Island kids on the Gillies Range

Today's lunch this evening!

Thank God for Slow Vehicle Turnouts.

How often does a mum have three of her kids retching over the side of a mountain?
If I had been a gambling woman, I would have jumped on a one-armed bandit, certain to pull a triple 7 winner.  
Except I was half-way up the Gillies!

Spitting something

I’m crook.  I’ve been a little bit crook for a while.  Then I got more crook and lived on paracetamol and Ibuprofen for four days, alternating these wonderful drugs every two hours when I started to shiver and shake like some widgie on a 1950s dance floor.  

     Now I am proper crook.  When I breathe in and out I feel squelching in my lungs like gumboots in mud.  That’s not good.  And I am coughing and spitting something, animal, vegetable, mineral, who knows?  I’m fine, but it could be much worse … if it were 65 years ago.

     I am reading Spitting Blood: The History of Tuberculosis by Helen Bynum.  The prologue is devoted to George Orwell’s battle with pulmonary tuberculosis which ended when he “drowned in his own blood after a severe lung haemorrhage on 21 January, 1950, aged 46, leaving a widow and an adopted son just under 5 years old.”

     How awful.  I never knew Orwell had TB.  I studied Animal Farm and 1984 in year 12 (and re-read both books after school), fascinated with all things relating to totalitarianism and communism (and a few other isms) and stunned by the brilliance of Orwell’s political allegory. 

     However, by his mid-thirties, Orwell suffered periods of ill-health.  As with most conditions, having a compromised immune system to start with made things worse.  Sadly, Orwell was addicted to rollies of “the strongest, coarsest black shag pipe tobacco” which was no help to his lungs, already scarred and desperately trying to rid themselves of gunk.

     In February, 1946, Orwell’s housekeeper found him bleeding from the mouth, that is, haemorrhaging from the lungs.  And he stank, said a friend of Orwell, “it was the rotting lungs you could smell … a sweetish smell of decay.”

     In TB patients, the haemorrhaging occurs as the lungs are permanently scarred and the infection or other infections and viruses eat out the airways and blood vessels.  There was no cure for TB at this time.

     I read all this with horror.  Here was a man at the peak of his literary career following the success of Animal Farm published in August, 1945 and he was slowly dying, rotting from the inside.  And he knew it.

     In 1946 there was hope for Orwell.  The antibiotic, streptomycin, “part of the postwar miracle of modern medicine,” could cure TB.  It wasn’t available in Britain, but through his contacts in the US, Orwell sourced the drug.  Alleluia, he must have thought.

     But Bynum’s prologue reads like a thriller.

     Orwell suffered an allergic reaction to the streptomycin and could not continue the course.

     By the end of 1948, he was in big trouble.  

     He said, “I can’t type much because it tires me too much to sit up at table.” Imagine the horror; a writer who could could think about writing, yet not write.

     Streptomycin was tried again, but his allergic reaction was more severe and the treatment ended.  The unused antibiotic was given to two other patients who recovered from TB. 

     Orwell was on the way out.  He thought he might stay alive longer if he was married.  He wed Sonia Brownell on 13 October, 1949.  But three months later, he had a massive haemorrhage and died alone in his hospital bed.

     Thankfully, I don’t have Orwell’s worries.  But I do have a worry that hasn’t worried me for all the time I’ve been living on TI - on the mainland I have to pay to see a doctor AND to have a script filled.

     It’s like this:  On TI, if you need to see a doctor, you make an appointment if it’s not urgent or if you feel proper crook, you front up to the health centre (which is what I would do in my current state).  There you would see Aunty Maisie in the treatment room.  She would take your obs and then expedite things for you to see the doctor.  On a good day, the doctor would drop in to the treatment room, do a quick consult and write out a script for antibiotics. 

     This would all take place in under an hour. 

     You would then walk the fifty metres to the pharmacy, hand over your script and walk out with your antibiotics. Note, there would be no exchange of money.

     It’s like this in Cairns:  If you are lucky enough to secure a doctor’s appointment within a week, you will need to pay $70.  Yes, $70.  I nearly died when I handed over my credit card in June for a short appointment. 

     The last time I went to a doctor on the mainland and paid, perhaps in the nineties, it cost me $36.

     Never fear.  There is Medicare.  I assumed I’d be reimbursed something in the order of $55.

     I nearly spat blood when I was told $36 would be paid into my bank account.

     How can people afford to go to the doctor on the mainland?  Writing this has brought on a coughing fit.  Excuse me..

     I understand surgeries bulk bill for children’s consultations, but I can’t afford $70.  Oh, God, another coughing fit.

     I could, of course, front up to a medical centre (a twenty-five minute drive away) or the Cairns Base Emergency department and wait six hours to see a doctor.  That's the time Tony had to wait to see a doctor at the Atherton Hospital in January, 2002 when he had pancreatitis.

     And it gets much worse.  You need to pay for scripts here, up to $30!

     In other words, if I want to be proactive about my health to prevent a chest infection, I have to fork out $100.

     I eat well,  exercise, get lots of sleep and I am in my healthy weight range.  I don’t drink and I don’t smoke.  I can't think of anything else to do to mitigate my health losses apart from securing a $100K plus a year job.  Perhaps that’s my downfall.

     I am not arguing for free medical services, just affordable ones.

     People on TI have it too easy!  Another reason why I should have stayed.

     Anyway, I am not going to the doctor because I can’t afford it even if I am proper crook.

In bed with Tony

Last night, I slept with Tony for the first time since 15 April, 2012, yes, 2012.

     I mean I slept with Tony in the same bed for the first time in almost sixteen months.

     The reason: renovations to our home.  And in true TI Time fashion, the renos are taking forever.

     If you are not a government department with a hefty purse, any building work is difficult to pull off. 

     First, it’s almost impossible to find a builder who will perform work at reasonable rates. 

     “Why would we do work for a private resident,” a builder said to me ten years ago, “when we can do the same work for the government and charge five times as much?”

     Bugger!  In year 12 modern history I was fascinated by the theory of communism, but I decided it could not work in practice because it is the inalienable right of every worker to charge according to the wonderful free-market forces of our Australian economy.  I am not so sure about that anymore.  Surely the ACCC has the power to cap prices, or something similar, at least on TI to make local home ownership and maintenance achievable.

     Secondly, on the off-chance the planets align and Aries is on the cusp of the ascendant, you may find a compassionate builder.  We found a wonderful builder who literally works 24/7.  You’ve heard the phrase, If you want something done, ask a busy person.  Well, that’s what JB is.  I don’t think he sleeps and he's a great builder.  Anyway, the deal was that JB would work on our place, subject to his other work commitments. 

     That was fine with us.  We could only have work done when we had money and that wasn’t often.  We did have money in February, 2012 which explains why we bought fibro sheeting and lengths of wood I believe are called battens.

     We were ready to start in April, after the school holidays when our full house had become less full (we had 9 – 14 children each day).

Before the renos: There were many children, always on mattresses.

They were on mattresses, day and night.

Or they dragged bedding out to the loungeroom.

I had no idea the children spent so much time on mattresses before the renos. You know, we always had tables and chairs. Four tables, in fact and lots of chairs.

     So, on 16 April, work started.  Forty year old masonite sheets that were walls and ceilings went flying over the veranda and shattered on impact.  Dustpan load of dustpan load of dirt, fur of some sort, electrical casing tidbits, cockroaches, rat droppings and the odd rat bone or skull filled the wheelie bin.

     When Tony and his mates tried to move our futon bed base (supported by four masonry blocks and held together with occy straps) it all fell apart. Tony and I could cope without a bed, especially since it wasn’t going to be for long.  JB said the fibro would be up in less than a day plus a day for painting and Bob’s your uncle!

     That’s as far as things got for eight months.  The rooms were naked; exposed beams and ceilings straight through to the aluminium roof. 

During the renos: These were our rooms for eight months.

On a positive note, there was great ventiliation!

     I started sleeping on a swag.  I loved laying in bed listening to a mysterious and soft whoosh-whoosh-whoosh that lulled me to sleep.  After three months I gave up trying to work out what it was and asked Tony.  It was the whirly bird that was audible without the ceiling.

     Very soon after the rooms were stripped, people dropped in to stay, as they do on TI.  Family stopping over, visitors to the island, friends of friends visiting the island who needed a bed.  People even slept on swags on the veranda when space got tight.

     So one night, during the June school holidays, I was ready for sleep when I found someone in MY swag, fast asleep. I needed to find something else.  The only thing was our former king bed mattress protector which, on a wooden floor, was surprisingly comfy. And that’s what I slept on for the next six months.

During the renos:  Gina Rose beat me to my mattress protector.

     My favourite Christmas present, actually only Christmas present was walls and ceilings.  But I did miss the whoosh-whoosh-whoosh of the whirly bird now the ceiling was up, including insulation.

     Walls and ceilings didn’t solve the problem of bedding.  We lost some mattresses when visiting dogs, including one we rescued ripped them to pieces or pissed on them too often that even Spray and Wipe lost its magic power. I am sure some mattresses fell apart or simply disappeared.

After the renos:  Everyone had a mattress or swag, well, most of the time.

Sometimes they had to share.  That's my mattress protector, by the way.

     Tony and I made do, him sleeping on a swag or directly on the wooden floor (when we had guests) and me on my mattress protector.  

Gina Rose loves that we have mattresses and swags instead of beds.  She is so fat, she simply cannot jump up on beds.

     Now I have a bed at Mum’s place, a double bed.  It’s a bit squishy and the surface is lumpy.  And it doesn't smell of Gina Rose! I miss my mattress protector.

     The first night Tony was down, I started the night in the bed with him then moved onto a swag, keen to spread out and not have to share space … as I have done for sixteen months.  

     The second night, last night, I started the night in bed with Tony and for some reason, stayed.  What surprised me is how hot it can be sleeping with a human.  I am used to sleeping with Gina Rose and she provides just enough warmth, probably due to her excessive adipose tissue! 

     Before I knew it, I had lasted the whole night, the first since 15 April, 2012, in bed with my darling.

     It wasn’t bad.  I think I might try it for a second night, even a third. 
     (Mental note to buy a double swag and freight it to TI before I fly home in August!)

Crumbed fish!

Last night, Mum crumbed steak for dinner.

     “This fish is really tough,” said Kibby as he tore the meat into chunks.

     We adults looked at each other. I am sure we were thinking the same thing; if he finds out steak can also be crumbed, he may refuse to eat it.  After all, in his world, only fish had ever been crumbed, thanks to his father.

     “It’s tuna,” I said, “you know that bloody tuna Dad sometimes catches.”

     “Yeah.” His eyes were back on Home and Away, as Heath pushed Zac in a jealous rage. “Tastes good.”

     It tasted good enough for him to ask for seconds which he wasn’t going to get because leftovers go in lunchboxes.  It’s the lazy mother’s way of simplifying the lunchbox process.

     So I asked Kibby and Seffy if they’d like some crumbed fish for big lunch (otherwise they'd have to make Vegemite sandwiches).

     “Yeah,” said Kibby.

     “Kibbim,” snapped Seffy.  “It’s crumbed steak.  It’s not fish.”

     “Shut up, Seffy.  You know nothing.”  Kibby turned to me.  “Mum, it akshally tastes like chicken.”

Killing two birds with one stone

It was my birthday yesterday.  

     Tony and I were married on my birthday 18 years ago.

     We were in Cairns when we decided to marry and where else to buy wedding rings than Rusty’s Markets.  This was before the big reno, when it was dark and the ceiling was the aluminium of the roof and the floor was cement and dirt.  The rings were $22 each and the vendor, barefoot and wearing an open vest and billowing cheesecloth pants which complemented his long grey ponytail, was so chuffed we were buying wedding rings, he gave us both for $40.  A great deal for a couple who were broke.  Not only were we broke, but we had only two assets, a one-tonne Mazda truck and that had ‘broke’ and our seven metre, three-eighths, steel fishing vessel was as good as ‘broke’,

     Anyway, we decided to get married straight away and made the announcement to Mum and Dad at the farm (back'o'Cairns) as we showed off our supposedly sterling silver wedding bands that looked more like stainless steel parts from the tractor’s engine.

     “You’re mother and I are going to Darwin for a week,” said Dad.  “We’re back Thursday. Can you hold off?”

     “Sure,” I said and turned to my beloved, “we can tie the knot on Friday, honey, my birthday so you only need to remember one day for two special days.”

     So we wed at the Atherton Courthouse on my birthday and the roses bloomed for the special occasion (they are behind me and Tony).

     I didn't hear Tony say his vows because he started laughing and laughing. And so did all the guests … all seven of them which included two children.

     Nor did I hear him mutter something about shirking any responsibility to remember significant dates.

     BECAUSE YESTERDAY HE FORGOT MY BIRTHDAY AND OUR 18^TH WEDDING ANNIVERSARY!

     On the other 17 July 21sts, he has always remembered by dinner time.      

     He rang today to talk about his next fishing charter.

     “Happy anniversary, honey,” I said.

     Silence.  I hoped it was a chilling silence for him, the sort of silence one feels when they realise they have made a fatal error.

     “Oh, happy birthday,” he said, eventually and too cheerfully. "I was out fishing yesterday and the reception wasn't great.  And did I tell you I'm taking Chris and his wife fishing next Sunday?"

Missing!

Missing!

Single, left, black school shoe.

Life partner of single, right, black school shoe (pictured above). 

 Said shoe was last seen on 18 July, 2013 in the jaws of Billy, the black and tan TI dog (pictured above).

Anyone with information as to the whereabouts of the said shoe is urged to contact Seffy at Comments below.

Investigations are continuing.

A long weekend on the farm

We headed to my dad’s farm for the Cairns Show long weekend.  Kibbim and Seffy have no idea about real city shows.  They only know Frog Gully, the TI equivalent of the Cairns Show held in the last week of July on a small plot of land opposite the sewerage plant, called Frog Gully.  We always know when Frog Gully (the show) is about to start because the council slash the metre high grass at Frog Gully (the location).

     I love Frog Gully because of its simplicity. There are usually a couple of rides, a stall where you shoot things to win stuffed toys, a stall where you knock down ducks down to win stuffed toys and a jumping castle.  There are a few food stalls selling the Dagwood Dogs, Fairy Floss and bucket of hot chips.  One night is enough for the kids and for our wallets.

     I wasn’t entertaining even an hour at the Cairns Show. 

     Holy Cross school had a pupil free day on the Thursday which gave us a four-day weekend.  Where else to spend four days than my dad’s farm at Minbum, half way between Millaa Milla and Malanda on the Atherton Tablelands.  

     First, we stopped at Atherton to buy some warm clothes from Vinnies.

     Then we headed to the farm: 125 acres of rolling paddocks and 2.5 km of the meandering Dirran Creek full of platypus and lined with rainforest.  My challenge is always to spot tree kangaroos which were plentiful before Cyclone Larry.  In June this year, I saw my first three since Larry. 

     The farm in July is freezing and often wet and muddy.  I call this region the Atherton Scarflands because a scarf is necessary to keep out the biting wind. 

I think polar fleece and a parka would also help.

The weather doesn’t worry Seffy and Kibby who seem immune to the icy clime. 

As soon as we arrived, they rushed to the cattle yards. 

     They were desperate to see their friend, Coco, a brindle Brahman cow.  She was destined for the abattoir in November last year until Kibby and Seffy visited.  Coco started following them around.  Naturally, they patted and fed her and eventually gave her a name. The advantage of being given a name is that you must die a natural death on the farm (this means you don't end up as mince or T-bone).

Making dinner: Some headway on the shoe issue.  Lost some ground on the shirt even though it’s freesing inside at night on the farm.

     I slept till eight each morning, pinned to the bed by five layers of blankets.  I woke to a babble of voices in the kitchen as breakfast was being prepared.

       There is a lot a lot to do on the farm, even when it is raining.

A win on the shirt and shoes.  

     The heavy cloud strips the landscape of vibrant colour and there is ‘mizzle’, a cross between mist and drizzle for which this area is famous. Sometimes the rain at Minbun can become a little overwhelming.  That’s when we whack the bikes in brother, Stephen’s ute and drive to hopefully drier and slightly warmer climes, the Atherton mountain bike track. 

"Shoo, cows.  Off the track."

     We rode the 6.8km Ridgy Didge track, 3.4 km of which was up hill.  Naturally, Kibbim and Sutchy took off, hungry for speed and the challenge of not falling down a steep ravine while negotiating rocks, tree trunks and mud.  Seffy found it a bit tough at times on the uphill bit. 

     We had a few tears and declarations of ‘never riding again.’  It was a good thing we were 1 km from the summit because promises of financial treats along with fish and chips and pies on the way home got her going and then it was downhill all the way.

     On the way home, I made the mistake of driving past the Majestic Theatre in Malanda and Seffy spotted the poster advertising Despicable Me 2 on at 5 pm in an hour.  I was not armed with an arsenal of excuses to get out of driving back to town.

     Sitting through 1.5 hours of animated characters performing superhuman feats and talking in silly voices was the most tortuous experience of my life. The best bits were catching Seffy’s giant grin in the glow of the screen and the Barry White and Village People numbers. I spent a lot of time admiring the old theatre with a tongue and groove ceiling and wooden archways.  I especially loved the canvas deck chairs.  It was the best value - $28 for an adult, a student and a child!

     Driving back to the farm along the highway past the massive B-Doubles (at 7 pm!) in the dark and the mizzle (which reflected the headlights) constituted my most terrifying experience. I managed it at 70 km/hour.  I've never done 70 km/hour on TI.  Should have gone to the Cairns Show.  Tomorrow, I'll need a day off driving to recover.