Saturday, September 17, 2016

Spring flowers





These are a couple of my flowers in bloom now. I have been trying to weed out the winter weeds to bring my gardens back to shape. My window of opportunity to do this is closing fast. The rain is impeding my progress. And pain. I have an appointment with the surgeon on Wednesday to see about having a hip replacement.


These are another two rugs I have been crocheting to go to charities. I am working on a round one and have been building different patterned squares to fit together when I have enough made. I have to go to replenish my stock of wool before I have to go to hospital. I will be unable to drive for a few weeks.

                  Nails. Not needles.

Craft work. Today. Has changed since I was a child.

More ways to do the same work. To work with a few stitches in another manner.

Many types of cotton. Or Wool.

Sizes in hooks. And needles.

Every item you need is available in the shops.

My mother used knitting needles. I was never allowed to touch them.

“You’ll break them,” I was told. “Needles are too dear to replace.”

Wool was also “too dear” to waste.

Eventually. I was given a few scraps of wool. Wool no longer of used to my mother.

No needles. I might injure myself.

Where there is a strong will. To achieve what you want. There will be a way to do what you want.

 You just have to be inventive. Search for a replacement tool.

I needed a strait object with a point on the end. Oh. Wait. I need two. 

Knitting needs two needles.

I kept my bits of wool in the doll’s pram.

If my mother wasn’t going to give me a set of her precious needles. I’d find my own.I walked out of

 the caravan. Disappointed. I smiled. To hide a plan I had. Maybe dad would provide what I needed.

No. He wasn’t about to ask. I crept past the car to dad.s work bench. In one of the tins I found

 treasure. Better still. My treasures. A full jam tin full of shiny six inch nails. The oily coating didn’t

 put me off. I grabbed a few pairs of nails. I used a clean rag to clean each nail. I hid them beneath the

 mattress in the doll’s pram.

I had what I needed. I could practice to do the stitches I’d watched mother do.

I took the doll from the pram to discard on the bed in the annex. Naked.

The dress, bonnet and booties, I put on Ginger, my tabby ginger cat. I then placed him in the pram to 

wheel him around to the other side of the caravan, where a swing from the branch of the tree. Lilac

 flowers carpeted the ground, I sat on the swing while I rocked the pram. Once Ginger was asleep I be

gan to practice to knit. I finger castered a few stitches on one nail. I knitted until the small came to an 

end, slipped the stitches from the nail. Pulled out the work to roll into a ball to start over again.

“Those nail I bought have all rusted. They must have given me a cheaper brand,” complained Dad.

Years later, dad found out why his nails. Rusted. I had used then replaced the nails once the wool

 didn’t slip without being snagged.

Once I had mastered the knit stitches, I began to crochet. I had begun to do sewing at school. I

 graduated from samplers to duchess set once I knew all the stitches. I did the sewing in what spare

 time I had. Work came first. Each set I finished I had to crochet an edge around the.

One lady came to be shown how to crochet. Mother refused on the bases the woman was left handed. 

I practiced to go in the opposite direction with my left hand. I showed the lady the stitches. 

What I learned way back when, I used to male rugs which are given to those in need. I have enough

 crocheting I had completed over the years. Many stuffed toys I knitted. But I only do the crocheting

 in between times I’m not writing. Doing my work. Gardening. Or times I am forced to take time out 

from the pain. I know when to take a break. Not continue way past my pain threshold.

So I went out to buy a few nails to prove I could still knit with nails.

Craft work is another of the hats I wear. This hat keeps the mind from vegetating. And gives me 

thinking time. Besides going for a catnap. To sort out any problem I have with my writing.

I am trying to discard a few of my hats to concentrate on the few I want to have more time for.

The above story is something else I do when I have spare time. Or I do while crocheting. I find I do more writing when crocheting because most of the time I don't have to concentrate, or count the stitches, which frees the mind to wander over what story I'm working on.

Tuesday, July 26, 2016

Long hard road



Phew. I've just been doing some work I'm not suppose to be doing. I went out to mow half of the back lawn. I shut off the engine when the hip began to complain. And I had to stop to take a few breaths. I will be pleased when all the not working properly parts have been fixed. Well. The exercise took some of the chill from the body. I was shivering when I was sitting at the computer before hand.

This photo is of oranges falling on the ground at an orange orchard we visited last Thursday. I bought a box of lovely, sweet, juicy oranges.

I have been editing and formatting novels I have sitting on the computer. I tried to do self publishing but I'm not a friend of that type of publishing. I would prefer to have a real publisher. Or an agent to handle all the work to get out into the system. I have enough to keep a publisher busy for a long time.

One of the ones I worked on "The Long Hard Road" is a sort of life story. It is not written as a day to day, what happened. No dates are mentioned.

The story begins way back in the 1950's. How we lived in a tent, shed without all the walls and no home comforts like running water or toilet. Living in a caravan. Crossing flooded creeks to save a man who was sick. Abuse in a marriage. Death of a daughter from a brain tumor. Right up to the day my last parent died in the early 2000's. The stress my life had been under during all this time. The illnesses I suffered through. I came out the other side without giving into the dark side of life without turning to drugs. What happened to me has made me into the person I am today.

Sunday, July 24, 2016

Time to slow down


At the end of last year, I had to change doctor. Mine was leaving town. I had only been checking in every six months for repeat scripts. I didn't complain about what I was feeling because I felt he had lost interest. "You must remember you are getting older," was one of his comments.

I did find a new doctor at a different clinic. Boy. What an eye opener. I didn't have to tell him what pains I had. He watched me walk into the room and the questions began. I was examined. What I'd been told was wrong with my muscles was wrong. I nearly jumped from the bed when he moved my leg the wrong way. He listened to my chest. Took my blood pressure. Then began typing on the computer. Pages came spewing out of the printer. I had to go for blood tests. X-rays. Scans. With each result I had to go for more.

The only test I didn't like was the stress test. I didn't mind the tunnel scan. Except for being injected with the dye. The next day I had to return for the second part.

A belt thing was strapped around my waist and connected to the computer.
A blood pressure cuff to my left arm and the computer.
An IV line was put in to inject a drug in me to stimulate my heart under exercise conditions.
There was a doctor and nurse with me telling me what to expect.
I couldn't be put on the treadmill because of my joint problems.
I had to stand beside the bed to walk on the spot.
The drug was to take two minutes to pass through.
The doctor explained all the sensations I should feel over that period.
The test started.
"How do you feel," the doctor asked while the nurse watched the computer screen.
"My legs feel funny. My stomach..." is as far as I got.
The next I remember is being grabbed by many hands and lifted up to the bed.
In the distance I could hear a voice telling me to take deep breaths. Another telling me to wriggle my toes. When I opened my eyes the room was full of doctors and nurses.
My blood pressure had dropped so lo, so fast, I blacked out.
I felt such a fool. I had never blacked out in my life.

I have to live live at a slower pace for awhile. I am waiting to go for a different heart test. And to see the surgeon if he is going to replace my hip. I wondered what was stopping me from bending to the right or down to cut my toenails.

So I am trying to catch up with my blogs I have let sit idle.

Monday, April 20, 2015

Stigma in a name.





Stigma in a name


Handicapped.
Some people show distaste for those with a visible handicap.
The word handicap has many different cognations.
I don't see it as something a few people are afflicted with.
To me. Everyone is born with one, or another, disadvantage.
Sight is one. If not born with it blindness may form at a later time.
The same for hearing. Due to a reason, or accident, you lose your hearing. Hearing aids are needed. These are a curse of many people.
Bones and muscles may not form properly in the womb. Other problems might cause different, and difficult, reasons to cause an inconvenience for the child and parents. The cost of the health cover for years. The stress on both parents and patient. Wearing down of energy to cause health problems.
Then there are other handicaps for horse racing. Golf. Athletics. Car racing.
Different diseases which cause many people to become handicapped.
A car accident.
A fall from a horse.
A plane crash.
Dementia.
Stroke.
For many years, I cared for my mother. After years of hard work she became handicapped. Her problem was caused from smoking. Her body no longer made enough oxygen to keep her breathing without the aid of a machine. She had to walk around dragging a length of tubing to keep the level at the right percentage.
Even though I have my own handicaps due to Arthritis, I was expected to care for my mother. I hung in there until I was so exhausted I neared the edge to a nervous breakdown.
I broke into tears at the hospital. I was so tired I didn't know which way was up.
Until then I didn't know there were so many organisations available who might have been able to relieve me of the pressure of caring for my mother. Within weeks, my mother was settled into a nursing home.
Since my mothers death three years ago, I have tried to regain my life, energy, and dissipate with the excess stress which caused the body more problems.
I have just spent a few days away with a group of people who all had different degrees of handicaps.
Everyone was friendly.
Helped out each other on the bus, in the apartments, and with walking around the streets.
One young man had trouble speaking. When he couldn't make anyone understand he used hand signs. I have picked up the toilet and drink signs. He likes doing high fives with those he calls a friend.
I kept pretending I mixed up the names of two other males. Both seemed to feel left out. Needed attention. So I added them to doing the high five game.
Not once did I snub, or complain, about any of them I treated all of them the same way I'd wish to be treated if my difficulties deteriorate in the future.
A fear of heights, spiders, and many other such things can also be a handicap when you have set your heart on an occupation but can't manage your reaction.
Swimming is another fear. Because of something which has happened in the past you don't like water.
I know a lady who fell out of a car in the past. She formed a fear of riding in a car for months. I notice she talks a lot when she is travelling in any type of vehicle.
A child who has had a bad experience with a Santa Claus will have a fear for a long time. This is a handicap when Christmas approaches.
Derogative names are at times used by unthinking people. These people don't realise the damage they can cause. An act of stupidity when they treat the inflicted as a second, or third class, citizen. Each need to take a good look at their own life. Temper can be another handicap. Temper kills like any other handicap. Can cause someone to become more disadvantaged for the rest of their life.
Not one person is born. Perfect. With no flaws.



I have mine. But I still like to look on the bright side of life.



This is a piece I wrote on the topic of being "Handicapped". Didn't have some of what was needed for where I intended to send it. There wanted more of personal suffering while living with a family member. So I wrote another piece.








                 I had no help




Okay .Me. I was the daughter. Or I was suppose to be.
I had my own health problems with Arthritis. And stress related problems.
Being the only child everything was placed squarely on my shoulders. The weight of my mothers condition put a lot more strain on me.
My mother expected me to be able to carry the load as though I had no problems of my own.
We lived in the same house. I still live there.
My life was not my own. I was at her beck and call day and night.
I had to do the housework. The yard work. Shopping.
There were no one available to help with the care. Except for one of her sisters who came in for a few hours to talk with her. To give me a few hours to go out shopping.
Before my mother collapsed and still able to go out things weren't so bad. She was able to do some cooking. Did some crocheting and sewing. Was able to stand for a little while to be able to wash the dishes.
We'd just returned home one afternoon when my mother collapsed. She went to the toilet. She fell and hit her head on the wall. The oxygen level had fallen too low. This was a problem that hadn't been picked up before the collapse. She stopped breathing at the hospital. The doctors worked to bring her back.
From then on, she had to live on assisted oxygen. She couldn't leave home without it.
When she was stable enough to leave the hospital, the doctors organised to have a machine delivered to out home. Set it up. Giving me instructions on how it worked.
My work became ten fold more. I now had to be a nurse as well.
The cause of the lack of oxygen was put down to years of her smoking. Her lungs weren't making enough.
Help. No one told me there were options out there to take some of the stress from me.
Not that my mother would have accepted the assistance. She believed I was born to be there as her slave.
I just kept my thoughts to myself and soldiered on. My life and health flowing down the drain.
I wasn't getting my right amount of sleep. I listened to the dragging of the tube along the floor each time she went to the toilet. Listened until she returned to bed.
No one asked if I had help at home. They took it for granted she was better off at home. My mother thought the same.
Then came the moment of her last turn. The doctors put her on life support. She was flown to Brisbane. When she was reasonably well enough she was returned to the local hospital.
The time came for them to release her. That is when I went into meltdown.
Things moved fast then.
Someone came to assess her condition in the hospital.
Mum tried to lie her way through the interview.
I kept shaking my head.
The lady soon saw through her replies.
The day she was to go into rest care for a few weeks a place came up at a nursing home.
Looking back. The doctors should have let her be at the first attack.
My mother suffered through the next few years. Each time the oxygen level went down a few more brain cells died. She lived in the land of the fairies even though she still knew my name. We had to laugh at some of the things she said or we would have sat there crying.
The day she died was a blessing for her. And for me. Now was my time to heal. Catch up on all the years of missed sleep. To regain my life.
More information needs to be out there to let carers know what help is available. Where to go. Who to call. A booklet for the nursing staff to hand out to tell the family where they can look.
I was working in the dark. Only when I was close to the edge of a nervous break down did assistance come my way.

Information overload is needed.



Sunday, March 29, 2015

Antique collection

We went to a shed full of olden item from the past. There were a few thing I'd have liked to buy BUT I have no room to put them. So I took photos and brought them home that way at little cost to me. And I don't have to search for room to place them.
















 After our visit here, we got on the bus for the long drive home. We arrived home about six. Exhausted from the enjoyable day. We were away for nearly eleven hours. Had to rise before the birds to be on time for the bus.

Recent Trip



We stopped at a park to have morning tea. There was a Hippie Market not far from us. One of the stall owners had this joey. We all asked could we have a pat. It was very friendly.






This is Borumba Dam in the Mary Valley. I took these from the lookout.area. I'd hate to be those backing down the ramp to put the boats in the water. If the brakes failed the only place to go is into the water.
This was a very peaceful area. Everything green and refreshed after the past lot of floods.








We went to Imbil for lunch and to look around the town. We had a wonderful lunch at the hotel.





Sunday, March 1, 2015

Time with family.

After a day spent with extended families for the funeral of my uncle, some of us spent the day at the beach, before they had to return home. Some we only see once a year because they live in another state. The trip was long on the way up because floods had closed the main highways. An extra 500 km had to be traveled through back country to be here for the funeral. The sun shone down during the service.