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Doctors
and nurses
I have learned that nurses all come from Ireland, or at the very
least Scotland or maybe Leeds.
Doctors
never come to see you before 8pm at night. They like to wait until you're
sleepy and inattentive and can catch you without your underpants on,
and certainly not when anyone is there to remember which questions to
ask or write anything down for you. This is because they work utterly
insane hours and aren't finished from their clinic hours and surgery
until 9pm and that's when they come, never mind their family and friends.
My
friends rock!
My
friends came to visit and bring baklavas and gorgeous big bunches of
flowers and books, and those who couldn't phoned and emailed, and that's
so cool, it makes you feel loved and cared for and that helps you get
better.
Plus I
get to sit in the rolls royce bed and channel Elizabeth Taylor as the
sick sister Amy in Little Women, and the visitors get the funny
chairs. Though how Liz got her hair so perfect in a sick bed is utterly
beyond my ken.
You have
a room laughingly called "private" but even with the door
shut and the "do not disturb" sign on, you get: 6am blood
pressure, 6.30am cheery good morning, fortissiimo of course, here's
your antibiotic take it now will you, 7am pain killers, 7.05 do you
want the herald or the mail, 7.30 breakfast, 7.40 a pile of fresh towels,
8 some linen for your bed, 8.10 do you want a cup of crappy tea or worse
coffee?, 8.30 take the tray away, all day and on and on and on. Those
of you who know me well will realise how well I would take all that
going on so early in the morn.
There's
a patient in room 850 who keeps buzzing the nurses all day and night
on the pager but when I went for a painful walk down the ward there's
no such
room.
The
noise!
I realise it would be crap to have to whisper at work but you're
trying to recuperate, and there are nurses and doctors yakking outside
your door, and they talk loud, and Irish, and constantly, and heartily
and worst of all cheerfully. When you are that sick, hearty, healthy
noises and movements seem obscene, wrong and and insult to your very
being.
Hurty
bits
Oh and did i mention the hurty bits? Yeah, a bunch of stitches
in my boob, no actually staples, ouch, and a 6 inch long, 1 centimetre
wide drain from under the boob up into my shoulder,yes you read right,
which HURTS, all the fucking TIME. Can't stand, can't shower by myself,
can't brush my hair, wipe my bum, oh yes, that's the fun bit, but no
worries, I was constipated from the pethadine anyway.
When my
bowels finally did start working it's in slow motion so i can now report
to you exactly which part of the lower colon moves when and in which
order, if you were interested, which of course you aren't.
Lovely
pethadine
Did I mention how nice pethadine is? Ahh, lovely floaty pethidine
which they will give to me any time I ask.
Lovely
hospital
Despite all of this St Vincent's Private is actually great. The nurses
are nearly always charming and sweet, the only exceptions are from an
outside temp agency (version 1, corporate bitch nurse in a black suit
with attitude, version 2, rough as guts night nurse with bum bag, who
sighs and says, geez, I'm exhausted, and squints at the charts).
The rooms
are big with their own bathrooms, there are lovely nuns who pop by and
see if you're okay, the nurses check you are fine and monitor you and
make appointments for you and shower you when you can't lift your arm,
and the food is actually edible (though the coffee isn't).
Mum's
visit
Mum came
for a week to sit by my side and hold my hand, even though she was so
sick herself. I think it was quite hard for Tony having to look after
her for the week, but I loved having her there. Sometimes it was diffiult
though because she'd get weird ideas in her head.
At one
stage she blamed my Aunt Veronika for causing my cancer, due a family
argument some years ago. She planned to write to her accusing her of
this. Instead she phoned her house and luckily got my Uncle, who is
sweet. I'm not sure what he said.
While I
was trying to talk her out of this idea my blood pressure plummeted
and I felt dizzy and sick, so after that Tony made her drop the subject
in front of me.
But I have
to say, how lovely is my mum, so sick herself, and yet she wanted to
be by my side. She kept saying, "I want to be here with my lovely
little girl", and things like that.
Lowdown
on the Big C
Cancer, well it sucks, I mean it's a cool scary disease and all,
who wouldn't rather have that than say leprosy or like MS or something,
but the little bugger has gone and taken up residence. It's gone into
8 lymph nodes and my doctor came in and told me this means that in 10
years, out of 100 people in my situation only 63 will still be alive.
Then he
sent me off on Friday to get a bone scan and and a liver scan to see
if it's gone in there.
I drank
a litre of iodine crap, then lay in a machine. I had to endure an hour
of this irritable doctor trying to poke a canula into my tiny, deep,
hard to find veins (note to self, never try to be junky), said charming
fellow commenting on how crap my veins are and suggesting I dont' do
the test. Oh good, I retort, crying from the pain of them poking needles
into my flesh, so let's NOT find out if the cancer has spread, is that
what you're saying, because you can't find a vein? That seems ridiculous
to me, how about you?
Yes, he
replied, that's what I'm saying.
Oh good,
I said, just give up then, fine, let's NOT FIND OUT, I'll have cancer
in my LIVER and not KNOW, how does that sound to YOU???? Yeah right,
I won't panic or anything. I'm sure YOU WOULDN'T either. Not.
So he sent
me over to the nuclear medicine people saying THEY
can find you a vein.
I said,
fine, I'll come back later... you'll see
me right, with no appointment? Fine.
A much
more patient doctor tapped and prodded and tapped, and eventually found
a tiny little vein and got a teensy little canula in. Then more crap
injected into me, radioactive if you don't mind, and another machine,
and finally back to CT, here you go, guys, a vein.
They said
it's too small for the machine that injects the contrast dye into you,
we'll have to do it manually, glaring at me. I thought hah, go ahead,
inject it manually you poor things. Hehe, man did they look pissed off
at having to inject it themselves, and dirty their little hands, and
spray it allll over their nice clean uniforms, oh what a shame, but
hey, you could see them thinking, we may as
well get this small veined woman outta here fast.
After all
that I went back to the ward, and that's when they said, we have the
results, we KNOW if you're gonna die of liver cancer or bone cancer
real soon now but we're not gonna tell you, you have to wait until your
doctor decides to tell you which could be any time from now to Tuesday.
I cried,
and they looked at me funny and said, that's the rule, and no amount
of pleading or saying it's' my body and Ii'll see it if I want to would
move them.
I found
out the next day it hasn't spread to my bones and liver. The
doctor called me to let me know, bless him, at 8pm on a Saturday night.
Does he ever have a night off?
I put this
down to the amazingly effective Gremlin BGone spray by Zara.
Next I
have to recuperate some more, then I start chemo. Lala.
I'm
OUT!! Out of HOSPITAL!!!
Anyway
I'm home in the incredibly capable and caring hands of my lovely Tony,
with visitors. There was a bit of a crowd yesterday, Cat and Rob, Chris,
Zara and Wendy, bearing portugese tarts, DVDs, hyacinths and lots of
laughing.
Today Anne
popped over with celebratory marzipan, you know, the marzipan that says
you ain't got cancer in your bones or liver. CELEBRATORY marzipan. I
love marzipan, but these are the best ones I've ever tasted.
I was also
visited by the lovely Melanie, my genius masseuse who came over on a
Sunday to massage my back, omg she is so good. What a lovely girl as
well. Some people have a lovely healing energy and she is definitely
one of those.
Loving
goodness
The
world has receded from view. I no longer know anything about anything
except me and my body. I am floating in a void remarkably like Dave
floating out of the pod in 2001, tumbling over and over in silence.
The only
thing that breaks this feeling is my friends and family. They appear
in this void, beaming energy to me. It's strongest when they visit,
but even some people in other states are sending it I can feel it. It's
like a tight beam of hot yellow love energy, yes, call me a weirdo new
age loony lala. But that is how it feels.
Every time
you call me or visit me I feel this energy and it is healing, it works
directly on my immune system. I am so appreciative of the support and
love coming my way, and all the "good energy" thoughts/prayers
people are sending. Thank you everyone. <End of soppy message>
Which
generic smut novel character are you?
I am
the Obscenely Wealthy Heiress
Poor
dear, all alone in your opulent estate, with no one but a tight-fisted,
controlling prude of a relative to keep you company. Perhaps you can
entreat some strapping young lad into educating you in the ways of
the world.
Try
your luck
Tuesday
13 July 2004
Surgery
again
No sooner
had I finally got the suitcase back into the wardrobe, than I have to
get it out again. My wound is infected and the doctor wants to clear
it out in surgery, so (sob) I have to go back into dreaded hospital
again.
Just when
I was starting to feel a little bit human. I was on my way to my first
lunch at a cafe since the op, with dog, husband, book and sunshine..
but no go.
Ah well.
On the bright side, I won't cark it of perotinitis or something else
evil like that.
Bleah.
Monday
19 July 2004
Recovering
Oh it's
so hard to know what to tell you. I mean you don't want to know the
gory details about drains, wounds, dressings, and pain. Trust me. But
without that you can't really appreciate what's going on for me. Basically
it's a bore. The pain is ever present, though not too bad with the drugs
I'm taking. My arm hurts as does my breast and armpit.
I got home
on Friday, and I have to say I feel a lot better. That infection had
a much greater effect on me than I had realised. I feel more energetic,
I could walk a little faster than a 90 year old with a walking frame,
and even felt like eating. The last one is bad, since due to my lack
of appetite I lost 6 kilos over the last few weeks, and they won't be
missed.
Entertainment
I have
grown to lerv Dr Phil. It is sad, but true.
It's odd
really because there's not much I can do at home that I couldn't do
in the hospital, read, watch TV, write, talk to people.. but at home
I am not bored while in hospital I was. On the other hand, in hospital
there was only free to air, W and Arena. At home we have Foxtel Digital
and I can't count how many channels there are, first run movies, etc.
There is always something interesting to watch if you want it. Plus
I have lots of DVDs including heaps of cool stuff that Cat and Rob brought
around.
By the
way, Battlestar Galactica, the miniseries, is fabulous. I loved it to
bits and can't wait for the new series.
Writing
Today I
wrote for the first time since before the first operation, I fleshed
out a full plot for my upcoming Daikaju story for Rob Hood and Robin
Pen's collection. I wasn't planning to write one since it's not really
a genre I get, but Rob talked about it last weekend saying there isn't
a genre of daikaju stories, we have to define it through writing them.
The genre to date is about the movies. So that set me free, wheeeeee.
Baldness
What is
really on my mind is this: going bald. As Chris put it: "Oh God,
Baldness! Oh and the possibility of death.. but BALDNESS!!"
Which did
make me laugh, because really it's completely ridiculous. But there
you are, it was nearly the first thing I thought after the diagnosis
and apart from the possibility of death it's really the worst part of
all of this.
Ah, vanity.
But I do love how my hair looks at the moment and I think it's okay
to mourn it.
Apparently
my hair will grow back, softer and curlier than before, so everyone
keeps telling me.
Think about
it. Imagine it, I mean really imagine it. If you suddenly went bald
tomorrow and couldn't grow more hair for several months, would you like
it? Thought not. And it won't grow back even a little for three or four
months, and then it will be a year to get this long again, so we're
looking at September 2005, minimum. Gawd.
I'm going
to have lots of cool wigs, etc, but I am still going to hate it.
Pillow
goodness
I have
this lovely little pillow from Zonta (a women's group) made of pink
satin with a bow, it's a little bit too girly for me but man it's comfortable.
It's a circular thingy that I slip over my shoulder and rest my arm
on, which prevents me from having to feel my arm against the wound under
it.
A thing
of total beauty, and they just give them to you free. Volunteers sew
them up. That is something that simply has to make you believe that
the human race is fundamentally good.
I wore
it today out to lunch (the first time I drove anywhere on my own since
the operation, conclusion: ow). While I suspect it looked a little odd,
no one really gave me a second glance. Perhaps they thought I really
liked my new Chanel handbag?
And yesterday
we went to see Spiderman 2 (verdict: fabulous fun) at La Premiere. I
took two pillows, I have one that Wendy M lent me, plus my very own
one, so I used one for my arm and one as a pillow behind my head since
the seats there are comfy in every way except they have no support for
your head.
Lovely.
Drugs:
Alinta learns they are dangerous
I have
been taking Di-Gesic tablets for the pain and they work.
On the
packet it has a yellow sticker "may increase the effects of alcohol,
if affected do not drive a motor vehicle or operate machinery".
There's also a red sticker which says "Do not take alcohol while
undergoing treatment with this medicine."
Reader,
I blush while I tell you that I did not notice the red sticker. Though
as a specialist in usability I will also defend myself a little by mentioning
that black text on a red background is hard to read and you're more
likely to notice the yellow one, but yes, I know, it's my responsibility
to read them both.
Annnnnnnnnywayyyy,
I had a glass and a half of French champagne with fresh strawberries
in on Saturday evening, to celebrate my general lack of cancer spread
through my body, and all. Anne, Tony and I lifted our glasses and imbibed.
As soon as I had drunk half a glass I felt really odd, sort of heavy
headed, woozy, disconnected to anything.
Hmm I thought,
no wonder I shouldn't operate that bobcat now. Probably smash the front
fence in, hahaha. I drank more, and then suddenly I had to lie down.
I felt
weak, anxious, confused, disoriented, dizzy and generally out of sorts.
I whined. I laid the back of my hand to my forehead. I fell asleep a
little even though Anne was still there. I even had a little spurt of
temper for no reason at all. I cried, though this was attributable to
a call from my mum whose deterioration is more and more obvious.
I went
to bed, and in the morning read the leaflet inside the packet. It said,
'Di-gesic and alcohol in comination are dangerous and may lead to symptoms
of overdose: difficulty breathing, confusion, anxiety, severe drowsiness
and dizziness'.
Ah. Make
mental note: read those leaflets more closely. Thank goodness I didn't
get the "difficulty breathing" one.
Life,
the universe and everything
Many people
have said to me, 'you are being so brave', or 'so staunch'. It's true
that I skipped denial, anger etc and jumped straight to acceptance fairly
fast (though I'm still angry about my hair, see above).
This is
not due to any great virtue of mine. It's because I have perhaps a strange
view of the world. I believe that the universe is pretty well random.
If there is a 'creator' type being, I don't see any evidence that s/he
is taking any personal interest in anyone on Earth.
You see
a two year old child in a Thai orphanage dumped there because it's HIV
positive, and you think well what kind of creator who's paying any kind
of attention would let that happen? What did that poor kid do to deserve
that, either in this life or any putative previous lives?
So I think
that stuff just happens. It doesn't happen "for a reason",
or "in mysterious ways", it just happens, at random. For me,
a random cell in my body mutated a few years ago and that's not something
me or anyone else has control over. I didn't cause it. I didn't deserve
it. But I didn't not deserve it either, since it has nothing to do with
my actions or otherwise. It just happens.
You see
18 year olds, like Delta Goodrem, with cancer and you can't point the
finger and say, she smoked, she bottled things up, or she ate too much
of this or not enough of that, or whatever, she's far too young for
that to mean anything. It's just, well, random.
I don't
like that this happened but there isn't anyone or anything to get angry
with. And denial is pointless, what does that do for you? May as well
step up to the plate and face reality, then deal with what you have.
Overall
I have had a pretty good life. Born into one of the richest countries
in the world, to a family who loved me, with a great husband, great
friends, a job I like, a nice house, a good education... what do I have
to moan about? There are literally billions of people on this planet
far worse off than me.
Every day
I am grateful for my good fortune and I still think that even while
this cancer is happening. I am fortunate to be living now, and not have
this 20 years ago when cancer meant a likely death. Also I live in Sydney,
with fantastic medical facilities (and not in a remote rural area, for
example), I have a great medical team and the latest treatments, and
private insurance so I can get whatever treatments I need immediately.
So while
this particular piece of my life does suck, no doubt about it, and there
are days and hours where I feel how much it does sucketh, there's still
plenty to be happy about.
All of
this gratitude is made immensely easier because I don't have to face
an immediate prospect of death, I must admit. I
wouldn't be all that grateful to die at 42, it's true.
Baby
goodness
I bought
baby clothes for my new nephew Jamie on Friday. I have never bought
them before, having no kids, and *blush* I enjoyed it. I bought lots
of stuff, little weensy tshirts, little weensy socks, man that stuff
is so CUTE. Tony teased me unmercifully all afternoon, but I ignored
him resolutely. If I can't be clucky over my nephew, well....when am
I ever going to get the chance?
Wednesday
21 July 2004
The
doctor who wasn't there
Got up
early this morning (8am, it's early for me, ok?). It's a big effort
to get ready, properly dressed, in the car, drive through rush hour
traffic to get to the hospital to see the chemo specialist. He'd made
the appointment from my bedside in hospital two weeks ago, and I wrote
it in my book. I have this special book I bought for writing, with a
Book of Kells illustration on the front and a really cool little folder
at the back for loose bits and pieces, and I'm using it to record everything
to do with my illness in it.
Anyway
I rang to tell them we would be a little late due to the heavy traffic
only to find they had no record of my appointment. But I heard the doctor
making it with his secretary. Well it's not in the book, she said. So
we had to turn around and come back.
Writing
rock monsters
I am writing
my daikaiju story, it's going slowly but I'm enjoying writing again.
Today I'm wondering do gum trees have shallow or deep roots? I will
find out quickly enough on the web. I love the web. Apparently lots
of people are writing them so the competition is hotting up, but not
to worry.
Sun
Also am
researching where to go on a holiday next week, not so much a holiday
really as a nice warm place to finish my recuperation from the operations.
I hope to get these staples and drain out finally tomorrow, and if so
can take off for North Queensland. I really hope this is possible. I'm
not book anything yet though just in case, I can't see myself travelling
with the drain still dangling out of my right breast, it's not that
it's dangerous it's more uncomfortable, and how could I wear a swimsuit?
Thursday
22 July 2004
Eeek,
my brain is fuzzy
Yesterday,
I attempted to go to a doctor's appointment with
the chemo specialist and failed. This is because I had stress-brain
fuzz. I had written in my lovely book when and where the appointment
was, and the phone number, but I wrote it next to the wrong doctor's
name.
Actually
it was because I panicked. Under stress, my usual clarity of thought
deserted me. We were running a few minutes late with some heavy traffic,
so I opened the book, checked the number and rang. The number went through
to the radiology oncologist doctor's office, but to his answering machine.
In my addled state I took this to mean they weren't there and didn't
have an appointment.
I know,
it sounds stupid. It IS stupid.
Oh and
also last night I forgot to mention, found that some dickhead had bent
my windscreen wiper in two overnight, for no reason that I could make
out. I was parked legally in front of my own house and have as far as
I know made no enemies amongst my neighbours, so it is yet another random
piece of bad luck. That gremlin bgone stuff needs further work, I think.
So I rang
the chemo doctor's office and insisted that I must have an appointment
with him. His secretary said no I didn't, and just kept insisting that
I must have because it was in my book. No she said, very politely, the
doctor wanted you to ring and make an appointment, but you haven't.
Finally she said I could come the next day (today) at 11.20, and apologised
profusely for any inconvenience.
The fact
that the number I had written down was for the other doctor just didn't
register.
I arrived
at the hospital this morning at 7.45am to see my surgeon. Yes you read
right. I really don't consider that an actual time of day, you understand,
but that was the only option. The surgeon took out the staples (yeehar)
and I realised how much the staples had been pulling at my skin. Phew.
But he refused to take out the drain. This means I can't go to Queensland
next week, or maybe later in the week would be okay. Sob.
After that
we had breakfast, then scooted off in a taxi to the Medicare office,
to avoid the walk, park, pay, drive, park, pay, walk thing to save my
energy. We were standing on the footpath when I realised we'd left the
receipts back in the car at the hospital. Didn't even think for me to
stay put while Tony went to get them, I just went with him, and then
we drove back again and put the $5000 worth of claims in, and by then
I was utterly exhausted.
Rushed
back to the hospital up to the 7th floor (the address I'd written next
to the appointment details in the book), and that was when the penny
dropped.
I should
have gone to the 9.45 appointment after all, and I never had one with
the chemo guy. So his secretary was entirely wonderful to apologise
for what was probably obvious to her, namely that I had stuffed it up.
I guess working in a place where everyone you deal with is having the
worst time of their life, in pain and stressed to the eyeballs has its
difficulties.
So I saw
the chemo guy, who told me I will go bald, I will probably have menopause,
I'll feel sick as a dog, and worst of all, I will have to go back into
hospital probably to get a "port" put it. I have really tiny,
deep veins and they won't hold up to six chemo treatments. The port
will let them go into a deeper vein and it gets put in under general
anaesthetic. This really shits me off. I am SO over hospital.
Then we
took a quick peek into the chemo room and it was lined wall to wall
with couches where sick, very old people were getting poison pumped
into their veins. Next month I will be joining them and it was not a
pretty thought.
I got home
and found my drain was leaking. This is not something you want to read
about if you are squeamish, put your hands over your ears now and sing
lalalalala. Fluid dripping down from the wound site over my tummy and
over my clothes, oh joy.
I had no
spare drain dressing left, so I called the community nurse, who came
straight over, but had no dressing either. She went to put on a big
absorbent pad and I freaked. I'm not having a leaky drain on me with
no watertight dressing.. what about my clothes? My couch? My bed? My
dignity? I insisted she go and get something else and fix it, I felt
like such a witch but really it was just too much.
On the
plus side, I wrote 300 more words of rock monster story today, and also
I fixed my computer virus at last (I think), by deinstalling Norton,
the virus checker of the devil because it slowed my computer to a crawl,
deinstalling my old version of MacAfee which was way too out of date
and crippled by a virus which wouldn't let me install the very update
that would fix the virus. I bought a new copy of MacAfee, and bingo,
all done.
Phew. I
think. Hope that gremlin is busy elsewhere now.
Also had
a lovely massage from the genius Melanie, and a long chat to Sarah,
so this evening was a lot nicer than the day.
Anyway
the big revelation of the day is that my brain is totally fuzzed out.
I have never made such a stupid mistake before. I mean, I have made
lots of stupid mistakes, but not one where I just failed to see what
was plainly in front of my face, that the entry I'd made related to
the other doctor. I am forgiving of myself, since I have a rather large
load of stress to deal with; it's more in the line of an amazed observation.
Friday
23 July 2004
Rock
monster
Been writing
my rock monster story today, and have finished a first draft. Pain is
much less today, and I actually slept all night. That's probably why
I was able to concentrate long enough to do it, though I have no idea
yet whether it's any good.
It has
no proper title yet, working title is "rock monster", and
this has created a sound track in my head. Do you remember the song
"Rock lobster"? Well.. "rock monster..., rock monster,
rock monster..."
Have to
change that title quick.
Saturday
24 July 2004
Lunch,
the cure for the blues
Today was
a good day, relatively speaking. Tony and I went out for lunch to the
local cafe that's been bought by some French people, and the cooking
there is outstanding.
The restaurant
is a short walk from our house. However we drove today, both because
it's very cold and raining slightly, and because I'm too weak to walk
a kilometre.
I had what
was billed as mushroom soup, but it bordered perilously on risotto.
It had succulent, rich tasting shitake mushrooms in a real home made
broth (you can just tell), with al dente arborio rice. It was truly
marvellous, with crunchy warm baguette and fresh butter.
On the
side was a tomato salad, which again was perilously close to the Italian
caprese salad I love so much, with anchovies, olives and lettuce. The
only thing missing was the bocconcini. Maybe they are southern French?
I'm not sure, but who cares. Tony had a beautiful twice-cooked confit
of duck, which he was generous enough to let me taste.
For dessert,
I had pears poached to perfection in red wine, reduced just so, so it
was slightly thick and sweet. It needed no accompaniment and to their
great credit they gave it none. Tony had the most marvellous chocolate
mousse, with tiny pieces of chocolate in it and creme fraiche, and the
whole thing, including several coffees, was under $50.
On warmer
days we sit outside and take our dog Star, and to his great delight
they have a doggy menu you can order from, plus a dog water bowl.
Mood
lifters
The thing
is, in normal (non-cancer) life, the default setting for me is pretty
cheerful, say a 7 or 8 out of 10, with regular ups to 9 and 10, and
occasional downs to a 5 or 6. It's very rare for my general mood to
go lower than that, though it does from time to time, say if I sprain
my ankle, or some idiot bashes in my car.
These days,
my default setting is more of 4 or 5. There is so much about having
cancer that sucks that it's really hard to get much happier than that.
Days like Thursday rate maybe a 3, though with some high spots. Today
was a 6, it would have been a 7 except I had some pain.
What I'm
trying to say is that things like a nice lunch, would would ordinarily
make me feel very pleasant but not lift my mood substantially, at the
moment make an enormous difference.
Other nice
things this week that lifted my mood included getting the staples out
of my boob, getting calls from a variety of friends too numerous to
mention here, Chris E calling Tony and taking him out for a coffee and
a chat, a call from my Aunt at the top of a French Alp from a public
phone, Chris B calling around with honey cakes, Emma offering to drive
me to writing group, and writing a full 3000 words. Also my cat has
gotten used to the idea that he can't sit on my chest any more and is
- albeit under protest - deigning to sit on my lap.
Tonight
we began watching the Jeeves and Wooster DVDs that Cat and Rob brought
around. They were made 15 years ago and I didn't watch them back then.
Tonight they made me cackle.
We did
a silly dance to the infectious theme tune, then the dog rolled over
on his back and Tony played the tune on his tummy, and it made me laugh
to see how much the dog liked being the piano. Er, maybe you had to
be there?
Drugs
are evil
Yes Virginia,
drugs are bad. I'm trying to wean myself off the dreaded Di-Gesics,
since they are apparently habit forming, and plus they make me rather
woozy. I stopped them after the first dose this morning and by midday
was feeling exactly how much pain there really is. It's actually a lot
less than there was a week ago, but it's still very sore indeed.
I've started
to take a panadeine when it gets bad. That way I have some way of dulling
it but I don't have the evil digesics. They are great in controlling
pain, but the list of side effects is truly horrendous, and I have had
several of them, nausea, headaches, wooziness, sleepiness, lack of concentration,
etc. It's time to make a break.
Scars
Also today
I took the dressing off the wound itself (under doctor's orders) and
now I can see exactly how horrid the scar is going to be. There's a
definite concaveness there, nothing too terrible but I can definitely
notice it, plus a whopping huge scar and a double row of staple holes.
What's wrong with nice neat stitches I ask you? The scar is a good six
inches or maybe seven (that's 15cm to you young whippersnappers).
I know,
I know, in time it will fade, and it's better than a nasty bout of cancer.
But it still sucks, okay?
I am perfect!
Apparently,
so says one friend, I am the perfect woman. This because I am unable
to speak in the morning, only utter grunts, groans and say "wha?
huh?" before stumbling about blindly.
I'm not
quite sure how that makes me perfect.. but okay! I'll take
it. Perhaps one day I'll master the art of mornings. Then again, maybe
not.
Sunday
25 July 2004
Thorbys
A smaller
group than usual today, and very light on for stories. I had my Rock
monster story, now titled How Kakaju lost his coat, and Nathan
resubmitted his Expiry Date. Kakaju fared well, and Nathan
as usual had excellent plot suggestions for me. He is such a plot guru.
I'm excited about making the changes, even though it's going to be a
reasonably big rewrite, because it will make the story far more exciting.
We did
a plot noodle for Nathan's daikaiju idea, and he pronounced it "most
interesting".
Clarion
Two Thorbies
have applied for next year's Clarion and we got excited about it, Chris
and I telling yet more Clarion stories and giving advice, I suspect
we probably freaked them out about it more than anything. I'm sure they
will both get in, and am thrilled on their behalf.
I've been
reading a couple of Clarion East journals, the one Grace Dugan attended,
and it's interesting how eerily similar the experience seems to be.
Slithytove
Darkshadow
Interesting
writing points from Slithytove's blog include:
- Kelly
Link suggests consider markets such as Tin
House, McSweeney's, Third Bed, Conjunctions, Zoetrope (especially
on-line version), New Yorker, which publish spec-fic but don't like
to call it that.
- Gordon
van Gelder doesn't want people to mention they are members of SFWA
(though the blog doesn't say why). Mentioning Clarion is OK.
- F&SF
publishes 1.2% of the submissions they receive.
- Ground
the story early, that is tell the reader where they are up front.
- Nancy
Kress: "Remember, people: stuff costs!" By which she meant:
happy endings are not free. Your characters come out okay if you like,
but if you want your reader to buy it, if you want your ending to
feel right, your cast has to pay a price for what they get.
- Few
houses take unagented fiction; Tor does. It can take up to three years
to hear back from Tor; they are known occasionally to lose manuscripts.
- Usual
advance for first novel US$4K to $10K
- Typically
takes 18 months for novel to publish; beware of shorter time frames,
6 months is not sufficient time adequately to design, edit, and typeset
a book.
- Many
editors nowadays tend not to do much editing; your book may be published
pretty much as submitted. [Alinta: this is scary, since there are
bound to be many many places where it ought to be edited.]
- Author
increasingly expected to help with the marketing; author may be responsible
for getting blurb quotes from other writers.
- Gavin:
Chapbooks are acceptable, even though they sort of edge towards self-publishing.
- In
small presses, besides Small Beer, of course, recommend Golden Griffin
(although tends for some reason to be a boy's club), Nightshade.
Distributors, such as Ingram, typically take up to 2/3 of the cost
of the book (40% is passed on to the bookstore).
- Advertising
budget for publisher is typically US$1 per copy printed. I.e., print
run of 5000 will have ad budget of $5000.
- Kelly:
even the best proofreaders miss about 25% of errors in manuscripts.
Yea,
verily
Slithytove said:
"If I had one misconception about Clarion before coming here, it
was this: I didn't realize how all-consuming it would become, or how
much the other students would become a part of my life, the elemental
components of my world."
Yes.
Grace,
you been holdin out on us babe
Australian
readers may be interested in this post: "Grace was all shiny in
PVC, and is reported by reliable sources to have done an exemplary cage
dance within an upended bed, however, it was brief, and I missed it."
Grace?
In PVC? Cor. A number of Clarion Southers will be damn sorry they missed
that. You know who you are! ;-)
Monday
26 July 2004
Taxing
times
Tax takes
on gargantuan proportions in one's mind, don't you find? You think,
'must do my tax', and it seems an insurmountably horrible task. I didn't
do it at all last year. On Friday my accountant rang ever so politely
asking if I'm still a client. I said, yes.. and she said, well the tax
office fines people for filing late now, better get your skates on.
$100 per month it's overdue, or something like that. Gulp. That can
eat up a refund fast.
So today
I sat down to do it, erk, two years worth of receipts in a big pile.
In the end it only took just under three hours to do, actually less
time than when you do it one year at a time (two hours each). Economies
of scale.
Now all
I need to do is send it to my accountant. In past years this has taken
me ages, I hate posting things. Snail mail sucks. I once did my tax
in July, then posted it in February (blush).
Pillow
talk
Had a nice
lunch today down the road, it was eggs and bacon, yum. Afterwards I
popped into the deli for a few supplies and the woman there saw my
pink Zonta pillow. Ah, she said, 'you've just had breast surgery.
I had a mastectomy a few months ago". She seemed put out that I
hadn't had a mastectomy but a lumpectomy, and demanded to know how big
my lump was, how many nodes, etc.
I couldn't
answer - how am I to know how her surgeon decided this? I know these
days they prefer to avoid them if they can, so there must have been
a good reason.
It was
both nice and not: nice to talk about it to someone who's been there,
but not because I just wanted to buy some cabanossi and go home.
Anyway,
the Zonta pillow is a bit of a giveaway for those in the know.
Oh and
she had a really terrible wig on. Make mental note, get excellent wig.
To my great surprise, HCF will pay out for the wig, not the whole amount
of course, but I'm amazed since it isn't a medical necessity. Pleased
though, since I've paid thousands into the fund over the years.
Some
people are amazingly rude
Some guy
found this blog and decided to email me today. He started off by telling
me what I should wear to work, then followed up by telling me his car
problems, and finally when I wasn't interested in discussing them in
detail, he got angry.
What's
WITH that? I don't even know him and I'm supposed to care about his
car?
He hadn't
even read the blog either. Weird. Oh, and every time he referred
to himself he used capital letters, eg problems with My car, when My
job gives Me a day off, etc. Gawd.
I've now
set my mail program so that his emails are automatically deleted.
Yeehar,
the drain is going
Thank Christ,
the dreaded drain is going tomorrow. I hate that thing so much. It pokes
into my side, and hurts. I'll have dressings there instead, so soak
up the small amount that is still coming out (mainly clear fluid which
contains white cells, apparently), but that will be much more comfortable.
Today I
had a male nurse call around to change the dressing, which didn't feel
anywhere near as weird as I thought it would.
So, maybe
we can go to Queensland on Wednesday after all, which will be very cool
indeed.
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