to Bonnie King Charlie we got one.

Mind you, I still give kudos to his Mum. I always do that with birthday greetings since motherhood arrived upon me - it's the anniversary of them being your parent - the birthday person had very limited control over the matter, whereas the giver of birth had time ahead to anticipate the occasion.

We had a lovely one to, with a few unspoken milestones reached, a successful social outing and a wonderful genealogical breakthrough or two.

I awoke this morning and contemplated my paternal great-great-grandmother, who has long been a bit of a brick wall. She was a Jane - I have a few - and her surname is relatively common. I had her father's name - a John - and very little detail regarding the mother apart from her first name.

I did not even know if she were a colonial, a migrant or a convict. Just that she married my great-great-grandfather and they had 3 sons - 1 who died in childhood and the other 2 who were migrating north as she entered old age.

I googled the parent names and the area that she married and a very peculiar and Australian name appeared. VERY peculiar and Australian.

Apparently not that far from where my great-great-grandparents lived. And they had a Facebook page for history.

So I asked the question. "I was wondering" I said, and "would you know".

Not only was a local historical receptacle of information able to answer my query, she was a direct descendant of the sister.

The same 13 year old sister my great-great-grandmother had brought out with her when she was an old maid of 26 from a pretty dire economic situation in Northern Ireland.

And apparently the same sister who had married at not too great a distance from where my Jane had found wedded bliss with her equally geriatric 27yo Cambridgeshire fellow that had swept her off her feet (I mean, isn't that what 19th century marriage was all about?)

And another poster piped up that at least 2 other sisters had migrated there either with Irish husband in tow or finding one pronto on landing.

In the space of less than one hour I had not just found a whole family for her, I had found a story and a tribe of sisters around.

And I love that she was a laundress. I wonder if she was a pegger?

She had a photo of their great-great-grandmother and, although a different age than my photo of ours, there was absolutely no doubt about their genetic link.

Blink Twice if you are okay

 So yes, Debby, the second operation was on Wednesday.

I am on the other side safely.

 

I would be holding a newspaper, but they aren't a thing any more around here.

Wednesday was, by all accounts, a beautiful day - I did wake with a slight niggle of a headache, but I thought little of it.  I had eaten my last food well before the midnight deadline, and was on water until 9am as it looked like I was a fairly late in the list.

Turns out, however, that the slight niggle of a headache was in fact the migraine fairy's gift, and by the time I thought "hmm, I should hit it with the good medicine" (as I now know from previous experience I am allowed to) it had amped up to the second cycle of migraine hell, whereby all within is evacuated.

By the time I got into the hospital, we were at the far end of this cycle, which means that the nurses could tell pretty soon that I was to be put in a dark corner to endure my misery without too much interruption.

Unfortunately, hospitals work on systems - and not all hospitals are equal.

The first eye operation occurred in a very old hospital in town - I have now had 3 operations in that one, and, while "very old" is the first expression that comes to mind, very organised and efficient can also be applied.

This operation is the second that I have had in the newer hospital - the other being the colonoscopy in 2020 linked above - and I don't know if my experience tainted by both being associated with migraines, but this go around was neither organised nor efficient - at least, not from the dark corner in which I lay moaning.

In their haste to get me through to this side of the waiting area, they failed to stash my personal belonging - that oversight required far more interaction than I could actually consciously navigate.

The other hospital has a nurse hand-off protocol to the pre-theatre room which has an extremely well-organised nurse's station.  This one had a row of chairs, a few beds and the nurse balancing files and pre-op requirements on a small desk.

They lost my file.  They failed to give me a shower cap (not so technical term for the keeping of hair out of ones eyes - or indeed theatre - when one's eye is to be operated on).  The man in the next bed droned on and on about his numerous surgeries at the hospital, casually throwing racist terminology about and using his deafness and age as an excuse for ignorance. 

The nurse was not the best at administering eye-drops - I mean, I may not have been the best at receiving eye-drops also, given the sheer effort to open my eyes at that point, but she was very short with my shortcomings in that regard and did nothing to up her own game.

Then they had a poor student nurse come around and check vitals and details - I advised the one vital I required - stat (I love medical terminology) - was an emesis bag (see, another medical term!) and the poor dear didn't have the time (or training) to pull the curtains closed before I used it.

The anaesthetic nurse then came down to see what was the go, and after a discussion with the Dr advised I could stay and have it or come another day - given the 100% rate of migraines for operations in this hospital, I figured have it I would - and she put some drugs in the dripline to help me through. 

There was a short comedy routine about finding something to put the drip bag onto - I thought that surely there must be something attached to the whizz bang hospital bed to use given ironing boards in the 1970s had already dealt with similar requirements - holding something high attached to the hot thing moving around on the horizontal surface - but finding such a thing was outside their scope.  When the orderly finally arrived to wheel me down to the corridor outside the next waiting area before theatre he proved my theory right.

I remember absolutely NOTHING about the operation.  

The usual sandwiches (one meat & pickles, one ham, tomato & cheese) and the cup of coffee for post recovery that they gave me (instant, white) were A-MA-ZING (after I removed the plastic cheese)!  I think there is extra chew in the crusts of hospital sandwiches or something.

I didn't really come out of the migraine stupor until about 8pm that night.

The general routine for my ophthalmologist is to do checkups the next day, and they have found a little bit of a pressure issue in the second eye, which, while it is not entirely unusual can be a concern when you have an added layer of WTF with your eyes, so that means closer monitoring - and the joy of some sulphur tablets for two days.

The side effects of sulphur tablets (besides, hopefully, fixing the pressure in the eye) is it is a diuretic (so more weeing), may make me feel nauseous, my food taste awful and possible headaches.

The good news is I can see distances without glasses!!  I still need something for reading, but was able to, for the first time in my life, go into the chemist and buy some cheapies from their stand.  They all looked ugly, so I bought the ugliest (and cheapest) pair that I could.

And in the blink of an eye

 So I am on the other side of the operation and it went very well. Very blessed indeed.

Of course, now that means that I have one far superior eye and my view slants to the left, but what is new! (A little political/physical play there for folks that require the explanation).

My life is a regimen of bells and whistles alerting me throughout - get up, prepare breakfast/lunch/leftovers, get dressed, get going, set up, eat breakfast, call my parents, start work, inbox, workflow, meetings, teams, discussions, deadlines, lunch, budgets, pack up, drive, collect daughter from school, drive, get home, set up, start work, phone calls, problem solving, spreadsheets, macros, shut down, pack away, prep dinner, argue with teenager about setting the table,  drink wine, watch a quiz show, cook dinner, watch local news, eat dinner, argue with teenager about eating habits, watch sitcom, argue with teenager about clearing the table, shower, get tablets, watch cop show with teenager, argue with teenager about phone usage (while sharing the couch - it's our us time - we bond over Bradford), bedtime routine, sleep.

Since the op, I have had to fit in four rounds of eyedrops in the good eye.

I was talking to V this evening.

"You have to remember" I told him " that she is a 14yo girl, and there is nothing more argumentative in the world than a 14yo girl."

He raised his eyebrows (as apparently neither of us were blessed with the cool single -eyebrow-arching trait).

"I was actually known as anything-for-an-argument-Jeanie when I was a teenager, because I used to argue anything."

"Used to?" he said.

I have not done much in the way of genealogy for a while. I have wintered with a few shows courtesy of Netflix of late.

I did Bridgerton. Apparently all of the mothers of 14yo girls are watching. I think that I might have found out why.

Queen Charlotte, The Queen's Gambit and Inventing Anna took me through the last few weeks. I am a very slow binger, falling asleep before an episode is through. How lucky are we that this is a possible way to watch, pausing for another 20 minutes tomorrow as opposed to the good old days of what you slept through you missed and waiting for next week's episode of my childhood?

12 days until the next eye gets done.

Pirate Leave 1

 I am officially on my first round of "Pirate Leave" from work.

I could have had my last food at 4am (I didn't, I slept instead) and am on water until 9am (man the coffee smells good).

10.15 I am expected at the hospital and they are doing "the good eye" first.

I am a bit anxious. 

I don't do leave. I mean I do, but generally it is in order to be busy elsewhere. I don't actually know how to relax these days, and reading is my general relaxation outlet when enforced. 

There are 3 weeks between this operation and the other to ensure that pressures stay on track due to the Fuchs factor. Apparently I can pop the lens of my glasses on the done eye and I might be useful - I have threatened to be the blind sage in the corner at work should that not be the case. 

Of course, that is dependant on my driving ability - I currently have custom hours so I don't drive in the dark so I do have a workstation set up at home. I don't mind working from home, but it does make a bit of a disconnect from the team camaraderie.

Anyway, that is my day ahead - handing over control and hoping for the best.

See you the other side.

Five go driving around Tasmania

.

December 1983 if memory serves me right.

We were in boarding school by then. I think that it was the last big holiday before BushBabe's last year of school - or maybe it was a year either way?

Anyway, I was at that rather gangly age where society and I weren't gelling all that well, and my beautiful mother decided she would try to make my awkwardness better by getting a local dressmaker to make me some clothing that would make me feel that much more uncomfortable out and about all over the nation.

It took a full day of driving for us to get to Brissy, where we stayed with the wonderful Grandma Mart.

She met us at the door, cigarette holder in one hand, hat and gardening gloves in the other.

Several times she stressed the importance of booking two taxis to get us to the airport at 5. There were two very good reasons for her not to offer her services.

The first was she had only obtained her licence the decade prior, in her sixties and newly widowed, and coming back from the airport into Brisbane peak hour traffic required a level of insanity it took years of practice to even attempt.

And the second was she didn't do Five AM.

However the taxi telephonist and Dad knew better, so it was at the ungodly hour of five am that we learned what Grandma was trying to save us from.

Whilst the taxi did indeed have five passenger seats, it also had newly converted to LPG per new taxi legislation, which meant that approximately half of his bootspace had been given to the tanks.

For a moment the taxi driver and Dad both believed that they could convince Mum to leave half of the luggage behind rather than look for a better solution.

When we got to Launceston, however, it turned out that the hire car was a sedan. Mum had not had a sedan for years for good reason. She was an awesome packer of cars but preferred to err on the side of more than enough room rather than anything resembling minimalism.

The thing about Launceston is there is so much history involving sinking buildings - PLUS it rained so much that the buildings that we were in felt like they were sinking.

The drive South involved a lot of historic sights, and then Port Arthur (pre-massacre but still gruesome enough) and the arguments regarding the Casino.

Nowhere else had a Casino in the country at the time, so Dad was petitioning Mum for them both to attend, as he didn't want to attend alone. Mum was pulling the "but I am a mother of children and I never could leave them alone" card. BushBabe threw in her offer to accompany Dad and pretend a 3-15 month older.

Again, nobody won.

Rounding the bottom of Tasmania, we drove through amazing forests with strange little timber towns that travellers dare not stop for fear of the locals.

One experience that I will never forget is rounding one corner of those woody hills to the stark nudity of the hills around Queenstown, Tasmania. Due to some fallout from mining - or the industry surrounding it - vegetation had all fled. It was cold and windy and miserable and the car was silent for the Queenstown to Strahan leg of the journey.

The Gordon below Franklin argument had just been had, and even hardened country voters had paid attention to the plight.

All I remember of the cruise that we went on is seeing some more historical sites, relics of man's inhumanity to man.

All I remember of the last leg of our journey was there were poppies - and big signs saying not to stop. I got apple perfume from somewhere.  Oh, and Mum nearly got blown down by the draft of a big truck and someone had snails or spatchcock or something French and fiddly at an overly dark restaurant.