A Parasitic Relationship - A Schwannoma Diary (#3).

I think I'm entering a phase of being angry now. 

I met with my neurosurgeon this afternoon to review the MRI scans that were captured over the weekend. 

They established the geography of the space occupying lesion at the base of my spinal cord. Even on the scans, it is a parasitic looking little shit. In fact, it's not so little. It's something in the order of an inch to an inch and a half in size - a dark, lobulated mass that is being fed by a rudimentary blood supply and, most likely, my cerebrospinal fluid - the fluid that bathes my spinal cord.

My little parasite - not the circle, the thing in the circle.

The theory goes that this tumour is one that has degraded over time. It started out as a healthy (???) schwannoma but some where along the way it degenerated into this cystic lesion. There's still a lot that is unknown about it. An MRI will give you good images and you can make certain assumptions about the make up of the structure and tissues featured in them. But they're assumptions. Guess work. Estimations.

We won't really know the composition of this thing until it's removed from me and it can be examined. 

I want to anthropomorphize it - to give it an evil agency so I can justify being angry and hateful towards it. 

But it's not evil. 

It has no agenda. I mean, it couldn't even grow properly, like a normal tumour would. It's a pathetic reject - a retarded tumour. It's just there. A stupid genetic abberation of my own making.

I can't sustain my anger. I end up feeling empty, perhaps a little bit guilty.

My retarded tumour.

The surgery has been set for next Tuesday, the 18th of December. I will undergo a laminectomy whereby the surgeon will re-enter my spine through the incision that was made 29 years ago. There's a lot of old scar tissue from that original operation that may or may not cause some problems. Scar tissue is not forgiving. I'll be under an anaesthetic for 3 - 4 hours. It could be less if my surgeon can get in there without too much trouble. Then, I'll stay in the hospital for 5 - 7 days.

That's where my stomach drops. Having to tell my children was crushing this evening. Christmas Day won't be the same. I won't even be home for it. We won't be able to observe our little traditions. Worse still, our planned interstate vacation looks unlikely to proceed. This is particularly upsetting. I haven't seen my parents or my brother for 8 months. There are old friends I haven't seen who I was looking forward to seeing. I haven't reconnected with home in all that time and it hurts. Some people don't understand how much it hurts.

I've noticed something about hospital forms - they never allow enough space to write your email address. I always end up squashing up my writing to make it fit. I'll have to bring that up with someone I reckon. 

DFA.

Delayed Devastation & The Abandonment Of #MeToo.

21 years ago, when I was a junior RN at the beginning of my career, I was sexually assaulted by in my workplace. 

The assault involved two individuals, who were senior to me. They herded me into a confined space, and proceeded to taunt me, touch me inappropriately, I was penetrated  digitally. I did not invite their advances, nor did I give permission. I was manipulated, forced into enduring their attack. 

The incident occured out of hours. There were no witnesses to the incident other than myself and the two individuals involved. I was given no ability to escape the the situation. I was shocked and devastated. 

When I attempted to report the incident, I could not have anticipated the reaction I received. A meeting was arranged with with senior people. I was given no opportunity to arrange a support person to attend with me. Once in the room, I detailed the incident. 

I was told that these were very serious allegations. I was asked if I recalled the incident accurately (the meeting occured within a few days of it having occurred.) I was informed that my abusers denied any involvement in what had occurred. Further, I was advised there were very serious consequences of making allegations of this gravity. 

I was then told that the incident never happened and that if I pursued my claims that I would not work as a Nurse anywhere in the future. I was then put on a "probation period" in which my performance would be observed at monitored.

How does a 23 year old, junior male nurse, deal with this? 

In the aftermath, I was devastated. I felt isolated, marginalised and I suffered under the weight of intense scrutiny for which I had no support, no counselling and no recourse.

I suffered bouts of depression, anxiety, guilt and shame that was so intense, I was pushed to the edge.

Yes, I was suicidal and yes, there were three occasions where I attempted to take my own life.  

I know what happened was real. I was, essentially, raped in my workplace. 

Seeing that I had no power to do anything about the experience, I closed down and compartmentalized the experience and the ordeal, burying them so deep in my psyche so that I could (somehow) function. I developed a way of coping - but I never dealt with the damage wraught on me.

With the emergence of the #metoo movement last year, my exposure to the countless stories of abuse and survival being shared, I unlocked the chest that held my own experience of abuse and I  looked at it anew for the first time in 20 years.

Revisiting the experience, my reaction to it and the subsequent emotional devastation I experienced as a result of being ignored and threatened, I was confronted by 20 long years of unresolved emotional baggage that had affected me. 

It took me a long time to acknowledge the reality of what had occurred. Seeing similar experiences being shared, I was encouraged by what I thought was a positive movement that would treat my ordeal with empathy and compassion. 

I shared my experience. 

The reaction? 

The reaction was a swift and as devastating as the intial reaction I received to my account of sexual abuse.

Suspicion. Disbelief. Minimisation - all coming from within this movement that was supposed to empower voices and embrace survivors. I felt as though I had been raped all over again. 

See - I don't fit the narrative. I fall outside of the accepted identity of a sexual abuse survivor. 

I was a male victim of sexual violence, perpetrated by women. Like the administrators who interrogated me in the aftermath of my abuse, many within the #metoo movement doubted that such violence could happen to a male by a female. I'd remembered it wrong. My recollections must be doubtful. This couldn't have happened to you - a man. It was made clear to me that, at this time, this fight is not about you. You can't be a part of our narrative because - as one particularly militant tweeter articulated it - "You have a dick."

In the course of the fight, there will be victims. Males are collateral damage in this - Male victims and Male accused (whether they are innocent or guilty). 

I'm considering all this, at a time when there is incredible scrutiny being brought to bear on the nominee for the Supreme Court in the United States, Brett Cavanaugh.

You might be surprised, given all I have detailed here, that I have questions about the claims and counter claims swirling around Christine Blasey-Ford and Kavanaugh. In no way do these questions  discount the possibility that Blasey-Ford is telling the truth. It is simply a dispassionate observation that Blasey-Ford has not presented compelling evidence that establishes fact. Like me, she may never be able to.

At this time, Brett Kavanaugh is an *alleged* perpetrator or sexual assault - *alleged*. A formal FBI investigation would, in my view, be the most appropriate way of establishing fact. That should happen and, until such time as that investigation is completed, Kavanaugh's nomination should be withdrawn.

Further, this whole spectacle should be completely removed from the public gaze - for the sake of Christine Blasey-Ford as much as anyone.

There is a further concern I have, which relates to the conduct of the various actors behind both Blasey-Ford and Kavanaugh. I believe there are competing agendas at play that have less to do with the truth of Blasey-Ford's ordeal or the guilt or innocence of Kavanaugh or the truth of the claims against him. Part of this is being driven by nefarious elements within the #metoo movement and its blind ambition to bring down an entire gender, regardless of the truth. They will chew up Christine Blasey-Ford and spit her out as much as they will Kavanaugh. 

Can the truth ever be established now? 

I have come to accept that I will never gain absolution for my own ordeal. I can only recount my experience, to the best of my recollection (and my recollection is acute) and move forward...if one can ever hope to move forward from something like this.

Truth is a victim. 

In the case of Christine Blasey-Ford and Brett Kavanagh, there are her allegations - grave and serious and warranting forensic investigation, his defense, which - in our system of justice - he is entitled to, and the Truth that lies somewhere in between. The way these hearings are being concucted are troubling, because none of this matters to those driving Christine Blasey-Ford into the pressure cooker of the public gaze. Nor does it matter to those who seek to secure Kavanaugh's appointment to the Supreme Court of the United States. 

Both agendas will divide and conquer in the pursuit of something other than the truth - and they will leave victims in their wake - both accused and accusers.

If you don't fit the proscribed narrative of either, the accepted identity, you are problematic, expendable.

And that is the truth.

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. 

The Dying Wish - A Journey With Star Wars.

Star Wars is more than just an entertainment franchise - that much is clear. It's more than a popular cultural phenomenon that has stood the test of time. Because of its longevity, Star Wars has come to mean many different things to many different people. 

Here's what it means to me...

In 1999, during the run up to the release of Episode 1, I was a junior Nurse at a private hospital in Adelaide. 

In late April of that year, I encountered a patient - a young man named David - who was terminally ill. He'd been diagnosed with an aggressive cancer just a few months before and he'd been given only weeks to live. 

It was a rainy Friday night when I first met him. He lay in his bed, grossly swollen with fluid, completely bald and barely able to lift his head from the pillow. He was surrounded by Star Wars toys and, of course, my face lit up at all of the cool things he had. Alot of it was the mid 90's Hasbro merch - a couple of light up light sabers, a big arsed Millennium Falcon, some 12 inch figs and of course, those beefed up 3 & 3/4 figs that got most of us back into collecting after that long hiatus. 

Suffice to say, we hit it off right away and I was encouraged by the fact that he too, had found something of a kindred spirit in me. His smile said it all. 

Over the course of the next couple of weeks, I made sure that I was able to look after David when I was on duty and I'd bring in items from my own vintage collection for him to check out and play around with. We'd talk the films and the then EU books and of course, we'd toss theories back and forth about the possible story that Episode 1 would present. At one time, during his admission, there was a slight glimmer of hope that the medical and nursing team might be able to get David well enough that he could attend the premiere of the film in June, but it became clear that his condition was deteriorating quickly. He wouldn't get his wish.

Then I discovered something in the course of our conversations that created an opportunity to do the next best thing. 

David had never seen the Holiday Special.

He'd heard about it but assumed that it was an urban myth - the kind you'd hear about in those early days of the internet when message boards were still a big thing and the web hadn't​ quite saturated our consciousness. 

I had (and still have) a bootleg copy of the Holiday Special that I'd tracked down on one of the early iterations of eBay. When I told David this, the excitement in his dying eyes was as bright as the twin suns and so, I duly arranged for a special night where we would screen the Special on his TV, in his hospital room. 

I came in on a Saturday night - my night off. His family had gotten in on the fun and we had a spread of snacks in his room, all his Star Wars kit on display and David dressed in his Star Wars jimmy-jams. 

And we screened the Holiday Special. It was still the most wonderfully terrible piece of Star Wars even committed to celluloid (or DVD as it were), but it didn't matter. For David, for his family and the nurses and doctors who came in and out over the course of that evening, it was the best thing we had ever seen. So much laughter and gritting of teeth the worst bits. Cheers and tears at little Lumpy and fist pumps at Han and Chewie outrunning the Imperials on their way to Kashyyyk. 

For David, it was the most wonderful thing ever. Star Wars that he had never seen. 

I went to the midnight screening of Episode 1, having stood in line for hours with hundreds of other excited fans at Marion's GU Megaplex. Just as we were about to go in, I got a message from one of my colleagues at the hospital. David had died, literally half an hour before midnight. 

I went to David's funeral a few days later. He was buried in his Star Wars jimmy-jams, his coffin was draped in a Star Wars beach towel and his green and red light sabers were crossed over the centre. 


His Mum told me afterwards that they would never forget that last Saturday night. Screening the Holiday Special for him had given both he and them one last occasion of joy together.

That's what Star Wars means to me. Because of it, I was able to connect with someone during their darkest hour and share in something they could find joy in before their end. 

Star Wars brings people together. It creates memories that last forever.

DFA. 

Walhalla - Immersing Myself into a Setting.

Back in September, I took a much needed trip back to my home town in Gippsland, Victoria to visit family and celebrate my grandmother's 90th birthday. Nana has been a huge influence in my life and has been one of my biggest champions of my writing career, so I was really pleased to be able to share in her birthday celebration. 

While I was in Victoria, I took the opportunity to visit a place that is very special to me. It is also the setting for my new work in progress, a romantic fiction novel that carries the working title "Walhalla". 

Walhalla - the township - is a picturesque little mountain hamlet, situated roughly a 2 hour drive east of Melbourne. It's origins go back to the Victorian gold rush of the 1850's when, in 1862, prospectors exploring the mountains in that region happened upon a natural valley and creek flat that was, not only, suitable for settling, it was also the site of a rich gold deposit. So rich was this deposit that the resulting township became one of the richest mining towns in Australia. By the 1880's, Walhalla supported a population of thousands and was considered a regional center, rivaling that of Ballarat to the west of Melbourne and yielding gold hauls that were unprecedented.

(Walhalla c. 1897)

By the 1910's however, Walhalla's gold rush was in a stark decline and the narrow gauge railway the township had fought for decades to get, arrived just in time to hasten the exodus from the town. However the town itself refused to die, despite dire predictions for it's future. For decades it languished in obscurity, with a permanent population that fluctuated in the dozens. However in the 1990's, a group of locals came together with a dream to resurrect the town's narrow gauge railway in the hopes of kick-starting a tourism renaissance. Their efforts paid off and a section of the line was rebuilt, from Walhalla to the Thomson River a little over 4 kilometers away. 

Today, Walhalla is experiencing something of a tourist boom, with people visiting from all over the world to take in the gorgeous mountain town with its rich mining and railway history, its beautifully preserved architecture and its seductive romance. 

(Walhalla c. 2015)

For me, I have had a life long fascination with this little town which has refused to die and I'm really excited to be setting my next novel there. In the context of the story, Walhalla serves as a place of healing. A young doctor returns there in the aftermath of his wife's infidelity and reconnects with a cast of characters who influenced him during his childhood. At the same time a young mother, escaping a violent past, seeks to resurrect the township's long dormant Bakery in the hope of making a new life for herself and her daughter who is profoundly deaf. 

I spent a morning in Walhalla, taking a series of photographs and video footage as well as talking with some locals, to reacquaint myself with the "feel" of the township so I can translate that faithfully to the page, albeit in a fictional setting. I want to immerse myself, not only in the physical appearance of the township, but the smells of the place, the flora and fauna, the sounds of the mountains, the trickle of the creek that meanders its way through the township. And I also wanted to experience the people in-situ - to get a feel for their daily lives so that I can infuse some of that into the cast I have created for this new story. 

So here's a little sampling of my visit there.

Elliot's Bakery.

Walhalla Lodge Hotel.

Town Center with Post Office & Mechanics Institute Building.

Magnolias in bloom.

Spring in the Mountains.

Windsor House.

Mechanics Institute & Free Library.

Trembath's Corner Stores.

A working breakfast.

Trembath's Corner Stores.

Spring Blooms.

Spring Blooms.

Post Office in frame.

Feel free to hit me up in the comments if you'd like to know more about the specific buildings featured herein. Of course, I'm reluctant to divulge too much about the story I'm writing - for obvious reasons. Know this though - it will be a return to my romantic roots which fans of The Hambledown Dream will enjoy.

DFA.

State Of Play.

So it's been six weeks.

Six weeks since the surgery that turned my life sideways. I was going to say upside down, but that sorta seems overly dramatic and not altogether justified. 

Or maybe it's just me being uncomfortable with the significance of all of this. 

So where am I at?

I still can't talk with any decent quality. I'm good for a few rasping sentences but I'm stuffed after about an hour a day and then I just can't make it work. Which presents a problem because, before all of this surgery, I committed to an author talk at a suburban library here in Adelaide later this month. I still want to do it so I've been resting my voice as much as is humanly possible and I've been working on my exercises three and four times a day in order to stretch the muscles in my throat because I really want to do it. I feel as though I need to do it. 

(Week 3. Would you wanna kiss this??)

My throat hurts like a mother f***er - all the time. 

I saw my surgeon earlier this week and he passed his camera down into the area where he operated. While it's healing, it's become inflamed and hyper sensitive due to some reflux I've developed. I'm now popping Somac daily (a protein pump inhibitor) to address the reflux and I'm swallowing Gaviscon four times a day. The Gaviscon is a thick cement like liquid - that tastes awful - which coats my throat and protects it against acids my natural desire to actually fucking speak.

It's ironic that the exercises I'm supposed to be doing are actually contributing to all of this. 

Oh - and I think I'm addicted to coedine.

I'm popping Panadiene like a junkie - well it feels that way - even though I'm actually sticking to the requisite recommended dosing of 6 hourly. The pain has localized itself to my throat, in the vicinity of my voice box - what's left of it and it feels like razor blades everytime I so much as swallow my own saliva. You would be amazed just how active the tissues and muscles of the throat are, even when you aren't doing anything. It's nigh on impossible to get any respite from it. And, of course, as all knowledgeable persons would know, Panadiene plays havoc with one's bowels. I am so constipated that I've added several classifications to the Bristol Stool Scale. Our toilet has become the equivalent of a missile testing range when I'm in there. It's hazardous.

I hate eating. 

I don't enjoy food at all right now. Between the pain from my still healing palate and my throat, meals are just a chore. It all tastes like metal and flesh. I approach the act of swallowing solid food with dread so much so that I'm starting to avoid them altogether. 

But it has done wonders for my waist line. I've dropped 5kgs in the past month and I'm still shedding.

Suck on that Michelle Bridges!!

I'm back at work. 

Because I do night duty, I can avoid talking for the most part outside of handover and introductions to my patients. They have been very understanding and have kinda dug having a largely mute ICU Nurse caring for them. My colleagues have been hugely supportive and somehow make it work so that I can work. 

(Walhalla - where I want to set my new novel.)

But I'm sinking into a state of functioning depression. 

I want my life back. Beyond waking and doing what I have to do to make it through each day, I'm not motivated. I am trying to write. I've largely mapped out a new novel but it all feels like a chore right now and I don't enjoy it and that's dangerous for a writer. I don't get out much. I clock watch a lot, waiting for the next time where I can pop some pills or drink some cement to ease my dysfunctional throat. It all weighs heavily on my mental well being. At the moment, life consists of just getting through and I want to do more than just fucking get through...

You know...?

DFA.