31 Days of Dysautonomia Awareness

October is(5)

Today is the last day of Dysautonomia Awareness Month for this year.
Wordpress thinks it is still yesterday, because they aren’t based in New Zealand.  But down here, the sun has been up on the last day of October for some time.  It’s already looking like a beautiful day.

It’s been a really huge month for me.  My first as a Dysautonomia Blogger. I appreciate anew the efforts that health activists go to all over the world to raise awareness and funds for rare diseases.

For any diseases.

And I am really, really tired.

So today I am not doing any big wrap up.  There won’t be blue fireworks and streamers and fanfare. I’m just going to thank you.  For noticing the things I posted, for taking time to discuss it with me, for reading the blog (!) and ‘liking’ all the awareness posts on the facebook page. For those of you who dressed stylishly in blue for Dysautonomia Awareness (Zoe! for instagramming her blue fashions #dysautonomiaawareness), who posted blue pictures for the #dysautonomiaawareness instagram campaign.  For Kylie, who made my hair such a pretty blue and Sarah, who spread the word on the business page of the Salon.  For Michelle, who shared my picture and poem in her blog series “Exploring Dysautonomia through the Arts”.  For Andrea and the editorial folk at Attitude Live, for the opportunity to get the Dysautonomia word out into the media. For all the blue nails around the place (especially, thanks to Zed who went ‘thumbs up for Dysautonomia’ even though in his seven-year-old world, nail polish is “for girls”). For my sister Tristen, who created awareness bracelets with me.  For Anya Bykar and Bea Chuan who donated bespoke jewellery items for the cause. For the girls who heard my plea and donated to the research fund.  Thank you.

Thank you.

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Hand Writing

I’m aimlessly flicking through internet pages.  Feeling disatisfied.  I don’t even know what I am looking for, but I know there is something I need.  What is it?

My eye drops down my screen to my keyboard.

Ah.  That’s it.

I want to write.  Like an itch that wants a scratch.  Writing scratches the itch, but have I lost something in the switch to typing?  Is it the same for the reader?  Things written by hand make you feel so much closer to the writer, don’t you think?

It has always helped me, to write, whichever way I achieve it.  I used to keep journals.  One of which I considered, at 16,  to hold such sensitive material that I triple bagged it and buried it in the garden at my friend Anna’s house.  It didn’t. In retrospect.  It makes me smile that I was so anxious not to have documentary evidence… but still couldn’t destroy it! I have almost all of the rest of them. I even have a journal that I wrote to when mum passed away.  I couldn’t bear that she couldn’t hear me anymore, so I wrote words to her, just in case she might be able to read them from wherever she had evaporated to.

It worked for a while.  And then one day I just knew she wasn’t reading.  I stopped writing to her.
Well, not quite. “When I half turn to go, yet turning, stay…” (Christina Rosetti).
I still write in that book once a year.  On the anniversary of her leaving.  I take it to the place where her plaque is; pull weeds, leave flowers, write words and think about how preposterous it is that I have managed another year without her. The words are usually smudged by the time I am finished telling her what has happened in my year, but they’re out.  Sent on their way to find her, if they can.

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I don’t keep journals anymore.  I blog.  Which has a bit more direction, a purpose beyond the navel gazing emotional torrents of my adolescent angst.  It keeps me distracted from the ills of being ill; for the most part.  Which is interesting because I am generally blogging about being ill! I really love having a place to write, and people who read it.  It does my heart good.

But I wonder, will we leave behind any non-digital documents for future generations to find?  A sad thought whispers across my mind. Probably not.  How will our children find files of our writing if they don’t know where they are stored? If the passwords are gone with the time since they were used?  If the technology is obsolete? What will they extrapolate of our personalities from the fonts we chose?  Will they see us through the mass produced glyphs on the page?

Writing (and a love of beautiful penmanship) must be hereditary.  We’ve been sorting things out in a bit of a Spring thing around here.  The hubster hired a skip to dispose of the construction rubbish and then we thought we should do a cull.  Nothing like some time pressure to make you ruthless!  Getting rid of things is only possible for me if I get to hang on to some things too.  Happily, I found just the sort sentimental bits and pieces that rose above the rubble into ‘keeper’ land.  My grandmother’s school essay folio was there.  Some of my Mum’s old exercise books.  Those journals of mine.

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I rarely write by hand anymore.  Typing is almost a direct conduit from my brain, so it is easier.  But I have recently joined a ‘Snail Mail’ collective.  Like a group of pen pals who send each other real letters!  Astonishing.  So I’ve been actually hand writing a bit more lately.  Seeing the handwriting of my Grandmother and mother again, makes me think about the importance of writing by hand.  About the personality contained in unique letter formation. It’s an art.  Individual and special.

When did you last write a letter or a journal entry?   Do you think handwriting matters? Do you write like your mother or grandmother?  Do you keep cards and written mementoes?  Am I a sentimental old fool?

How to Just Be

Every now and then, I’m going to post some photographic magic here.

Photos by a friend of mine with a talent for catching beauty in her camera.
A little window for us to look through.
These posts will be called, ‘How to Just Be’.  Their purpose is to give you something to pause and wonder over.  Something beautiful.  Something to inspire you to take a deep breath. A moment to drink in the view, even if you can’t get out to see these wonders.  Something to help you to just ‘Be’ in the moment.

 

Photographer: Be Couper
Photographer: Be Couper

 

Be, my talented photographer friend, was out at Maraetai Beach, near Auckland at dawn when she got this shot.  She had planned to take a photo of the sunrise. Then this little Asian couple wandered out onto the jetty for some early morning fishing.  She hadn’t planned a shot of fisherfolk, but the sunrise, with them in it, ‘made’ the shot work.   When I look at this picture I can imagine how quiet and still it would have been, so few people about, the quiet hush of water on sand, the splash of fishing float on water.  And all that golden sun.
Another truly beautiful shot, Be.  Thank you for sharing it with us!

PS.  Be, if you are reading this, can you post a link in the comments so people can find the photos you have online for sale?

Poetry Free Fall

My friend and fellow Dysautonomia blogger across the ditch ran a great series for Awareness Month this year.  She asked other Dysautonomiacs to submit pieces that explore Dysautonomia through the arts.  She collected a range of paintings, sketches, songs and poetry.

This is a little poem I submitted.  It’s a bit darker than my usual writing, but I’m okay (I say that just in case you are the sort to worry about people writing dark poetry).  It was great to express some of these feelings in the context of a poem and for a specific project.  I have always loved the distillation of words that poetry writing requires, even if my own poetry skills are fledgling!

This poem is about my complicated relationship with sleep and hope and despair. It is about what it feels like to know that the thing you struggle with every day may never in fact get better.  It’s a feeling of falling.  I post it, all the while hoping that whatever your day is holding for you, you get to fly more than you fall today.

Arohanui x

 

 

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Maybe? Not Yet

When is the right time to start using a wheelchair?

It’s something I have been contemplating a lot.  You don’t want to start depending on one too soon.  But then, should you increasingly limit what you can do simply for lack of one?  And what to do with the pride factor?

My mobility has been on the decrease. I can walk short distances, but even walking up to my daughter’s school, just around the block, is now too hard.  I use a cane most places I go.  It helps me a little with balance, gives me something to lean on when I feel weak and has a little fold out stool so I can sit when I need to.

Walking anywhere, with the cane, or without is exhausting for me. It takes the lion’s share of my energy. I can still drive, which I am grateful for.  It’s just that doing much of anything once I get to my destination is so hard.  I’ve been using the complimentary scooter at the mall for the last few months, it’s been a big help.  But when should I start thinking about my own wheels?

When I went to Adelaide last weekend, I organised a hire chair for the duration of my stay.  I didn’t want my limited mobility to stop Erica and I from getting out and enjoying the city. I also didn’t want her to have to push me around, I’m an independent sort of person, so I wanted to ‘drive’ myself.  Walk on Wheels didn’t have any scooters available, so they hired me an electric wheelchair.  I figured it would give me the perfect opportunity to try out using a chair for future reference.  It was vastly superior to a scooter in terms of manoeuvrability; turning on a dime. Somehow, because it is smaller than a scooter, it is less conspicuous too.  It cost me $25 a day to hire the chair, plus fully refundable deposit and a delivery charge. I had the larger “Maverick” electric chair, I’m a bit of a big bird. It was the perfect size for me.

Me with Maverick(3)

The Maverick and I got acquainted very quickly!  So easy to move around, steering is a doddle and the joystick style controls really are intuitive. I liked the little horn.  It wasn’t so loud it scared people but was enough of a beep to let them know someone was there if I needed to discreetly get their attention.  I took the chair for a spin down to the tram station.

Trams in Adelaide are perfectly set up for people in chairs.   The stations are all ramped, and once on the platform, you just wait on the little blue mobility park.  As the driver approaches, he waves to let you know that he’s spotted you.  Then he pulls the tram up, hops out of his seat and lowers the ramp (some trams have folding ramps and others have pull out ramps).  There is a spot in the tram for the chair and an accessible stop request button right next to your park. The driver asks where you are hopping off and returns to assist you off the tram when you reach your destination.

Victoria Park Tram Stop

During my stay, I took the tram to Glenelg (about forty minutes away), Black Forest, and to hop around the city centre. Because I could power down my chair while in the tram, I was able to save battery power too. The excellent tram system saved me and my chair a lot of energy!  I was really impressed with the warm and friendly staff on the Adelaide Metro Transport system.  I’m sure it isn’t policy, but every time I went to pay for a ticket I was waved away. So nice to be treated with such kindness when you are staying in a foreign city!  Whoever complained about Australians hasn’t visited Adelaide!

I encountered a few problems with accessibility along Jetty Road in Glenelg.  It’s a shopping street that leads to the famous jetty and is lined with gorgeous shops, at least half of which I couldn’t get into with the chair.  But Adelaide Central caters beautifully for people in chairs.  Almost all of the shops I went to in Rundle Mall were easy to navigate without damaging the furniture!

I felt liberated in that chair. I could go where I wanted to go without worrying that I would ‘crash’ mid outing and have to get horizontal in a hurry. I felt free to move at a pace that was more natural than my own snail’s pace.  I could relax and enjoy my surroundings more.  It was slightly strange to be short though!  I am six foot tall when I stand on my own two feet.  But it was so good to be able to MOVE distances for longer. I loved it.  Being in a chair is still taxing, so you still need to budget your energy, once you are used to how much it takes. But oh, not nearly as spoon bending as trying walk distances. It felt so good to feel part of things in a much more active way!  Now that’s ironic.

We have decided to wait and see what happens in the next wee while.  In spite of the huge difference in what I was able to do when I was in a chair and my happy experience of things in Adelaide… I am just not ready yet. Our big hope is that the steroid therapy and possible IVIG makes a difference in the area of muscle weakness and neuropathy.  If that happens, I might be able to be more mobile on these legs of mine and the whole need for wheels might diminish.  Here’s hoping!

If it doesn’t work and things continue to decline, we’ll just have to find some snazzy wheels for me to buzz around in.

If you have Dysautonomia, or another medical condition that requires you to use mobility aids, do you use a chair? What made you decide it was time?  How do you feel about it?  Does it change the way people relate to you?  So many questions…!

FREEDOM!(1)

How do you spell love?

I wrote this draft for the DINET (Dysautonomia Information Network) Newsletter.  I am one of their new parenting columnists.  This piece is about the opportunity Dysautonomia gives our kids to learn about empathy.  If you have been reading my blog, you may remember some of these anecdotes.  It is a US based publication, which is why I refer to myself as MOM!  Do you have any feedback for me?  I’d love to know your thoughts on this aspect of parenting with Dysautonomia.

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It’s one of those mornings.  I know it the moment my eyes crack open and the light floods my eyes. There is  a flash of pain as my pupils struggle to assimilate the light. Too bright. The nausea grips my abdomen and somehow, I make it to the bathroom to vomit.  I am there on my hands and knees when I feel a small, warm, hand on my shoulder. My daughter.  She passes me a hair elastic.

“Here, Mom …to keep your hair back” she says, quiet, matter-of-fact.  She is a special soul, my girl.  Kind, thoughtful; empathetic.  I so wish that these traits had not developed through living with a sick Mom.  But that fact is something I can’t change. It just is. We are in this together. My son, similarly, has grown up with it.

Recently I was again, in the bathroom. For weeks I had been unable to poop.  But this day, success. My son raced into the bathroom.  “It’s good to poop!” he whooped, grinning and tossing me a roll of paper with an exaggerated wink. It might be a strange thing to celebrate, in average households, but not when dysmotility will drive you to hospital.  I shook my head in wonder. What kind of extraordinary grown ups will my kids be? They already know how to respond to the distress of others, not just how to articulate their concern but how to behave in a responsive, helpful way. They are matter of fact in their understanding that some things just require action. And they have the ability to see the funny side of things other kids might find horrifying. They just get on and do what needs to be done.  Practical, kind, funny kids.

Empathy is a skill that has been researched thoroughly by those in the fields of psychology, sociology and genetics.  There are actually genes that have been identified as being markers of hereditary empathetic tendencies.  But empathy itself can also be taught and learned. It is easy, as parents with Dysautonomia, to think about all the things we don’t get to teach our kids, about every lost opportunity or failed parenting moment.  But today, I want us to reflect on the gift our illness does give us and our children, in particular. A head start on how to be good humans.

We can look at our illness as the taker of so much. Or we can choose to remember that character is built on adversity.  Ours, but also that of our kids.  Have you ever considered that you look at the world differently since you became ill? Your kids will too. They will have a heightened experience of beauty, a deeper appreciation for relationships, a better understanding of why it is important to make the most out of every situation. They will have that, especially if we are modelling it for them.

Studies show that as many as 1.4 million children in the US, aged between 8 and 18 are caring for a parent, grandparent or sibling with disability or illness. The numbers are undoubtedly higher now.

We can’t change the fact that our children shoulder more burdens than many. But we can be mindful of what they need within the context of their child care-giving roles.  Here are three things we can make sure we are doing to help them.

Talk about it, but not too much
Make sure your kids have age-appropriate information about what is wrong with you. Don’t discuss it constantly, but make sure it is a natural and easy thing to talk about.  Be open to answering their questions. This will help them to reduce the stress and worry about it.  It also helps them to have the vocabulary to explain things to their friends and people in their circle. There might be scary situations that happen; like passing out in front of them. Make sure they have a clear plan for what to do and reassure them that your body is trying to do what it needs to do, but sometimes it doesn’t work right. My son is seven, he explains Dysautonomia this way: ‘something isn’t working right with how Mom’s brain tells her body what to do’.  And that is no more and no less than he needs right now.  If you talk about your every symptom with your kids, it can increase their emotional burden. Try to generalise. We talk trends rather than specifics wherever we can.

Identify a support crew
Caregiving kids need someone outside the immediate family that they can talk to about things. It is best if this person understands the situation thoroughly, is trusted and chosen by your child. They will need to talk sometimes about the difficult stuff. But don’t take that personally, it is a natural and healthy thing for children to be able to discuss things without feeling like they will hurt your feelings.  They need the freedom for that.  This support person/crew might provide time and activities that you can’t. If you don’t have a network around you, try contacting community organisations, churches or your child’s school.  There are organisations who can provide more information.

Respond to their emotional needs
We can do that. Many a deep conversation and tender commiseration has been given right here on my bed, with my kids in my arms. I am able to be present to their feelings. I can empathise with their problems. They both say they love having time with me here. They love that I have time to spend with them. Many well Moms are too busy for that. It’s a gift.  It reminds me of that saying

 

Photograph by Be CouperResources:
Statistics sourced from the National Alliance for Caregiving, 2009 ‘Caregiving in the U.S’.
Prior reading from the American Psychological Association.
Care Giving USA
Young Carers Australia
Carers NZ
Young Carers UK
Young Carers Canada

Paper: Global perspectives on young caregivers

Move over Marvel

Yesterday was my first day back home after my trip.  I’d been feeling less than super.  My bed and I reacquainted our special friendship and I spent most of the day hanging out there.  I got up around time for school pick up, and just then, the phone rang.  It was a private number, I sighed …I didn’t have time for another one of those telemarketers.  I picked up the phone anyway.
“Hello?”
“Hello, is that Rachel? It’s Richard Steele. Immunologist.” 
Imagine that, said in a Superman voice and you are right there in that moment.

I sat down.
We’ve been waiting to hear more from the two immunologists I went to see a few months ago. I have an appointment coming up soon at the hospital to discuss The Plan. Last appointment, we talked about high dose steroids and IVIG.  IVIG has yet to be approved. He continued, “-has anything happened?” well now, there is a leading question!  My brain travelled instantly down the path usually accompanied by that question.  Why was he asking about my toilet habits? Was I supposed to do something in particular?
“…have you had any bloods or other testing done?”
Ah. Not about poo then.  The whole world is not about poos after all.
“No, not yet”
He apologised for the delay (have you ever had a doctor apologise for delay?!) and said he would send me through some new blood forms forthwith, get me referred for another Tilt Table Test and a Gastric Emptying Study.

I think they’re a bit like superheroes, these Immunologists I am seeing. 
Not in a crazy way, more in a “Woah… those guys are clever” kind of way.  It’s great to have lovely thoughts about doctors.  So often the experiences of Dysautonomia patients with doctors leads to other, less happy thoughts.  So I’m rolling with the loveliness.  If, in the end, they can’t help me, I will always be grateful that they have tried.  It’s all I need; people to try to help.

So those are the things I am looking forward to in the next wee while.  The tests are to establish baselines for comparison.  My last Tilt Table Test was in 2009.  It was a scary event, because it was when we learned that after 9 minutes of standing without the ability to posturally compensate, my heart stopped.  This time, I’ll have my pacemaker on board, but it is hard not to be nervous after the last time!   I’ve never had a gastric emptying study done, but I am interested to see what the findings are there.  Post-prandial bloating is a daily occurrence for me, so some data would be interesting.  The blood forms, I am also intrigued by.  I wonder what tests they have ordered?  Will they be different, or the same as I have had before?
Fascinating.  Scary.  Exciting.

Stay tuned for the next adventures of The Man of Steele (see what I did there?) and his accomplice Rohan The Illuminator.  Here’s a little sketch I did of them.  🙂

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The Road… is Never Long

There is this thing that happens when you get to hang out with a childhood friend.  The years melt away and you’re back at your pre-baby, pre-wife self. Just yourself. Who you were before your adult roles became the bigger part of your identity.  Before responsibility and change and heartbreak and  all the stuff.  That noisy stuff that makes the mirror blurry.

I spent the weekend with my friend, who also happens to be my cousin. She’s known me for as long as I have been alive and seen me through all kinds of stuff. There’s comfort in that. We know each other’s history from the time before.  We know the dreams we had and the plans we made.  We know the paths we travelled and the ones we didn’t. And here, on the other side of forty we still know who each other is.

Really is.

And that is a beautiful, comforting thing. We both lost our mums in the last decade. Our mums were sisters.  We talked long into each night about grief, being women, the legacy of the women in our family. Being mums.  Being us while we travel through the terrain of our days.  It is so easy as women to lose sight of who your are, were, your core self. Life gets so demanding, and you choose to prioritise based on your responsibilities.  The kids, your husband, maybe your job, your friends.  How often are you the last on the list?  Have you ever been at the top of it?

I remember scoffing at women’s magazines when I was a working mum. Make time for you! Look after yourself so you can look after them!  Yeah right, I would think. There is no extra cash for that.  There is no extra time for that.  There is no one who can take the kids just so I can have “me time”.  Not everyone can afford to be that selfish.  That’s what I thought ‘me time’ was.  Selfish. Unrealistic.  A pipe dream.

And then we got sideswiped by my health problems. And prioritising became about survival. Saving the energy for an ever-more-pared-down-list of the most important, essential, crucial tasks. Spending my ‘spoons’ on the family and getting through the day. Gritting my teeth to manage what small amount of work I could, pushing through the necessary tasks.  No room there for frivolous “Me time”.  Me time was suddenly in surplus; but it wasn’t soul food time.  I was busy working on getting through the storm of body issues Dysautonomia sends my way.  It wasn’t restorative or helpful time. Just grit-your-teeth-and-bear-it time.

So when my cuzzie friend and I hatched the plan to meet halfway between NZ and Perth; in Adelaide, I honestly doubted I would make it. I didn’t think I could physically manage two flights, the days between, the struggle and strain without all my home comforts.  But seeing Erica again was powerful motivation. So I proceeded to hope for it anyway. And it was worth it. It was restorative. Girl time.  The way we can talk about a hundred things and pick up the threads at random times without ever losing our place.  I held her in a hug and felt connected to who we were again.

Maybe you think planning some ‘me time’ or ‘girl time’ with one of your dearest friends is a crazy thing to do.  Maybe you think you are too sick, or too busy, or too tired. I did.  And I booked it anyway.  It was a huge weekend for me. As I sat waiting to board the plane home my eyes filled with tears.  I took myself right to the edge of my coping capacity.  I was spent. I couldn’t walk. I felt so disconnected, dizzy and tired. So worn. But in my soul?  I was fed with the joy of finding my old self again. There’s soul food right there.  Enough emotional energy to make it through the next stretch.

Even if it seems like a crazy thing to do, book out that time for you.  You need it. You may not know just how much until you are there and you see it; you, again. Looking back at you in the mirror.  Always there, just waiting for some quality time with you.

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The Wide Blue

Oops.  I really AM having a break from the blog, but I just had to share this with you…

I’m listening to  ‘John Dunbar’s theme’  by John Barry, far above the Pacific Ocean.  The evocative, heart stringing melody pulls me into a contemplative space. The clouds out my window look like snow drifts on blue ice.  It is so beautiful.  My heart aches with the beauty of our world. I can barely understand how it is that I am flying through the blue atmosphere of this planet, eye on the curve of the horizon. Feeling so far from lost. Home in the clouds, in the air.  On my way.

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The first time I remember being in a plane was when I was around seven years old. I was clutching hold of a single rose, struggling to make sense of the painful lump in my throat.  If I close my eyes I can feel the shape of the cellophane stem in my hands, I can feel the sadness that overwhelmed me.  My best friend Dana had just said goodbye to me in the airport and given me a rose. The singularity of that flower made me realise; I was leaving the safety of being of ‘she and me’. It is the first time I understood the loss of friendship.

The strains of losses, goodbyes and farewells fill the spaces in airports and airplanes. Almost every soul on board this flight must have said goodbye to someone, somewhere.  There are heavy hearts and happy hearts, hopeful hearts and the heartbroken.  We are bound for a new destination and whatever might come.  I wonder about the stories they hold, all these people.  I wonder who they are.  What are they carrying on board today? Not their luggage; their heart burdens.  Are they as fortunate as I am? Do they have a compass for home? A warm nest of their own? Will someone be missing them tonight, reaching out their hand to find cool sheets where their warmth used to be?  Will someone be wishing they could hear them breathing, wishing they could rest their cheek against their back?

I sometimes feel so unfortunate.  I see how things are changing for me, how much less mobile I am, how much more I am struggling. And it makes me feel a strange combination of desperation, frustration and sadness.  And then, here I am, looking out the window; the arcing blue sea shifting into powdery sky and I feel calm. Blessed, even.  I get to do this. See this. Be here and have thoughts and words and experiences.  I get to make memories with people I love.

I can’t give you all the beauty outside my window; I see it, but so many people won’t.  All around me eyes are closed to the view.  People shift in their seats, or resolutely shut their eyes to the gift just there, outside the window. You have a window too, somewhere there, where you are. Have you looked out of it lately? Taken deep slow breaths and let the beauty fill you up?  I quench the parched terrain of my sad thoughts when I look outward. Don’t look down, look out. Look up. Just, look.

Listen to this music. Come, get lost and found with me, out in the blue.

(…and just in case you are wondering, that friend and I are still friends.  We found each other again at 19, saw a bit of England and a bit of the Netherlands together.  And twenty years later, we email still.  Hi Dana!  True friendship is never lost).

Back soon…

Little by little,one travels far

I’ve been buzzing about like one of those big bumble bees, drunk on nectar.  Erratically bumping into everything and trying to get to all the places I need to get to, do the jobs I need to do, and most of all, pack. With numerous, frustrating pauses along the way.

Because on Friday I am leavin’ on a jetplane!  A weekend of soul nurturing cousin-time with my cousin and friend, Erica.  We’re going to celebrate our fortieth birthdays in gentle style, over in RADelaide!   And as an extra bonus, I am hoping to meet some of the people from the support group I belong to and people from the blogging group I am part of, too!  My wheels are booked and will be delivered before I am. So, apart from the packing, it’s all done.

Actually, I am so nervous.  About the flight.  About how I will cope with the fly-in-fly-out pace of my schedule. About not wasting any opportunity and not wasting the money it is costing to get there. I’m banking on the gem of a fact, that once I’m there, the only person I need to look after is me, with the odd nod to Erica.  We’ll be just us.  No kids, no hubbies. That seems like a pretty cruisey thing!  I’m hoping the cruisey will balance out the struggles and it will all be okay. Fingers crossed.

Packing is a bit of a feat when you get dizzy on standing. When your arms ache if you lift them higher than your heart. When everything you need seems to be down too low or up too high, or needing to be washed, or folded or found. I think I am getting there, but honestly, it is sooooo slow I can hardly stand it.  I really miss those days when I could write a list and whizz through it BAM, and BAM and BAM. Now it’s kind of bzzz…..splat… bzzzzzzz…. splat.   But no worries, this busy bee is going to get the job done!

I’m going to take a break from blogging while I am away.  I hope you will still be here when I get back.  Or if you go away too, come back and find me and my blog again sometime!   See ya soon!