I remember a fellow PD traveller once enjoying my turn of phrase in describing my struggle with getting onto some heavy duty PD dope. I too remember those heady days, and sadly at times feel not much has changed.
I mean, I am forever grateful for new friends, lovely neighbours, supporting locals et cetera. But when I recall how I dragged myself uphill to the GP surgery that day, shaking and hopping as I crossed the threshold of the practice – in real anguish for a plethora of reasons, not least of which the fact that the dreaded Madopar had once again nearly off’ed me, and no actual help or even understanding had been forthcoming when I stammered my acute and very real cry for help down the phone to the put upon, dismissive receptionist – only to have the misfortune of meeting a male doctor who, it being a bright Saturday morning not long from closing time, clearly just wanted to get the inferno out of there and join his kids for the rugby/tennis/swimming/lacrosse/polo or whatever – I feel a blanket of forlorn morose silent resignation descend all around me.
The last thing he needed was an actual patient in actual need of actual help. And certainly not some wild man of the woods who had been flapping and flailing about on the benches in the waiting room for half an hour waiting to see a professional who had taken the Hippocratic oath. So off-putting on a nice bright Saturday morning in a sleepy seaside town.
Oh well. I’m getting so tired of just not getting anywhere .. literally, figuratively, physically, mentally and in a few dozen other respects as well.
Forever living in fear of people misunderstanding me, I find myself talking and repeating, summarising, recapping and writing and over-thinking just about every single moment of my life these past four of five years.
And this is while I am learning that those very few people who actually have drawn the unlucky ticket to be granted a peek inside the volatile vortex that spins within, already have twigged at some point that, no matter what foolishness some semi-controlled wayward part of my waning brain cells may choose to allow my outward facade to rub shoulders with, it all started once upon a time with a measure of modest sincerity.
In the now non-existent South Sydney Women’s Hospital in the Inner-West. I remember my late natural mother showing me the site where on that Empire Day – no longer observed of course – I first was introduced to this world against the backdrop of a sky filled with fireworks and general mayhem and mirth. Pointing at a nondescript little alleyway with some nondescript little cars strewn along a nondescript little row of dim-lit townhouses, she said, “I think this is where the hospital once stood.”
‘They turn nasty,’ some say encouragingly of PD patients. I can’t deny that in accordance with that fabled image of the sand in my own personal hourglass inexorably running down faster and faster, my fuse which granted once stretched unusually far has indeed been getting a lot shorter at times.
I’m now again starting to wonder about this lock-in scenario… some very odd things starting to become the new normal for people who until very recently questioned so many things odd or otherwise.
Que sera, sera. The hermit lifestyle then? Now, it’s all the rage. I thought I had cornered that market yonks ago.
I was once asked by a career guidance ‘counselor’ what kind of job I’d like to have when I grew up. “Writer or light-housekeeper,” I replied so quickly he startled a bit, no doubt used to pupils umming and ahing for a long time before saying ‘something in IT’.
There’s still time!
* Tune in next time when I will be revisiting some of my personal favourite highlights from 2019, some of which include: Barcelona or Bust or How I killed off MWC, Washaway Beach or How I nearly came a cropper but was saved by the WestPac Chopper, Yes I know the Way to San Jose or Not Meeting Miss Inspiration.