Melbourne, Migraines and the Meaning of 42

Good evening.

It is a good evening for me for it is post-many things that were not so pleasant in quick succession.  For me.

On the sliding scale of good evenings available in the world, however...

It is a great evening for those who had lockdown imposed upon them who have been released into the relative freedom of Stage Three restrictions.

It is a confronting evening for those the that marvelously followed all restrictions at all point, observed the relaxation of rules in a reserved and sensible manner and were blasted out of the water by the wandering ways of an underpaid casual labour force and cultural divides being fanned through wilful ignorance and educated guesses.

I had something today that was not a contemplation when we first set to shield ourselves from the current scourge that is Covid-19.

I had elective surgery. 

Something that I chose to do on a whim as I have been banned from giving my most wonderful O Negative blood to the Red Cross Blood Bank for being too low too long in iron.

I mean, they weren't as severe as all of that.  They were nice about it.  But my Dr had to sign off on my paperwork before I would be allowed to darken their comfy chairs again.  And the free food after.

So once things were open enough again to see the good lady in person, I took my piece of paper and my anaemic self to see her.

In the good old days, I would have just taken a longer lunch-break and done it on a work day.

The only downside to working from home is that this now requires me to take a 1/2 RDO to fit in appointments.

And therefore it is so much more noticeable when you have an appointment, as it no longer feels like a holiday.

Anyhoo, after much "a lady your aged" and "rule out other possibilities" and something about a large needle of ferrous matter in the fat layer, I had a promise of a phone call for a specialist appointment.

Came the day (managed to make it coincide with a re-scheduled dental cleanse to make the whole 1/2 day RDO worthwhile) and met with the man.

Again, after discussions of the kerfuffle-valve, menopause, medical statistics and one attempt at humour - the man does not do humour but is intelligent enough to recognise it very dryly.

I was sent to talk to Alana.

Alana was very friendly and business-like about the whole deal.

Apparently Endos are done on a Thursday and a Friday.  How about next Thursday - the 2nd?

Did you hear me scream?

I mean, besides the fact that she was talking about a date 8 days ahead, it was also the week most feared and loathed (with a twist of sheer exileration) in the various roles that I have held over the last thirty-mumble years.  End of Financial Year - the 32nd of June is a most exhausting day, generally - and the last thing that I could ever do to a job would be to leave them in the lurch in that week.

So no.

And also, what is this "we can do your non-urgent stuff next week" about anyway?  I live regional.  I expect delays.

I could find no valid excuse to dodge the next week though - I mean, other than it being a really crappy end to a wonderful long weekend with 'Salina for the first time in months, and an enforced extension of my "holiday" for elective surgery.

It meant that the last day of my holiday with 'Salina was one that comprised entirely of food that is not in my general repertoire.  Both 'Salina and Paris were incredibly bemused by my voluntary purchase of white bread. 

I did manage some yummy food from the limited list available to me, surprisingly.  I made a pumpkin soup with just chicken stock and pumpkin with a swirl of cottage cheese - and white bread.  And for dinner, while the others had Chicken Enchiladas I got some poached chicken, mashed pumpkin, white pasta and cottage cheese and inefficiently smooshed them all together (or as is referred to on cooking shows as "rustic") and baked it with the Enchiladas.  A mighty fine concoction.

The drive back from there to here took over 5 hours, courtesy of roadworks.  I was fuelled soully (oops, solely) by 5 hours of sleep, black herbal tea, black coffee, water, chicken stock, fantasy fiction for pre-teens and Radio National.

I had a date at 3

with some convolutedly-hard to get medication at 3 and made it within echoes of it chiming.

I will leave from that time until the knowledge that my day ahead was going to be horrendous roused me to your imagination.

I don't know if you suffer from migraines

, but there is modern medicine out there that can change SUFFERING to suffering and allow you to escape having to live EVERY SINGLE SECOND of a migraine - but as I had this other medication on board, and because there was no bit of literature that I could lay my hands on once in the throes that advised me that I could access that recourse, and because the Endoscopy Unit weren't answering their phones during the period that I could have possibly used it (and as it hit during the wee hours of the morning, I awoke with it in full swing and no chance to catch the bolting horse anyway).

The worst bit is, I had fore-warning.  I am on a message-board where I mentioned it as an aside in a conversation and several members told of migraines.  I was just (as usual) too blithe and (as usual) unprepared for the ferocity.

The best thing about migraines is the emergence at the other end.  It is like no other feeling in life.  It is rebirth after a glimpse at hell.

This one was one circle of hell lower than I had ever met before.

For a start, under medical instruction I was not to imbibe in any more clear fluids after 7am.  So when I got out of bed at 6, already 4 hours into a migraine punctuated with urgent requirements induced by the medication, I proceeded to guzzle 2 bottles of water in the vain hope it would wash away the migraine and stave off too much thirst in the ensuing hours.

Vain hope.

Instead, my head, my entire food-highway and my energy all got into a bit of a bingle, and I was this shattered shell of my former self, constantly dissolving further and further into patheticness.

Paris went to shelter with Queen Jean, and V valiantly drove me in, ice-cream bucket in hand (reminding me of my childhood with a propensity for car-sickness and a family-propensity to long trips on dusty roads).

The first place we went was the wrong place. 

Of course.  I mean, we were relying on the navigation of a woman whose mind was currently not at its usual address, instead being wrestled to below ground by pain and nausea, so it is possible that it was bound to fail.

Luckily, I had managed to get through to the Endoscopy Unit (in time to find that the time that I could have taken medication for the migraine had passed) and so they were ready for me and my complete inability to be a functioning human-being and whisked me through as fast as the machinations of a day surgery unit in a Private Hospital can run.  Yes, I had a headache.  No I didn't have a fever.  No, I haven't been overseas or in Melbourne in the last few weeks.

Now, what is it about Christmas movies and hospitals?

I mean, we got V's knees done in April - which was were we got to see most of a grainy rendition of Arthur Christmas while in a far-away from civilisation family waiting room.

Today it was A Christmas Tree or some such twee.  I think.

Finally the ball got rolling, and I got my lowest reading for well over a decade on the scales, which was a brief blessing among all the misery!

The pain level, I told the aptly named "Joy" was about 9.  They inserted a drip and injected pain-relief.  It barely registered before the put me to sleep.

And then they woke me up.

If you have ever suffered a migaine, you may know the term migraine-shadow.  It is where there is a hollow in your brain where the pain resided and has not yet retaken its shape.

Let me just say that, while you are relieved that the pain is no longer in residence, you are both cautiously happy and terrified at the same time - because you still remember it being there and cannot quite believe that it is gone.

Add to that the layer of post-anaesthesia what-the that occurs.

So, that has been my day.

Oh, that and then getting told that I am to start working back in the office from next Monday.

But Melbourne, I really feel for you right now.

Because while some of us imagine this absolutely unruffled Melbournian, I think that the very least that we can do is give you whatever support that we can because it would be so hard - but if you guys weren't doing it for us right now, and we hope to goodness that you have it right and we aren't too late then this is our own futures.

I lived in Melbourne for one year in 1997.  It was wonderful as the people were wonderful.  It was pathetic because for all of the wonderful people in Melbourne, the city was too small for an ex and I.  Well, that and the weather.

But the people were absolutely wonderful.  And the people that I knew in Melbourne were even more-so.

So 42 days people.  I am pulling for you every step of the way.

(Although, I do hope that not all - or any - of those 42 are going to be migraine level suffering)

Melbourne 1997 - and the (actual events in the) worst ever poetry night in my memory

So, where were we?

Oh yes, coerced Selwyn into accompanying me to the South of the river poetry night.

The night - a winter's Thursday evening.

The place - a cafe in St Kilda.

The reason - poetry reading, 7.30 - 9.30pm

Rain had just started falling gently when we set out on our quest. Combining Selwyn's map-reading skills, the foggy weather and the vagueness of the address, it took some time to find the cafe referred to in the listing.

But get there we did. A fairly deserted road in the less popular edge of St Kilda lit very intermittently by street-lights.

On the walk from the Rig to the cafe, I fell and skinned my knee - had I known this was the exciting point of the evening, I doubt I would have gone any further and instead sat in the puddle I was in and cried.

Selwyn would have preferred to see this as a sign and need for liquid refreshment - I know that because he said "why don't we go for a drink instead" several times during the drive, the walk and the picking me up from the pavement.

But I was made of much sterner stuff and had hopes.

These hopes almost shrivelled when we entered the establishment. I can't remember the name of the cafe, but it had "Blue" in the title - probably in reference to the tinting of the window, perhaps as a tip of the hat to the jaunty nautical theme it attempted to emulate, maybe because that was the overwhelming response of the clientele upon entering.

But there are days when my optimism can overshoot any signs of foreboding, and this was one of those days.

So we were in the cafe. Which brought the total population in the cafe to 2. The lights were on, but it could not have been more deserted. Considering we arrived about 20 minutes after the reading was meant to have kicked off, it was not a good start.

After a few minutes of staring at each other, we noticed a small bell by the register, so we used it to see if there was some secret society meeting going on elsewhere. Eventually the proprietor of the establishment appeared, and he was slightly disgruntled by our intrusion.

After apologising for being in his cafe, I asked about the alleged poetry reading and was advised that the guy who ran it generally turned up about 8. We ordered coffee and water (at great inconvenience to the owner) and sat to wait.

10 past the hour, finally another body entered the cafe. I interrogated him and found that he was not the organiser, but a friend of his and fellow poet. After a brief question and answer session (to call it a conversation would have been a disservice to the concept that conversation is a two-way interaction) he went to the opposite corner of the cafe to go over his poems. 10 minutes later, the organiser entered, looked briefly in our direction, rang the bell for the owner and huddled with his friend.

The rush was on, because by by twenty-five past eight - nearly an hour after the advertised start - the crowd had swelled to five, with the entry of quite possibly the most perculiar woman I had ever seen at a poetry reading (and I can assure you, that statement covers some perculiar woman territory) lugging a battery-operated Casio keyboard and a large striped shopping bag.

Shortly after this (with some prompting by Selwyn) I approached the organiser to enquire about the reading and its likelihood to kick off (I didn't add Selwyn's "before the pubs shut" remark) and was advised there was usually more of a turnout and it would all be jolly good fun and then he was served with his free dinner (the four coffees we had bought going a long way to improving the cafe coffers, no doubt) and I was dismissed.

I was caught on the horns of a dilemna - stay and hope, or cave to Selwyn's cajoling and fund a trip to the pub.

Luckily I was saved having to decide, because abruptly the friend stood in the middle of the room and began to read.

Apparently the friend was something of a scholar, because his words were styled very methodically and in such constant tonal pitch that only some obscure poetic "form" could excuse its dirge-like rhythm. I believe it was based on a story in the dark ages about knights and a long trip towards the battleground - a very, very long trip where nothing much happened. We never quite got to the battleground, because after about 10 minutes of torture the organiser stood and interrupted him with "thank you (insert name of friend here)" and pulled out a book of his poetry.

Or rather, pulled out a book of someone else's poetry. He didn't actually say it wasn't his poetry, but he also didn't say whose poetry it was, he said "this is a poetry book I picked up once" and then went on to read a selection of some other poet's work.

Now, if you have ever been to a poetry reading, you know that this is not good form - not because it is someone else's but because he went to no lengths whatsoever to attribute it.

At some point, his homage ended. This was only noticeable because he sat down abruptly and within seconds the lady with the keyboard began telling us all about her day and how she had found the Casio in a second-hand store that morning (what luck) and had scrounged around for the necessary cash because it was such a bargain and would expand her creative freedoms and just hold on a tick because she had never set it up before, never played it before, never ACTUALLY PLAYED A KEYBOARD before but weren't we all going to be in for a treat.

I was feeling like a drink myself at this stage, but out of respect for fellow poets (there is a code) didn't feel I could just get up and leave. Darned middle-class poetry ethics!

After setting up the keyboard and having a little tinkle, she dug around the shopping bag and found some sheaves of papers.

At least she attributed. "The following stuff is by (insert name of poet here) who was a mate of my Dad's but he died before I was born." She then let rip.

She sang in a high-pitched nasally squeal indecipherable words, stopping in the middle of lines to find just the right (wrong) notes on the keyboard for dramatic effect.

Thank goodness the poet was dead, was all I could think, and stayed sane by imagining him spinning in his grave at the travesty that was being performed on his words.

I whispered to Selwyn that there was no way I could perform my poetry to these people, definitely not my good stuff - but I was saved from having to make any decision on what quality I might have to offer by her sudden cessation of wailing, and the immediate leaping forth of the friend.

Apparently his knights hadn't arrived at the battleground, so he resumed his dirge from where he had left off, and took us right to about ten minutes further in the journey.

Again, the organiser interrupted and found another poetry book to trample on another unattributed poet's efforts.

Again, the screech and wail of the woman with the keyboard - at no point was there more than a 10 second break between the players, at no point was any eye contact raised in our direction, at every point Selwyn's request to leave this affair for a drink became more and more appealing.

It took another cycle of this "entertainment" before I could insert my "we have to leave now" - and we fled, out into the cold, down the sodden street, into the Rig.

"Can we go for a drink NOW?" asked Selwyn.

"Lord, yes" was all I could weep.

Melbourne 1997 - and the (background to ) the worst ever poetry night in my memory

Warning - this is only part one of what is turning into a VERY long spiel. So much I have had to leave off today's episode and will hopefully finish tomorrow...)

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Thank Jay for bringing forth a memory I had thought banished into the black hole of my mind.

To expunge, you must all live through vicariously the worst night in my whole poetic history.

The good news is - the odds are good that you weren't there. Very few were.

The year - 1997.

The town - Melbourne.

Now, Melbourne and "bad poetry" is actually not often said in combination.

Melbourne is such an excellent town for poetry, in fact, that the Melbourne Age (the local newspaper - in those days a broadsheet and not some freebie pamphlet) used to print a listing of all readings every week.

And in the main the readings in Melbourne were fantastic and worthwhile and a great time was had by all. The Dan O'Connell, the Art of Mother Love, the Brunswick - all venues etched favourably upon my memory of great poets, great poetry and great times.

But this memory is not any of that. This memory has very little the adjective "great" could possibly attach itself to.

In 1997, I was embarking on my dream - to be the sort of hippy poet who could just hop into her van, Rigg (named in honour of Diana of The Avengers), and be free-spirited.

Unfortunately, I also have an unfortunate star-sign for such a quest. This meant my jaunt clockwise was stopped at the bottom right corner, and my bovine tendencies (to get a job, to put down roots) had ensured my stay in Melbourne to be somewhat longer than I had intended.

In 1997, I also entered a relationship. One that led to my eventual departure from the city, not for its unfortunate habit of being absolutely crap on the weather front (it wasn't Winter that blew it for me, either - it was the nasty way it did any season, any day) but because, apparently, a city of over 1 million people was not enough to buffer me from constantly repeating a cycle of interaction with Mr Wrong.

Selwyn (and I have changed his name, because that is what I do with real people on this blog, not because I actually think he would ever read a blog) did have some points in his favour.

I mean, he pursued me quite avidly - when we weren't together. He wasn't always on best behaviour when I relented, however.

He also had an unfortunate addiction to alcohol, the establishments that served it and the behaviour that attended to imbibing it in large quantities quickly. Luckily, he was generally far too broke to give his addiction full reign - always a quality to look for in a non-recovering alcoholic boyfriend.

So it must have been in one of those heady few days in our relationship where I had some shekels and he didn't, when our delight in each other was still so fresh he was still wanting to impress me with his new leaf (oh those beautiful first two days of any reconciliation) and so he deigned to join me in going to a poetry venue.

Now, those of you who don't know Melbourne, is it true that every great city is split into two, generally done so by a body of water?

Because Melbourne was (and is). And for great poetry readings, I lived on the wrong side of the Yarra.

Generally three or four evenings (or afternoons) a week, across the river I would go to get my fix of great performance (see how wonderful Melbourne is?) and I desparately wanted to find a local venue.

Several times I had seen advertised a reading in St Kilda.

Always the evening that it fell on clashed with something or other else (cough - generally reconciling with Selwyn, hanging out with him at some dive drinking and playing pool OR lamenting with my flatmate the disappointment that was our love-lives) but came the auspicious date when the stars aligned, Selwyn relented and we were all set to get some local culture.

(just realised this is a darned long post already, so I am going to make this the intro and continue the story tomorrow).