Kafkaworld's Blog

June 27, 2010

Is it just a girl thing?

Filed under: Uncategorized — kafkaworld @ 8:31 am

It has been my experience over many years that mornings are never good, mainly because society has decreed that, shortly after the sun rises, I must leave my gloriously snuggly nest of wonderfulness (my bed), and bustle around the place for fifteen hours or so before retiring blissfully back to my world of fluffy pillows.  Some mornings are less dreadful than others.  Sunday morning was a treat, cool and sunny with a gentle breeze wafting saltily through the shutters.

So what was my first thought as I headed out to the kitchen for serious caffeine.  You’ll never guess, unless you are a woman of a certain age.  It was

“What a superb washing and drying day”.  REALLY?  Why not “What a superb day to drive up the mountain and eat muffins by a gurgling stream” or “What a superb day to picnic in the park”???  What is WRONG with me.  And furthermore, ten minutes later I was skipping merrily into the laundry to load the washing machine with smelly things, preparatory to hanging them out to dry in the sea breeze.

And there’s the answer.  There is something deeply satisfying about the smell of clean washing after it has dried in the sun and fresh air.  I used to rail against domestic drudgery and  still feel that I was never meant to clean ovens – I’m far too sensitive and fragile – but have learned that there is joy to be found in washing and folding and wiping and arranging.  Of course you wouldn’t know it to look at my house with its piles of books, endless newspapers and everything drowning in dog fur, but I do like to potter about attacking miniscule areas of entropy and restoring order as best I can.  I would never dream of trying to keep the entire house clean and tidy.  That way madness lurks.

5pm at Bribie And this is how the day finally ended – beautifully.

I could mention that between 9 and 5, it rained intermittently and quite heavily so all that washing is still out there in the dark becoming manky, but that would spoil all the romance.


June 6, 2010

Jargon and Miscommunication

Filed under: oral cancer,Uncategorized — kafkaworld @ 8:30 am
Tags: , , ,

For about ten days now, I’ve had something odd happening in my mouth, and I don’t mean the sort of party that happens when you eat chocolate brownies.  At my regular check-up with the oncologist, who turned out to be twelve years old, I asked her to have a look.  No way, not until she’d shoved that damn camera up/down my nose again.  I swear the oral cancer people are in love with that camera.  Nobody escapes without being scoped.  I had a small victory when she asked me which nose I preferred!  Umm, the one on my face???  One point to me!

Anyway, having got through those pleasantries, she was prepared to listen to me for 5 nanoseconds and eventually had a half-hearted poke around in my mouth.   Yes indeedy, there was a small lesion right at the back where she couldn’t see it.  I had to go to an ear, nose and throat person of her choice.  Could I see my own surgeon who is intimately acquainted with all my oral bits, having been peering at them for at least 15 years?  No, I couldn’t.  I should go home and wait for a letter.  If nothing happened in 2 weeks, I should ring somebody.

I was now terrified extremely concerned about the lesion and went home to dream of death and rewrite my will.  Next morning, totally shit scared in a more rational frame of mind, I rang my surgeon who had always stressed that if anything weird happened in my mouth, I should rush off to see her.  From past experience, I knew it wouldn’t be that simple.  First I’d have to talk my way past the daleks kindly receptionist who laughed at me and said there was no appointment available until August.  I wasn’t silly enough to enquire which year.  So I went into full drama queen mode and eventually Davros conceded that perhaps she could make a note on my chart and perhaps the doctor would see it one day and if she did, she might indicate to Davros that I could be squeezed in a little earlier.

So, home to sweat it out … and wait …perchance to dream … and to re-write my last words before dying which, I can assure you, will be wise and witty.

Three days later, I got the call.  What a relief.  Later that day, I reclined in the surgeon’s custom built dental chair.  By this time, I no longer cared about anything except to discover, at last, the terrible truth.  I lay back, tried to relax, and heard Dr W remark, “I think it’s traumatic”.

” TRAUMATIC!!!!  Don’t you think I know that you insufferable fool”, I tried to scream at her through the mouthfull of hardware she had thoughtfully stuffed in my mouth.  Turns out, ‘traumatic’ is surgical jargon for ‘injury caused by scraping with a sharp instrument or peskily pointed pretzel’.  In other words, NOT A CANCEROUS TUMOUR CAUSING FURTHER PAIN, DISFIGUREMENT AND DEATH.  But by the time that sank in, I was out the door, gibbering in the waiting room to the assembled audience about how wonderful life was.  They must think I’m completely addled, and perhaps I am but why can’t the medical profession speak English, especially to people in a high state of anxiety who aren’t thinking straight anyway.

Oh well.  I live to whinge another day.  I’ll step carefully off the emotional roller coaster and have a little rest … until next time.

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