And so it continues . . . . .

Two weeks ago today, my sister dropped her little doggie here for a holiday while she and her husband and kids flew to the US of A for the vacation of a lifetime.

This is Buster -

enjoying the sunshine on the back verandah with our Merlin.  He's a little Australian Silky Terrier with a whole load of attitude.  He came feeling very unsociable toward our dogs, as you can tell by the photo, he's greatly improved in that regard.

On the Sunday after Buster arrived, I woke in the morning not feeling great.  Still had my breakfast and tried to ignore my painful belly.  By late morning, I was nauseous.  By early afternoon, no amount of fingers down the throat could make me throw anything up except yucky foamy looking clear stuff.  I had a pain in my chest that went straight through to my back.  Mike kept saying 'I'll take you down to the medical centre' and I kept saying 'no, no, it'll go away, I'm sure'.  By about half three in the afternoon, I was flat on my back in my bed with the electric blanket full bore on my back and a hot wheat bag on my chest.  It was becoming quite difficult to breathe - the time had arrived for action to be taken.  Once in the car on the way to the hospital, the pain really took hold.  We arrived at Accident and Emergency at Windsor and because I had chest pains, I was taken in quite quickly, but not before I had another session of retching in the loo with all the other customers in the waiting room watching on. I was taken in and an ECG quickly ordered.  This action coincided with a young guy who had fallen from his motor bike and knocked himself out arriving in the bed across the room.  As they tried to subdue him, his screamed obscenities deafened out my moans of pain, I could not lie still on the bed but even in the commotion, I could hear my heart beating inside my head and I knew I wasn't having the heart attack they were testing me for.

An injection of morphine was ordered, then another.  I have no idea how long it took but the pain kind of eased.  The same doctor who poked my broken leg and said 'does that hurt?' last time I was there now poked my belly and once again asked the same question.  He could tell by my face what the answer was.  Off I went to the x-ray machine and once back in A&E, I could watch as my pictures were displayed on the light box amid much pointing and discussion.

At about 1.30am I was transferred to the ward, given more painkillers and told that an ultrasound in the morning would probably confirm their suspicions that my gall bladder was playing up.  Surprisingly, I slept quite well.

Monday morning came and the breakfast trolleys went right by my room - I was signposted 'Nil by Mouth'.  The ultrasound was duly done and then I waited for some results.  I was extremely tired, slept on and off all day, then had a visit from a Hospital Doctor who confirmed that, indeed, I had a stone lodged in my gall bladder, and that the surgeon looking after me would be reviewing my ultrasound and a decision would be made.  Some needed to come out quickly, some could be treated with antibiotics until they settled somewhat and an operation performed some time later, usually around 6 weeks after the first attack.  I would have to wait for the decision.

I didn't sleep too well that night, I dreamed of cups of tea, and my mouth was getting drier by the hour. I kept having to donate little tubes of blood which were being extracted from veins which were getting harder and harder to find.

Tuesday morning and the breakfast trolleys went by again.  At about 10am the surgeon came and said that seeing my pain was still quite intense, she thought it best that the offending organ be removed that day.  I was having a great problem with shortness of breath and had developed quite a rattle in my chest.  Coughing was murder.

So they prepped me for the upcoming operation, which entailed giving me a lovely pair of paper undies, a gown which, of course, meant my butt was exposed if I got out of bed and a paper shower cap which I designated as my fascinator seeing that it was Melbourne Cup Day and such things are worn on that day.  Then I waited, and listened as the morning tea trolley went by, and the lunch trolley went by, and the afternoon tea trolley went by, until about 4.30 when I was wheeled out to the operating theatre.  The clock on the wall said one minute to 5 as I was taken in.

I woke in recovery at 6.40.  I was surprisingly in very little pain and felt so much better.  About an hour or two later, the pain relief wore off and I knew I was alive.

Back in the ward, I was offered my long awaited cup of tea, but the gross taste in my mouth didn't let me enjoy it greatly.

Wednesday morning and the breakfast trolley stopped at my door.  Great!  But I could hardly eat a thing.

The surgeon came to see me about 9.30am and said she was very pleased that they hadn't decided to wait as the ultrasound had not shown quite the extent of the problem.  The gall bladder was full of pus, which was leaked out and created a raft of pus sitting under my diaphragm and the gall bladder itself was partially gangrenous.

But I could go home that afternoon, although by the time I got here, I seriously doubted that it was a good idea.  I was just so sore.  My kidneys basically stopped working and over the next three or four days, I swelled up with so much fluid that I could scarcely bend my knees and the skin on my legs was as tight as a drum.  Not a great way to get rid of your cellulite!

Anyway, over the last 6 days or so, I have made much improvement.  Still a little sore.

The surgeon told me the day after the operation that the long term effects of gall bladder removal can be many and varied.  Best case scenario, there may be very little change in what I can eat, worst case scenario, there could be chronic diarrhoea for the rest of life.  I guess even chronic diarrhoea has some semblance of predictability, better than the surprise diarrhoea that I'm suffering from at the minute!

So since June this year, I have had a dose of pneumonia, a broken leg and now removal of my gall bladder.  That'll just about do me for this year, thanks all the same.

Frustration Friday . . .

Okay, so it's only Thursday, but it doesn't go quite as well with 'frustration'.

I am struggling with my mending ankle.  I had my first big day in the garden on Monday, clearing weeds that should have been dealt with weeks and weeks ago.  In the space of 25 minutes or so, I managed to twist over on my ankle twice.  I broke a blood vessel in my finger that is still purple today. So I came back inside and promptly walked into the corner of the dishwasher door.  Which I had left open.   My ankle looks almost normal first thing in the morning, but as the day progresses, it becomes more and more swollen.  I bought an elastic type support which comes a few inches up my shin, and by the evening, I have a veritable balloon of swelling over the top.

Put your foot up as much as you can, they said to me.  While I had the cast on, that was basically all I did, sat in my comfy chair with my foot on a leather footstool kindly lent to me by my son and his wife.  I knitted and sat, and sat and knitted, and my foot swelled.  No! no! they said, you have to have the injury higher than your heart!  I challenge anyone to sit with their ankle higher than their heart and remain looking dignified and sane.  Let alone manage to do anything at the same time.  The mind boggles!

Yesterday, I got sick of the feeling of my leg being so swollen, and I started to research ways and means of reducing same.  Compression stockings!  Wow, those suckers are expensive!  Hang on a minute - they ring a distant bell.  A quick search of the right drawer brought to light a pair of somewhat second hand looking compression knee high socks.  They belonged to my dear old mum.  Look, there's the laundry mark the nursing home wrote around the inside of the top - 'Room 41'.  Mum suffered greatly from chronic oedema in the last few years of her life, really much worse than what I'm going through, and as I struggled to roll the sock onto my leg, I apologised to her for not being more sympathetic.  They are a size larger than I would have bought, but the relief they have given me is quite something.

So today I went off to my physiotherapy appointment, in my new sock, and came home more sore than when I went.  I was quite grumpy and made my frustration at the whole situation quite obvious.  Poor guy, he didn't cause the issue and he's only doing his job.  I expressed my displeasure at having a cankle which is completely unstable, making it very hard for me to walk on any ground that is uneven as it twists from underneath me so quickly and hurts like mad when it does. I demanded to know how long this situation was going to remain and, indeed, if ever it was going to heal completely!  Could be 12 months and short answer, no.

So I shall endeavour to sit more, with my ankle higher than my heart.

There is an old house on the hill across the valley from us.  It was built in 1834, I think, so is surrounded by an old garden.  It's recently been on the market and was described in the real estate blurb as having a potager, amongst other things.  Sigh . . .   It's now sold, and as I sit, I'm watching two guys (and two dogs which look like they've just been released from a courtyard by their enthusiastic activity) clearing out the old garden.  I can see old fences starting to appear from the undergrowth and new retaining walls going in.  Stuff is constantly being delivered and everyone whizzes around busily.  I'd be scared to do that so soon after moving in, in case I was pulling out old treasures, but by the same token, I'm so envious of their progress.  I wish I had an army of gardeners with all the earthmoving equipment under the sun who would come every day and I'd say 'let's build a retaining wall here, and dig a big pond over there, and create a pergola walk of roses across there . . . . .'

. . . . . all while I sat with my ankle higher than my heart.  That should make 'em work hard!

The colour purple . . . . .

in the garden today.

This is Campanula Glomerata Superba.

Reine des Violettes again.

My Mum's irises.

Not quite purple, but a sweet Alpine Flox.

Not at all purple, and my, haven't the spiders been busy.  One of Mum's zygocactus.

Can you guess . . . .

what today's garden activity has been?

Those of you who said brain surgery in the kitchen sink do not get the prize!

We have been experiencing very sleepless nights lately.  For some reason, our dear old dog, Merlin, has taken to barking incessantly from under the back verandah and tearing from one side of the backyard to the other.  He has a huge bark and I'm afraid that the neighbours are going to get sick of the noise real fast.  As we have done.  If I do manage to coax him inside, within a very short space of time, he is again out there barking.  He has also been rolling in something unspeakably stinky.  This morning, when I spied that he was again sporting a suit of stink clothing, I took myself off down the back stairs and decided to do a circuit of the yard to find the source of the world's worst smell.  I didn't have to go far - only as far as the mulberry tree!  And there they are, hanging in all their glossy loveliness - the ripe and luscious mulberries.  And all around the tree are the signs of the feast that the flying foxes have been having every night, including the remains of the mulberries they have already eaten and that have made their way through their little flying foxy digestive systems and once again into the environment in which we reside.  In other words, the ground is covered in flying fox crap and Merlin has been rolling in it!

Off to the laundry tub he went!!  Poor sweet old thing, here I was proclaiming loud and long that he has lost his marbles, that he is spending his nights barking at nothing and worst still, keeping me awake and making me grumpy in the day, and he was actually trying to rid the skies over the entire block of the dreaded crapping enemy.

So I resolved to start picking the mulberries with a view to making a batch of jam.  I find it hard to stand for any great length of time on my mending ankle, but in a reasonably shortish period of time this afternoon picked this -

It's over one and a half kilos.  I really only did about three branches.  When I say 'did', I was hardly thorough - I got to the point where I was only picking the ginormous ones - sorry, you're only big, you won't do!

Tomorrow, I will pick more.

A happy footnote - the tradesman turned up and the job is sorted (it was motorising the new garage door) and the quilt that had to be finished by this Friday has been delivered.  Something I made years ago and because it really wasn't my cup of tea, has remained just a pieced quilt top with no real purpose.  I'm not sorry to see it go but happy that I have gained a little space in the sewing room cupboard.  It is being auctioned at a charity fund raising dinner on Friday night - hopefully someone whose cup of tea it is will buy it.

Two thoughts for today . . . .

1.  There is nothing more frustrating than waiting for tradesmen that do not arrive.

2.  There is nothing that kills creativity as fast as a deadline.

Not much positive in any of that, I'm sorry to say.

Well, I hate to say it . . . . .

but I TOLD YOU SO!

Just such an awful day here - raining (but that's okay), freezing cold (Bells Line of Road is closed at Mount Tomah because of black ice), blowing a gale . . . again.

One positive is that the clematis growing up Leander On The Verandah is flowering.  I had to hold the bloom still to take the photo, the wind was blowing so hard.

A good day to stay inside.

Spring again . . . .

and the roses have started to bloom.  There is a line of demarcation in the garden where I was pruning roses, one each day, until I broke my leg - short roses to the left, tall straggly roses to the right.

We've had some hot days lately, everything is very dry, I wish it would really rain.  We had a small shower overnight, but we so need a good solid day's rain.

The fragrance of the roses is in the air -

My favourite rose in the garden, DA Lucetta . . .

My not so favourite, Reine des Violettes . . .

My least favourite, Reine Victoria, showing signs of the warm winds of last week.  My forced sitting inside for the last almost two months has started my thinking that the whole front garden needs re-doing.  Things need to be moved so that there's a bit more structure to form and colour scheme, the soil needs a boost with a good addition of compost and Reine Victoria is going on the burning pile!

Clematis on the archway on the side gate.  The crummy archway is once again on a precarious lean and I think one more gust of southerly wind will bring the whole lot down.  The fish pond nearby is looking so dilapidated, it needs a good clean out but worse still, seems to be leaking water.  The fish still appear every time I go near, anxious for food - they would eat all day.

In the meantime, the cast is off my leg, and I'm waiting for the swelling to go down.  I'm having physiotherapy and trying to get myself walking properly.  My ankle is stiff, but I'm not sure how much of the limp is in my ankle and how much is in my head.