A Flick Of The Switch - A Schwannoma Diary (#16).

I'm home now. 

It's been five days since my surgery and four days since my Medtronic Intellis spinal cord stimulator was switched on for the first time. On Wednesday at midday, my medical technician visited me at my bedside and programmed the stimulator in a process that took roughly fifteen minutes. 

That's all. I know right?? 

And it was cool in that all she used was an iPad with a nifty user interface and a handheld device - similar to the one I now own - to send a series of commands into the stimulator, then tweak them so that I would feel the electrical impulses in the right area - namely my left lower back, left hip and left leg. The sensations were strange to say the least. I equated them to being zapped by an electric fence when I was a kid at my uncle's dairy farm, but much more entertaining. After the initial flurry of shocks and zaps, which took place while the technician was establishing the programming parameters, the impulse settled down, becoming a ever present buzz that rose and fell rhythmically.

I'd had a rough sleep on Tuesday night after the operation. I think that was due to the post anaesthetic fog and the inevitable pain from the surgical incisions. I have a cut in my thoracic spine, which feels like I've been kicked in the back and ribs, while the cut on my buttock makes finding a comfortable position when sitting or laying down difficult. 

The first thing I noticed after the switch on - my hip pain virtually disappeared. Instead of the ache that would usually have me struggling to move, the buzz from the unit had taken its place - and it was pleasant! The pins and needles that I usually experience often come in random bursts throughout my leg, ranging from an unpleasant popping and fizzing to an intense burning that can and has lasted for days at a time, they have been replaced by the rhythmic tingle from the stimulator. So the early signs are really promising.

I came home on Thursday and began to reacquaint myself with a familiar environment.

Working with the handheld device has been an interesting dance. It requires some playing with in order to find the best current for a given positions. I find going from a standing to a sitting position, I have to adjust the intensity of the electrical current, otherwise it can be overpowering. The ideal range when standing seems to be around 2.3 to 2.6 mA (milli-amperes). When sitting, I'm finding that I have to dial it down to between 2.0 and 2.3 mA. And when laying in bed, depending on what side I'm on (I tend to be a side sleeper), I find that sometimes I have to dial it up and sometimes I have to dial it down. Laying flat tends to push the paddles against the spinal cord - as does sitting taller - which they say is a good thing anyway.

The rules, if there are any, seem a little rubbery. For now, it's been good to discover and learn what works and what doesn't. I will meet the technician again in the coming weeks to make some adjustments and add some settings to the handheld for me to play around with.

While I heal, I have to stay out of the swimming pool. I'm not happy about that, given the progress I'd made leading upto the surgery. I was achieving 1km distances in around 24 minutes, which I thought was pretty damned good. The most important part of the healing process is ensuring that the leads and paddles don't move while the fascia and muscle layers knit together. Fortunately, I won't need to wait as long this time around.

All in all, I'm in a good place. I feel positive. 

DFA. 

MacArthur Park - A Schwannoma Diary (#15).

It's a strange experience being a "guest" in the place where you work. Even after a few times, I've never entirely gotten used to it. The faces you see every day...it feels like they see you differently. Maybe they do. Maybe they don't. It's just a feeling.

I was whisked through to radiology as soon as I checked in to undergo the pre-operative mapping X-Rays of my thoracic spine. This is so the surgeon has accurate images of where she needs to enter in order to place the paddles onto my spinal cord. I have a whole bunch of writing and drawing on my back where the radiographer labelled everything. I'd take a selfie, but it's a bit hard and I don't really want to.

I'm waiting now. There's an hour to go before the 2pm list begins. I know I'm third on that list so I'm thinking it'll be around 5pm by the time I go under. I have a nice room with a window that looks over some cloisters. They remind me of the cloisters I wrote about in "The Recipient" so that's nice.

My daughter Lucy made sure she packed her multicoloured Llama into my overnight bag this morning. She said it would bring me good luck. When I dropped the children off at school this morning, her bottom lip bulged and I saw a tear. I thought I saw a tear.

I panicked this morning because I didn't have an anaesthetic song. That's a song that you take in your head to the pre-op area - one that's supposed to keep you calm, maybe inspire you. I recounted in a previous post that I got the idea from Michael J. Fox who took Pearl Jam's "Given To Fly" with him into one of his surgeries. 

I have Jimmy Webb's "MacArthur Park" stuck in my head. I didn't necessarily want it, but it's there and I guess it'll do. There is only one version of MacArthur Park that is satisfactory to me though...

See you on the other side...

DFA.

Electric Dreams - A Schwannoma Diary (#14).

I met with my neurosurgeon again earlier this week to review the series of MR scans and X-Rays that I had taken last week of my brain (I have one), my spinal cord and column and my hips. Given that a major feature of my neuropathic pain has been an intense ache in my left hip, we needed to rule out any form of orthopaedic pathology. Fortunately, both my hip joints are in excellent condition so the source of that pain can definitively be sheeted home to my damaged spinal cord.

So, the only thing left to consider was whether to proceed with the Medtronic Intellis spinal cord neurostimulator platform, which I covered in my last post.

We're going to proceed.

My neurosurgeon is confident this implanted neurostimulator will be the best option for me and that I am a good candidate for it. I'm otherwise healthy, have a reasonable amount of physical fitness, thanks to my swimming and, having reviewed and considered the technology for myself, I am mentally prepared to accept the presence of this implanted device in my body.

The biggest risks of the neurostimulator remain the possbility of the leads and paddles being dislodged or migrating, though my neurosurgeon has assured me that she will make sure they are anchored securely. I'll have to watch how I move in the first couple of weeks after the surgery to allow the healing process to further ensure the leads remain locked in place. There's the potential for infection at the wound sites, which is a consideration for any kind of surgery, so I'm not overly concerned by that. My intuition as a Nurse will ensure that I take care of myself. A lesser risk is that I won't adapt psychologically to the presence of the neurostimulator in my body. It has been reported in other patients who have eventually had their devices removed because they couldn't accept it.

As I write this, I feel dispassionate about it. The chronic neuropathic pain I've been experiencing has been so debilitating for me both physically and mentally that I will try anything if it offers a chance for me to escape it. And, being a massive geek for anything technological helps.

Part of me keeps visualizing this as the outcome of the surgery...

(image credit - issam kh).

...when the reality will be much more like this...

(image credit - Medtronic)

...which is still a radical proposition when I think about it for any length of time...like, right now.

It's all happening next Tuesday, August 20th (it's early Thursday morning as I write this). The theatre has been booked. The implant has been ordered. The requisite medical and nursing staff will have been organized - all of them colleagues of mine, which makes this next step in my little journey a bit different.

The Nurse will become the patient once more...

Stay tuned.

DFA.

The Tunnel - A Schwannoma Diary (#13).

No matter how many times I enter into the painfully narrow tunnel of the MR imaging machine, I never feel as though I'm getting used to it. I approach each machine with a similar veneer of defiance that says, "Righto fucker...You. Me. Let's ride" as if I'm goading this big dumb square donut of technology to do something fatal - like throw one of its magnets through its casing at God knows how many thousands of revolutions per minute and cut me in half. It never happens though. MR technology is so well advanced now. Safety protocols are so stringent with these machines. You'd have better luck getting hit by a car than being killed by an MR imager.

Still, when you're in that tunnel, your head secured inside the cage they close over you to keep you from moving around, with those magnets spinning around you, clanging and banging and rumbling. The psychology warfare you have to play with yourself can be considerable - especially if you're not enamoured by confined spaces and bone crunching noise.

I had the preparatory scans of my spine today. These will help the surgeon get a "lay of the land" so to speak so she can best decide how to approach the evntual surgery to implant my spine cord stimulator. Having discussed the technology with the product specialist, its likely that the leads and paddles will be inserted into the spine at the thoracic level - between T8 and T10. The product specialist - who has a clinical background - believes that will be the best place to achieve the best potential for the neurostimulation therapy.

I also had a couple of X-rays of my hips - just to rule out any defect in either of those joints that might be the source of the hip pain I described in my previous post. It's highly unlikely, but you just never know. I can't actually remember if I'd ever had any films taken of my hips previously. I've had so many.

The MR scans were pretty straight forward to be honest. I was in the tunnel for roughly half an hour, during which the radiographer was kind enough to give me a pair of headphones with talk back radio piped through them. The talk back wasn't entirely useful however as it was drowned out by the magnets around me. But I always consider it a nice thought. 

There was a short break in proceedings as they pulled me out from within in order to inject the radioactive dye - gadolinium - into my system. That's so they can take a series of enhanced images that can pick up any anomalies (god forbid another tumour) that may or may not present. Gadolinium is one of those hilarious radio-isotopes that makes you feel as though you've lost control of your bodily functions, even though you clearly haven't.

It was all over in half an hour and I was back on my feet and out., The Radiology Service has a green ethos these days meaning the images will be sent electronically to my surgeon - she probably already has them. I meet with her in a week, by which time we'll pencil in a date for the surgery.

There was a time when I would have been petrified of the tunnel. Now...it's just mildly angst inducing. 

Me 15...

Machine 0...  

DFA.

The Shape Of Water - A Schwannoma Diary (#11).

I saw my neurosurgeon last Friday for my 6 week post operative review. It's kinda hard to believe that six weeks have past since my surgery. Time moves in such elastic ways. 

We reviewed my progress. It's been patchy. I'm not moving freely. Even with the physiotherapy exercises I've been doing, it's hard to loosen up. Walking is a chore for the most part and I can't tolerate walking long distances, say more than a kilometer. It's hard to get in and out of my car, my bed or chair. I experience pain at the surgical site and down into my legs, along with long bouts of pins and needles. Incontinence is still an issue but, so far I've avoided any significant accidents. This requires a regular toileting regime, forward planning - especially on outings - and a keen focus on what my body is telling me. I do get strange sensations, which I've attributed to warnings that I need to take heed of.

With the activity I've been maintaining however, I do believe things are improving. At the very least, I'm coping with them. My neurosurgeon prescribed some new medication that will hopefully, address the pain issues and the nerve irritation that is causing the pins and needles.

The one question I had for her during my review last Friday though was pretty much the only thing I wanted to get an answer for.

Can I get back in the pool?

When I had my original surgery back in 1989, my then surgeon was happy to allow me to get in the swimming pool after a similar time frame. As a result of this, not only did I discover a love for swimming, I became really good at it. So I knew going into this surgery that the pool was going to be my Holy Grail. 

My neurosurgeon this time around prohibited me from going swimming until she had reviewed me. Her primary concern was my wound. She wanted to ensure it had healed properly before exposing it to water and risking infection. I accepted this, but I was disappointed that I couldn't start as soon as possible. 

You can imagine how pleased I was when I put the question to her on Friday and received her answer. 

"Absolutely!" 

I felt like I was receiving a Christmas present - all over again.

The Unley Swimming Pool at Forestville here in Adelaide is a pool I've been swimming at on and off for twenty years. It's an Olympic sized pool and it's a friendly place. After dropping the kids off at school, I headed straight there. After 9AM, the early morning lap enthusiasts and competition swimmers tend to taper off so competition for lanes is minimal. I went for the recreation lane today. 

I had an idea of what I was going to do once in the water but for this first session, I winged it a little. I adapted some of my 'on land' exercises to the water and set about constructing a regimen that ended up looking like this; 

Stationary calf stretches 10 reps x 10 seconds right leg.
Stationary calf stretches 10 reps x 10 seconds left leg.
Stationary side stretches 10 reps x 10 seconds right arm (down right leg).
Stationary side stretches 10 reps x 10 seconds left arm (down left leg).
Stationary leg kicking (against side of pool) 2x 1 minute.
Walking (strides) 25m x 10.
Jogging steps 25m x 10.
Side strides 25m x 10.
Breast stroke (gentle!) 100 meters. 
Cool down walk 25m x2. 

I won't go into deep explanations of each of these, but feel free to ask me about them in the comments and I'll try to explain them if you're interested. 

The session took me about 45 minutes. 

Suffice to say, from the moment I entered the water, I felt amazing! Water and buoyancy affords the body so much freedom of movement and I was able to stretch so much more easily than I can on land. The exercises I chose were designed to achieve both a muscle stretch and a nerve stretch through my lower back and legs and I chose to limit them once I could feel them in my calves in particular. I felt that was good indicator. Curiously, I felt the stationary leg kicks and the breast stroke in my right buttock, close to the mid-line. On land, most of the pain I've been feeling has been centered around my left buttock and sciatic nerve. I'm not sure what the significance of that is but I'll bring that up with my physiotherapist when I see him tomorrow.

Leaving the water after that first session, I felt a little shaky - but it was a good shaky. I felt like I had achieved something important and I felt a rush of endorphins - ones that have been in short supply lately. I'm well keen to do it again. But I know I need to pace myself. 

This is a big milestone for me. Since the surgery, I've been looking towards this moment. I've been thinking about it. Planning (loosely) what I would do once I got in there. I knew it would be good...and it was. 

I love the shape of water. 

DFA.

A Moment In The Air - A Schwannoma Diary (#10).

I can't remember how long it's been since I've been to a beach. 

The sun on my face. 

The sand between my toes. 

The sea breeze. 

My dog is just as struck by the beauty of the Adelaide beach on which we sit. I've let him off the lead and he's galloped across the sand, his floppy ears flailing like sails. He's snapped at the air like it's some sort of treat. 

On the beach, I can stretch my legs. I can stride a little bit, even though the pins and needles keep reminding me that they're there. I can accept the pain because where I am feels so bloody good! 

There's a young Dad frollicking with his infant son near the edge of the foam as it races up the sand. The boy squeals with joy and it's hard not to smile. Right now - I get it kid. 

To sit on the sand with a straight back (because I *have* to keep a straight back) and look out over the jetty. To marvel at just how wide open everything is. The sun and the light! The air! The breeze on my face! 

I've been surrounded by the four walls of my house for far too long.

I almost don't care that I move like an 80 year old. That I probably should have taken some pain relief with me. That there's not a toilet close by.

I can see a kiosk nearby. 

You know what? I'm gonna treat myself. Yes I am.

DFA.

Scars - A Schwannoma Diary (#8).

They're a curious thing. Scars. 

Some are easy to see. They're in your face, confronting. They challenge you to consider them. 

Others are deeper. Hidden from view. Covered up to protect others from having to deal with them. 

To those who bear them - they mess with your head, your heart. 

They are uncomfortable. They are painful.

They are functional. They are protective. 

Scars are a curious thing. 

DFA. 

String Theory Nineteen Eighty Nine - A Schwannoma Diary (#4).

In his 2002 memoir, "Lucky Man", actor Michael J. Fox recounted an moment, the night before he underwent delicate brain surgery in 1998. Lying on his hospital bed, he recalled listening to the Pearl Jam song, "Given To Fly" over and over, drawing comfort and strength from the music and the lyrics as he prepared for the surgery that would alleviate the symptoms of his Parkinson's Disease.

In 1989, the night before I was to undergo my original operation to remove a spinal cord tumor, I remember sitting on my own hospital bed at the Royal Children's Hospital in Melbourne. I remember looking out through a big window, across the park lands - the city's twinkling lights beyond. I had Vince Jones', "But Beautiful" playing on my Walkman. It was kind of accidental that it became a poetic moment. Jones' soothing, smoky jazz vocals, accompanied by Paul Gabrowsky's languid piano. I (thought I) was a deep kid.

As a callow 15 year old from the country, I had little comprehension of what was about to happen to me. I was scared - but I was scared of the unknown. I didn't appreciate the task facing the surgical team, nor could I foresee what would come after the surgeon removed the tumor. For a brief moment, I just thought it was cool to be listening to jazz while looking out across the Melbourne skyline.

All these years later, reflecting on that 15 year old version of myself - it's like looking at a stranger.

That earnest youth has been subsumed by a terminal, world weary cynic. I'm no longer given to moments of musical romanticism, which might seem hard to believe, given that I've pursued a career outside of nursing as a romance novelist.

Personally, I don't think I draw inspiration from music the way I once did. I don't connect with it on an emotional level. Like, I still love music and I enjoy my favorite genres whenever I hear them. But they're not all consuming the way they used to be. They don't get me in the zone. I'd just as soon listen to a podcast conversation between two people tackling a philosophical conundrum.

Maybe I've lost something that I should try to recover - a sense of the power of music to calm and encourage reflection.

(image credit: Noah Sillman).

I know too much - both as a man who has the burden of lived experience of this kind of thing and as a Nurse, with over twenty years of accumulated knowledge of medicine and clinical experiences. I know what to expect surgically. The stakes are high. I know the recovery will likely follow a similar path as it did back in 1989. I'm aware of the psychology of trauma. The slow grind to get my muscles and limbs working again. The *joys* of incontinence. There are questions too. Fears.

What comes after?

Can I overcome this?

Will I be whole once more?

Will I make love again...?

I'm scared. I'm scared of the known this time.

Maybe I'll listen to Vince Jones once more. On cassette - the way I did before. Do they even make Walkmans anymore?

DFA.

Billy Idol In A Tube - A Schwannoma Diary (#2).

If you've never had Magnetic Resonance Imaging (MRI) performed before, it's a difficult experience to distill into a basic description. Having thought about this over the past few days, I think the best way to sum it up is in two words - a peaceful panic. 

I consider myself a veteran of the MRI machine, having undergone more of them than I care to count over the past twenty or so years. So, I no longer experience the crippling claustrophobia I felt when I first entered one of these machines back in the 90's. That's not to say the feeling is totally absent. I mean, I still lose my shit if I get tangled up in a sleeping bag, so I retain a certain, unhealthy fear of tight spaces. The MRI and I have, somehow, come to a mutual understanding. We don't fuck with each other.

Entering the two foot wide tube on Sunday was kind of a mundane exercise - if you could call it that. I went into this scan with a clear sense of the objective. We were to map the tumor sitting in my spinal cord in preparation for surgical intervention. Knowing this, and having the clinical knowledge that comes from over 20 years as an Intensive Care Nurse, I didn't feel a great deal of anxiety. 

Once my entire body was delivered into the entirety of the machine - then, it was a case of, "Oh Shit! I'm in this confined space for at least half an hour and I have to lay completely still."

 Of course, they do give you a panic button and headphones - mainly to block out the frightening sound of the magnets circling at insane speeds around your body - but also to pipe music or radio talk back of your choice into your ears as a measure of comfort. I chose the broadcast of the Test Cricket between Australian and India at the Adelaide Oval but the radiographer had a difficult time actually finding the station. For several minutes, I had FM radio blaring Billy Idol's "Hot In The City" in my ears. As I was feeling an uncomfortable warmth in my pelvis (real or imagined), I thought the song was appropriate.

Somehow, the radiographer fiddled with the dial and, like that first bit of radio static you hear on Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here", the Cricket broadcast was eventually found. 

Recently, I have been using a meditation app called "Calm". Like the many guided meditation apps that are available at the moment, this app focuses on the breathing as your centering strategy, while voice guidance - provided by the wonderful Tamara Levitt - lulls you into a state of relaxation and...well...Calm! throughout each, roughly 15 minute session.

This method of breathing and focus came in handy while I was in the machine. I found I was able to push away the chaos of the magnets spinning around my body, assaulting my tissues with their insane fields of energy, and find a state of being that helped. The claustrophobia - the panic of feeling claustrophobia - peeled away from me and, funnily enough, even the sound of the magnets became a tool with which to enhance my state of calm. Of course, the cricket helped as well. 

Not Billy Idol though. He's a tool. 

The set of pre and post contrast images, focusing on the lesion in my spinal cord, were good images. At first there was a little confusion because the tumor didn't take up the contrast as readily as was expected (tumors are inherently vascular). It has become cystic, space occupying, which accounts for the leg weakness and pain, the urogenital dysfunction and my lazy bowel, so it has to be dealt with sooner rather than later. 

I meet with my Neurosurgeon tomorrow to discuss the results and go to the next stage.

(image credit - Getty images.)

Emotionally, I'm ragged. I'm at war with my thoughts - my anxieties. Knowing I have this parasitic "thing" within me does not encourage good tidings. I can't plan anything - certainly around Christmas or beyond. At a time of year where everything is insane and people have to think 12 steps ahead, I'm forced to live day to day. Plans I've made with the family have to be held in stasis until we know more and I feel a pressure cooker of expectation. Most of this of course, is in my own head. I don't want to let people down - most of all my kids who, at this time of year are filled with Christmas butterflies. And time always moves slowest when you don't know the answers to their questions.

I'm also asking the question, why did this thing come back? That has been playing on my mind more and more and, of course, that can't readily be answered. I know I shouldn't ruminate over that too much because there's no use in it. It came back and that's all there is to it.

I listened to Joe Rogan talking with Jordan Peterson over the weekend and they were talking about the nature of struggle. Peterson was saying that struggle is an inherent part of human nature - of being - and it's how we approach the struggle that determines our character. I'm trying to approach all of this with strength and focus. It's elementary really. This thing has got to come out. I've got to accept the struggle and navigate the path through it. 

I've got too much living to do. 

DFA.  

The Twenty Ninth Year - A Schwannoma Diary.

Where to begin with this...

So...I've had to digest a lot of news in a short space of time this past week, so my thoughts are a jumble. I'm probably going to struggle to express myself coherently here. But, bare with me. Okay?

There's a background to this story that I'll relate to you in a potted form. It's a story that began back in 1989 when I was 14 years old. 

I was a reasonably active kid. Good at swimming, average at football. Decent at cricket - though nothing to write home about. I was always a little clumsy, uncoordinated. I had a terrible drop punt and I used to trip and fall over myself a bit. It was embarrassing sure, but I didn't get too worried about it. My Star Wars game was always better than my Australian Rules game. One morning in late May, during a junior football match, I suddenly collapsed and was rendered unable to walk. After a flurry of medical examinations and a series of scans, I was diagnosed with a tumour in my spinal cord - a schwannoma. It was growing out of the spinal cord itself, it's parastic tissue intimately emeshed with the cord. It was to turn my teenaged life upside down for the next two years. 

I had two operations back then to remove the tumour and clean up some scarring that caused some issues afterwards. I had to re-learn how to walk. I had to manage a few functional issues involving my bladder and bowels and I somehow had to navigate the psychological comprehension of a traumatic experience that upended my adolescence.

I was told at the time that this tumour was a fluke - a once off. Owing to its slow growing nature, there was zero likelihood of this thing ever returning in my lifetime. Aside from a few functional issues, I should be able to lead a normal life.

Twenty Nine Years later...

I've documented my recent *exploits* here with my throat - how a dysfunctional branch of nerves in my neck caused havoc with my ability to swallow, speak and breath effectively. Having largely conquered that episode, I was referred to a Neurologist to investigate the underlying aetiology of this nerve dysfunction 

I was concerned there was an inflammatory causative factor for the whole throat thing. Some additional symptoms I'd been experiencing - including visual deterioration in my left eye, a sudden inability to taste or smell, some incontinence and *other* dysfunction - led my neurologist to want to rule out that very inflammatory pathology. We discussed Multiple Sclerosis, even Parkinson's Disease.

I agreed to undergo a battery of tests in order to build a case against these. A series of blood tests, urine, a lumbar puncture, neurological exam, an MRI. I underwent these tests, determined to get to the bottom of this mystery, because I didn't want it weighing on me any longer. This had been two years out of my life, in which - you know - I would've rathered been focusing on something else. 

I'm at a stage in my life where there's not a lot that shocks me anymore. As an Intensive Care Nurse, I've seen a fair bit - maladies, trauma, disease, the expected and the unexpected. 

I received a phone call from my GP last week, requesting that I make and appointment to see her. I sat down with her after a long night duty shift on Wednesday morning.

The MRI scan found a tumour, located in my lower spinal cord - very close to where the original schwannoma had been found in 1989. 

A tumour - that was never supposed to recurr.

I was shocked, stunned, numb.

Remember? This was never supposed to happen. 

Things have moved fairly quickly. I have met with a Neurosurgeon, and we have discussed my options, which I might say, are pretty straightforward. I will have to undergo surgery to remove the tumour. Plans are afoot in that direction and I'll be undergoing a second series of scans later this week to *map* out the exact geography and extent of the lesion. It is growing out of the spinal cord itself, so the surgical team need to know - to the millimetre - how emeshed this mass is.

At the moment, I'm approaching all this with a clinician's mind as much as I am a patient's. It's a confusing state. I've expressed little outward emotion about the diagnosis so far. Rather, I've been digesting the reports and the MRI films. I've mulled over the technical aspects of the prospective surgery. I've weighed up the chances of this thing being a malignancy. By erecting a veneer of distance between the diagnosis, I can keep my emotions in check.

This is not to say that I am completely divorced from them. This recurrence has implications beyond the mere presence of the tumour - implications that I can't bring myself to process just yet. There is, deep down, a maelstrom of emotions.

There is fear. There is disbelief. There is anger.

My mind teeters on the edge of this chaos so I'm doing everything I can to focus on the process dispassionately.

This may seem strange, but I'm more worried about more fundamental things - like, how I'm going to get through the next little while - I mean, it's bloody Christmas. I have to pay the bills, support my family, give my kids a Christmas to treasure - this Christmas is certainly going to be interesting. 

I want to get back on my feet as soon as I can. I can't stay idle. It'll drive me nuts. I can't allow this thing to upend my life again. 

The stakes are too high.

Is this a diary? I think this is a diary. Let's call it a diary.

I can't breathe now. I need to stop writing. I'll talk a little more soon.

DFA.

On The Road To Character.

I'm on a journey. This is a profound and moving book that has imprinted on me.

DFA.

My 'Unbelievable?' Journey.

How's this for a dichotomy? 

The older I get, the less I feel I know about the world.

Though I might say that I have accumulated considerable knowledge over the course of my life, simply as a function of *being alive*, I know I haven't even scratched the surface of all that there is to know in this life.

In the past couple of years, I have experienced profound challenges -  aligned to the medical difficulties I have faced with my throat.

The threat to my to health - my life - has compelled me to confront some harsh truths about myself. Chiefly among them is that I don't have it all worked out. In fact, I know very little. I've moved through my life superficially in many ways. I don't  feel that I have lived a deep life. There is so much I feel has passed me by. There are questions I have never considered. My recent experience has prodded me to re-evaluate just who I am and what this life of mine is all about. In the midst of facing my own mortality, I arrived at this realisation and it scared me.

(image credit: Mikko Lagerstedt).

Where am I heading here?

With a sense of urgency (perhaps driven by the confrontation with my mortality),  I began to seek out voices, points of view and arguments that I previously would have felt inadequate in trying to understand. I would have probably dismissed or derided them because they would have seemed so clearly in opposition to everything I previously thought I believed in my atrophied world view. 

Through interlocutors like Alice Fraser, Claire Lehmann, Sam Harris, Dr. Deborah Soh, Steven Pinker, Jordan Peterson and the Weinstein brothers I began to crave longer form discussions that weren't afraid to tackle subjects like philosophy, discourse, progress, the state of polity, science and religion.

Religion...

Though I was christened Anglican, I've given little regard to Christianity or faith. At various times throughout my life I've been antagonistic towards it - finding its various dogmas distasteful and restrictive. I've (probably) aligned myself with atheism, with all its inherent focus on that which can be evidenced and qauntified. 

But here's a thing. In the course of my own Enlightenment project - of listening to these diverse voices and considering new ways of thinking - I've found myself becoming what I recently described on Twitter as a 'curious theologian'.

That resonated with another prominent voice I'd recently discovered, (via Jordan Peterson), the Christian broadcaster and journalist Justin Brierley.

Evidently, it was enough of an observation, for him to actually reach out to me and ask if I might discuss that further, which we did over the course of a few emails. The exchange was a brief but lovely one, which led Justin to generously offer me a copy of a book he has written called 'Unbelievable? Why After Ten Years Of Talking With Atheists, I'm Still A Christian.'

Justin is the host of a weekly show on the Premier Christian Radio Network in the UK. Titled 'Unbelievable?' the show provides a forum for debate and discussion between a Christian guest and an Atheist guest, with Justin moderating. The topics are varied and routinely fascinating but it is the spirit of congenial, good faith discussion about deep philosophical and theological questions that appeals to me so much. The community of guests Justin welcomes to the studio each week are an appealing collection of deep thinkers, formidable intellectuals and engaging humans who offer so much to learn and consider. Their debates are spirited too, which makes each episode thought provoking. 

'Unbelievable?' - the book is a compelling companion piece, in which Brierley explores the origins of his radio show and the underlying ethos behind it. More than that, 'Unbelievable?' is Brierley's dissertation on why, after 10 years of interviewing Atheists and Christians, he remains firmly committed to his own Christian beliefs.

However, unlike the fire and brimstone defence of Christianity that one might expect, Unbelievable is instead an engaging series of essays in which Brierley methodically sets out his arguments for Christian faith, his own belief in God and the Resurrected Christ. He challenges the commonly held views against Christianity by Atheists - briute facts - and draws upon science, cosmology, art, literature and history to make his case that Christianity has been a pre-eminent force in the human project. 

In reading 'Unbelievable?' I continued my engagement with Brierley via Twitter to clarify and seek further insights on the arguments he has set out. I've been impressed with his willingness to respond and it's spurred me on to treat his book with an open mind.

One chapter in the book, in particular, stood out to me. Brierley explores the atheist objection against God: suffering. I went into this, thinking that I would come down on the side of the atheist argument - that no God could exist that would allow suffering. But in his opening statement, Brierley recounts an experience of having one of his own newborn children admitted to an NICU. 

This struck me as I have spent much of my Nursing career working in ICU's - including NICU. Brierley tells of having to watch his child suffer as the medical and nursing team worked to treat his child and in the process, having to inflict more suffering on the child in order to care and treat him. Happily for Justin and his wife, their child was fine. 

His account had a significant impact on me. It altered the way I appraised the notion of suffering. It would seem that it is not as one sided or a product of a indifferent God as many would argue. 

Much of what I do as an Intensive Care Nurse involves suffering - whether I am  witness to it in the disease process or surgical condition. As a Nurse, I have to accept - and even impart - a certain amount of suffering in order to alleviate that suffering in the longer term. Brierley has even encouraged me to re-evaluate suffering and what it might mean in the context of Christianity and the notion of a God. I've also given a deeper consideration the question of what is caring? 

Where does the want to care for others - to alleviate suffering? Is it merely a human trait - the product of evolution? Or could it have some sort of theistic origin?

Caring & suffering... 

I'm still trying to work this out even as I write this so I may return to it in the future. The fact that *I am* trying to work this out is something of a revelation for me.

I find it difficult to argue that Christianity has not been a significant influence in our understanding of the moral landscape. Everything we know about morality and ethics - at least in the Western context - has arisen out of Christianity. Sure, Atheists will argue that morality and ethics are their own entities, observable and practiced by Christian and non-Christians alike. But it seems reasonable to credit their foundation in Christianity. 

But where does this all leave me - an individual unsure, (arguably) unknowledgable, with a long history of doubt of that which I can't readily observe.

I can only appreciate the existence of the radio show 'Unbelievable?' and its mission to bring people together to debate significant topics in the spirit of good faith. 'Unbelievable?' is one of the richest learnimg experiences I have ever encountered and it is encouraging me to see the world and my place in it more deeply and considerately than I ever have before. 

Justin Brierley's 'Unbelievable?' is quite possibly one of the most valuable books I have ever owned. It has kick started a quest to learn and grow in my thinking and it offers a road map to take. 

Will it lead me to a wholesale embrace of Christianity? It may and it may not. I'm not sure if that is the goal for me at this point. I find myself at the beginning of something new with 'Unbelievable?' in hand as a touchstone.  

What I am sure of is that I want to undertake the journey it offers. The learning potential. Deeper and more considerate thinking. The joy of discourse and the voices of fascinating minds. These are the jewels a work like 'Unbelievable?' can gift.

Thank you Justin. 

I believe in you.

Visit 'Unbelievable?' podcast/radio show here.

Purchase 'Unbelievable?' here. 

Tweet with Justin Brierley here. 

DFA. 

Why It Is Important To Be Creative.

I'm back with a post as part of my writers' group August blog chain challenge and, this month, the topic put to us was a question - Why is it important to be creative?

At first glance, the question appears fairly easy to answer doesn't it. 

However, I struggled to come up with an adequate answer and, for the longest time, I couldn't figure out why. It eventually struck me that I was trying to answer the question by looking outward - as though trying to impart reasons why anyone should be creative. But, that's the wrong way to tackle it. Creativity is a very personal thing and it can take so many different forms. The relationship one has with creativity is unique. It goes then, that any consideration of its importance requires that one look inward, rather than outward. So why is creativity important to me?

My love of writing began at an early age. I've often said my Grade 3 primary school teacher, Mrs. Furnell, was the individual who unlocked my creative streak during the creative writing sessions she used to run in class. Ever since then, my desire to create, to tell stories has been insatiable. It has become as much a part of me as breathing or walking.
  

As a Registered Nurse, having practiced for over 20 years in many clinical areas, I have been witness to the extremes of the human condition. A lot of these experiences have been positive - like Nursing newborns who need just a little bit of help at the beginning of their lives or Nursing various bumps and scrapes children have sustained on the sporting field or in the back yard. Things that can be fixed relatively easily. Through the tears and the worry of the patient and their family, there are often smiles and laughter and comradeship. Plenty can be fixed with a Zooper Dooper icy pole.

There have been a lot of other experiences though - like being present at traumatic presentations in the ED, like motor vehicle accidents, violent assaults - sometimes involving weapons, drug overdoses. Or in the ICU - Nursing complex disease processes, the extension of those ED presentations, children who have acquired virulent illnesses like meningococcal sespsis or have been diagnosed with cancer. Many of these cases survive and recover. Many of them do not. There have been catastrophic outcomes. There has been death. 

These experiences imprint on you and they do affect you.

Creativity in the form of writing has been a means to decompress, to escape the accumulated muck of that side of my life and engage with an art that is completely separate. Sometimes, I have written down vestiges of those clinical experiences simply as a means of trying to make sense of them, to remove their subjective effects from my mind and see them as objective experiences, which I can address, deconstruct and move on from. Sometimes, those experiences have found their way into my writing, which has been therapeutic in itself.

It's ironic isn't it. I've credited my Nursing as being an influence on my writing for this reason, but also because of the structure Nursing requires to practice effectively. Nursing involves an adherence to inquiry, to diagnosing, problem solving and crafting solutions. These tools are invaluable to me as writer as I sculpt stories using them in much the same way. So, while I write and create as a way to separate myself from my Nursing, my Nursing inevitably creeps across the fence.

Creativity is an antidote for a restless mind. I have a mind that is constantly working. I find it difficult to switch off. The world around me is such a vivid place and I often take in everything. I work it over, consider objects, smells, tastes, experiences. I ask myself questions, analyze, ponder. The noise in my head can, sometimes be deafening and it can be distressing. 

Writing is a means for me to unpack my mind and get things out so that I can become an observer of ideas, rather than a participant in them - does that make sense? Having a creative process, a method if you will, that is structured and coherent allows me to work ideas into a pre-existing project or catalog them for a future one. I've come to regard even the most disparate ideas as valuable. They are as tangible to me as a flower or a leaf, a Star Wars figurine or a piece of fruit.

Creativity, for me, is a means of maintaining mental well being as much as it is a satisfying pursuit of story telling. 

I'm sure I could explore other reasons why it is important, for me, to be creative but I think these two top the list. They represent the two greatest influences on me as a writer and also as a person. 

So, what about you? Why is it important for you to be creative? Let me know in the comments.

DFA.