Parent Rage - Seriously. Is This A Thing Now Adelaide?

There isn't a lot that shocks me in this world anymore. I've seen enough of human nature at its best and worst that I tend to sigh and regard it all with barely more than a 'meh...'

Apparently, I haven't yet seen it all.

So, yesterday afternoon; I'm waiting in my car across from my children's primary school. I often get there about 15 minutes before the bell to ensure I can park safely and scroll the news feeds on my smartphone - because that's always the best time to do that sort of thing guilt free. 

I've got my son with me, whose been home sick with vomiting and is only just starting to feel a little brighter. 

Without warning, I'm shocked out of my Twitter-feed reverie by a sudden pounding on the driver's side window. Jumping in my seat, I look up to see a man - face pressed against the glass - hurling abuse at me and gesticulating wildly, in the middle of the street, for everyone to see.

Apparently, he had taken issue with the fact that I had parked my car in such a way that it was impossible for anyone to slip in behind my car and the car further back. The space wasn't big enough. There was a car in front of me so my moving forward was out of the question. 

This, apparently, constitutes a perfect storm in some people, where they feel it is  their constitutional right to unleash the power of Grey Skull on a fellow parent. 

And unleash that power this father did.

Not content with my shocked and stunned look of disbelief at his salvo of window punches and verbal abuse, this genius, proceeded to grab the door handle of my car and yank it open. He ordered me to step out of the car. To fight it out. In front of a Primary School. In broad daylight. 

Now bear in mind here that my 11 year old son, is in the car with me. My sick-with-gastro 11 year old son who was cradling an ice cream container just in case he had cause to vomit for the 50th time today. 

Once I got my head around the shock of what was happening, I calmly stepped from my car and suggested we move off the street, lest we get run down by the steadily building after school traffic. All the while, crazy-father-guy was actually goading me to throw a punch, in between berating me for him not being able to park his cark behind mine. 

By this time the school bell has chimed and children and parents are passing by this shit show, watching on with bemusement. Never a good look to have an audience of kids at a potential dust up.

The situation was quickly spinning out of control.

Unwilling to listen to this rant anymore, I calmly stepped forward, into his face, and whispered - because that is all I can manage vocally right now - 'If you want me to throw down right here, I guarantee you, you will not get up.' It was kinda Liam Neeson-esque - minus the Liam Neeson.

Then I calmly turned and walked away, back to my car. 

The dad continued his tirade of abuse as he retreated from my car and across the street while I slowly motored down to the gate to collect my daughter. My 6 year old daughter. Who got to witness his continuing rage and vile langauge. As did any number of other children and parents and teachers.

This happened at a Primary School in Adelaide yesterday.

Seriously. Are we doing Parent Rage now? Is this a thing?

DFA.

Dean & Lucy from Australia Read Bedtime Stories (Podcast).

So...we're fortunate in our household that both our children have taken to reading and story telling with the kind of enthusiasm that makes bedtime a welcome part of the day. My wife and I take it in turns (mostly) to read to the children, swapping between our 9 year old son and 6 year old daughter. 

A few nights ago, my daughter Lucy, asked me - quite out of the blue I might add - what a podcast was. Apparently she'd been talking to her school friends and they were discussing story telling podcasts. I've no idea which ones they were talking about but Lucy told me that she wanted to do a story telling podcast of her own and could she and I record one. 

Evidently, the ability to record audio nowadays is pretty easy, so we decided to have a crack. So in the interests of sharing, I'd like to present to you our *ahem* attempt at story telling with a short read through of "The Night Fright" from the popular Australian "Billie B. Brown" children's books by Sally Rippin - one of Lucy's favourite authors.

DOWNLOAD .MP3 as read by Dean and Lucy Mayes. (right click and 'Save As...').

Billie loves hanging out with Rebecca's older sisters. They make her feel so grown-up! But is Billie grown-up enough to handle the scary movies they like? 

Sally Rippin was born in Darwin and grew up in South-East Asia. As an adolescent she studied traditional Chinese painting for three years in Shanghai and Hangzhou. Returning to Australia, her time overseas inspired her first novel Chenxi and the Foreigner. Sally has also written and illustrated many books for children, including titles from the Go Girl and Aussie Bites series and the popular Fang Fang stories. She is also the illustrator for many others, including the recent Me, Oliver Bright (2009) by Megan de Kantzow and Mannie and the Long Brave Day (2009) by Martine Murray. Sally lives in Melbourne and writes and illustrates full time.

Run time is a little under 15 minutes and we had a lot of fun recording this at bedtime. 

DFA.

Nothing Can Be Taken From The Death Of Phil Walsh. Except...

The city of Adelaide was thrust into a collective shock over the weekend, following the murder of AFL Adelaide Crows coach Phil Walsh, by his own son. 

Acres of page space and swathes of internet bandwidth has been taken up with the reporting of this tragic event so, for the sake of brevity, I won't reproduce the story in full here. A quick Google Search will yield all you need to know about the event and the circumstances of the murder.

image credit; Australian Football League.

In the collective grief that has followed, I have conversed with many people who are trying to come to grips with this heinous act. Clearly it is one in which many can't - and justifiably so. Here we have a son, coming home in the early hours of a Friday morning and, following a domestic dispute, has fatally knifed his own father. It is an unforgivable act. One which he will be tried and judged for. 

The ramifications are incomprehensible. A loving father, husband and family man has been taken from this earth and his family has, in one fell swoop, been utterly destroyed. 

In the immediate aftermath, through the white noise of incessant media analysis, I myself tried to get my head around it. I happened across one newspaper article which was moving and prescient. Penned by Herald Sun columnist Mark Robinson in April 2015, that very journalist embedded himself with Phil Walsh for a period of time and produced a insightful piece on the AFL Coach - both the professional man and the private man. 

image credit: News Limited / Sarah Reed.

In it, Phil Walsh is cast as a committed football coach, brilliant tactician, father figure to many young footballers and widely respected as an astute football mind. Walsh also reflects on himself as a family man and father and he admitted that all was not well between himself and his son. I should clarify here that nothing - Nothing - can excuse the behavior and the actions of Cy Walsh, nor can Phil Walsh be blamed in any degree for those actions. 

What does become clear is that the demands of his job and his obsession with it drove a wedge between father and son that was damaging. 

"...But have I been a good father? To my son, I had a disconnect because of footy.

“I just immersed myself, got consumed and was selfish with as much time I committed to footy. I’m basically talking about my 10 years at Port Adelaide, just the desperation to win a premiership and I thought it was all about me, when it’s all about the players.

“I lost that connection and I’m trying to reconnect with my son, which I have done."

- Phil Walsh, April 2015. 

Walsh goes on to reflect on the commitment he made to re-connect with his son, to remove that wedge and it would appear that he and his son were making strides in renewing their relationship. 

Apparently, it was not to be.

On Sunday morning, I was at my own son's local footy game and I fell into a conversation with one of the other dads. Inevitably the talk turned to the events of Friday and the shocking aftermath. Terms like utterly shocking, pointless, a waste came up. And then he asked the question, "What can be taken from this?" 

I  have indeed asked myself this very same question. My eyes were inevitably drawn to my own son, out on the field. Reflecting on my own relationship with him, there have been plenty of times where I have placed other priorities ahead of that relationship - be it work commitments, writing commitments or any one of a number of other things. One can argue the merits of degrees of neglect in this but I do know that I have disappointed him and I have disappointed myself.

If anything can be taken from the tragedy of Phil Walsh's death - perhaps it will prompt fathers and sons to sit down with one another and talk...

...just talk.  

DFA.

For advice and support, visit Beyond Blue (click above).

Father.

Running the brush through my 4 year old's pony tail this morning, separating each strand, enhancing each one, I marvel at how soothing this act is for both of us. No matter what may be happening in the world, at this moment, there is just us. 

How did her hair get so long in such a short time?

*

Her grasp of the world around her constantly amazes me. More-so are the questions that confound me. 

"Dad - What is metamorphosis?" 

I can't remember if I ever even pondered such questions when I was her age. Mind you, I can't remember if I had a second cup of coffee this morning. 

*

Accidental art while painting balloons for Halloween. She sneezed. This happened...

Sure - she was proud at first but then we freaked each other out as the face on the plate started to move. 

*

From 6AM on Sunday morning, my 8 year old was at the living room window. 

"It doesn't look like rain Dad." 

6AM... I am not supposed to be awake yet. 

"It doesn't look like rain." 

I have my doubts. He has his tears. Those tears break me every time.

We go. Raise the mast. Hoist the sail. And launch. By the time we're on the water, the sun shines down - almost as if he has willed it himself. 

Look at him will you...

The sail was filled - as if by his own hand. 

How could I argue with this?

*

This may seem disconnected but, this morning, I am reminded of a scene from the movie "Raiders of the Lost Ark", when Indy and Marion are bidding farewell to Sallah on the dock in Cairo. 

In a final moment between friends, Marion draws Sallah close and kisses him on the left cheek...

"That is for fire," she whispers softly. 

She kisses him on the right cheek...

"That is for your children...and this is for you..."

Her final kiss is a long and tender one, placed upon his lips with affection and gratitude...for a passionate man. A passionate father. A passionate human...

*

I am nothing without my children. 

DFA. 

Man.

Interior, House, Morning.

The couple are vibrant. Early 30’s, professional. The Wife is dressed in a smart,  sexy business suit. A cup of coffee is in her hand as she rushes about, getting a few scraps of breakfast in before she goes off to work. The Infant sits in a high chair, spoon in hand fumbling with a bowl of cereal. Most of the cereal is on his face. The Man – his day off - still in his pyjama bottoms and navy Tee, quietly putting together a salad for his wife into a smart container.

The Wife gathers her handbag, cell phone, checks her lipstick. She kisses The Man on the cheek and hands him a piece of paper, a list of things to do. She kisses her infant son. Then she is off and out the door. 

It is The Man and The Infant now - together.

Interior, House, Morning.

The Man washes and dries the dishes, makes the bed and The Infant's cot, vacuums, puts a load of washing on. The Man and The Infant shower - splash, splash. Giggling and laughter, cuddles and kisses. The Man dresses - jeans, light shirt, a trendy jacket. The Infant -  a cute outfit. Bright, long sleeved tee, jeans, smart shoes and hat. The Man prepares the nappy bag, a lunch for The Infant, the stroller. Packs it all in the car - a smart European sedan. He straps the baby in, gathers the list and puts it in his pocket. Then they are off, The Man and son ready to embrace the day.

Interior/Exterior, The Car, Morning.

The Man, driving along, feels light and happy, singing along to the car stereo. The Infant is giggling with glee in his seat in back waving his arms about trying to imitate The Man.

Exterior, Shopping Precinct Car-Park, Mid Morning.

The Man pulls into the child friendly parking bay. He is impressed. Lots of space here. Man gets out and opens the rear door. His son smiles broadly.

“Oi!!”

The voice comes from behind. The Man lurches up, hitting his head on the inside of the car door opening. He sees stars. Then he sees a angry woman. A mother and child - a daughter clutching a doll. The woman is waving her arms, pointing at him accusingly, then at the sign denoting the child friendly space. She swears, she spits.

“Who do you think you are?! This is not for you! You don’t belong here!”

The Man stares at her, shocked. His head throbs. The woman continues to berate him. The Man stands to one side revealing his son, sitting in the baby seat looking at her with a wide eyed smile. The woman falls silent. She hesitates, then abruptly marches off, her daughter trailing behind her.

The Man, shakes his head as he watches her go. He rubs the spot where he hit his head, then turns to The Infant with a pained smile.

image credit: babycenter.com

Interior, Grocery Store, Day.

The Man negotiates the grocery aisle pushing the stroller with one hand, holding a basket in the other. He checks the items off the list. He feels better - feels good that this task is almost done. He scans the shelves for a particular item. He thinks of his wife. He loves her. His next culinary masterpiece lies in the ingredients he purchases here. He doesn’t want to let her down.

“Oi!!”

The Man turns abruptly, straining his neck. An obese couple is right behind him. The Husband - wearing a grubby woollen sweater, his hairy stomach bulging out from underneath his pants. The Wife – a sour face, too much make-up, sweating under arms. Both of them glare at The Man with contempt.

“What are you doing? Day dreaming?! You wanna move out of the bloody way?!”

The Husband butts his trolley into the backs of The Man’s ankles, grunting as if trying to push The Man aside. The Man quickly tries to move the stroller into the middle of the aisle, fumbling with the basket. The obese couple barge their way through. The Man up-ends the basket, it’s contents spilling everywhere, glass jars smashing on the tiled floor The couple don’t even stop but snicker as they glance back.

“He doesn’t belong here.”

The Man tries to manoeuvre out of the way as more trolleys approach from either end of the aisle. A shop assistant approaches, an angry look on her face, armed with a mop and bucket.

“Oi!! You’ll have to pay for those!”

Suddenly from beside The Man, the son plucks a jar of gherkins from the shelf, knocking two accompanying jars which smash to the floor. The shop assistant glares at The Man.

“...And those.”

The son giggles with delight.

Interior, Shopping Centre, Day.

The son is crying, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. A smell rises. The Man screws up his nose but he smiles at his son. His neck still hurts, as does the lump on his head. The Man sees the sign for the bathroom.

Relieved, he angles the stroller towards the Men’s toilets.

“Oi!!”

The Man jumps and swings his head around, straining the other side of his neck. A curmudgeonly old janitor is there. He shakes his head. The Man hesitates, looks at the janitor quizzically. The janitor raises his hand and points a gnarled finger towards another door with a sign denoting the baby change room. The door opens and a woman emerges with a baby hanging from a harness. She regards The Man with disinterest. The Man angles the stroller towards the closing door as the woman brushes past him.

Inside, The Man is confronted by a group of women. Some sitting, breast feeding, some standing at the change tables, removing soiled nappies, replacing them with fresh, clean ones. They are chatting, laughing. They fall silent as The Man enters, struggling with the stroller and the fat shopping bags hanging from it. He offers a polite smile. The women turn away, whispering to each other.

“He doesn’t belong here.”

Strangely, that affects him more than the fat couple from the grocery store or the mother in the car park. He finds a corner away from the others. He changes his sons nappy in silence. The women continue whispering. He can hear them. As he lifts his refreshed son from the change table and deposits him back into the stroller, The Man glances at the women. Their whispers stop and they look away.

The Man feels that twinge of embarrassment again and he hastily exits.

Interior, Shopping Centre, Day.

His son babbles cheerily as The Man pushes the stroller. Son looks up at his father with a loving smile. The Man looks down upon his son, managing only a wan smile in return.

Interior, Food Hall, Day.

Balancing a tray with a coffee and a sandwich, The Man searches for a place to sit down. The son is crying, hungry. There is a parents area with wide spaces between the tables. The Man heads towards there. He spies an empty table and he moves towards it. A trio of women armed with strollers of their own cut in front of him, disregarding him and secure the table for themselves. The Man just stares. One of the women stare back at him.

“What?!”

The Man turns away and finds another table on the edge of the parents area. Again he struggles. He sets the tray down, spilling some of his coffee onto the sandwich. The baby is screaming now. Mothers across from him glare. Some are breast feeding their babies. The Man looks at them blankly, sees their breasts. His eyes widen. They turn away in disgust. The Man turns back to his child. He feeds his son, settles him down. His son drops off to sleep. The Man turns to his coffee. He raises it to his lips. It is cold. He sets it down and turns to the sodden sandwich. There is a fly on it. The Man’s heart sinks.

Interior, Shopping Centre, Afternoon.

The Man walks slowly. His son sleeps. The items on the list are checked off now - thankfully. He looks through the window of a toy store. Sees Lego sets on display. He remembers his childhood. He sees an electronic games shop. He played a lot of games before he was married. He is drawn into the store. The games have become more advanced. The Man examines the system requirements on the spine of one of the PC games. Way too advanced for me now, he thinks wistfully.

“Oi!!”

The Man spins around. Feels something pop in his left knee. A young, arrogant looking store assistant is coming towards him, pointing an accusing finger.

“Your kid is pissing on the merchandise!!”

The Man looks down. His son is awake and has, somehow, removed his jeans and his nappy. A thin stream of urine arcs perfectly across the space between the stroller and the display shelf splashing across a game title.

“You’re gonna have to pay for that!”

The store assistant rips the contaminated title off the shelf and shoves it into The Man's chest.

“What are you doing bringing a kid in here anyway?!? You don’t belong here!!”

The Man stares blankly at the young store assistant. His head drops. A lump rises in his throat.

The store assistant, suddenly appears uncomfortable. He backs away from The Man. 

This guy is gonna cry, he thinks regretfully.

“Hey...it’s no big deal. We’ve...got a special on that game right now anyway.”

The Man fishes his wallet from out of his jeans, opens it up and takes out a hundred dollar note. He shoves it into the chest of the store assistant. The Man leaves the store in silence, his son chewing on the corner of the game’s cover.

Exterior, Shopping Precinct Car-Park, Afternoon.

The Man secures his son into the baby seat, packs the stroller away. The group of mothers from the baby change room are coming towards him, chatting and gossiping. They fall silent as they pass. He turns away, prepares to open the door of the car. He looks up and sees the mother who confronted him earlier. She is still dragging her daughter along like a rag doll, swearing at her to hurry up. She looks up at The Man and scowls. As The Man secures his seat belt and starts the car he looks through the windshield he spies the elderly janitor standing on the pavement nearby. He looks at the old timer, their eyes meet. The elderly man smiles - a smile of empathy, of understanding. He raises a gnarled, old hand, flips a jaunty salute and winks. The Man nods respectfully.

Exterior/Interior, Car, Late Afternoon.

The Man drives home in silence. The car stereo is silent. The son babbles quietly to himself.

Interior, Kitchen, Late Afternoon.

The Man unpacks the grocery items onto the kitchen bench. His wife arrives home. The son, who is sitting in his high chair, squeals with delight. She races to him, arms outstretched, wraps her baby in a enthusiastic embrace, smothering him in kisses. She turns to her husband, her Man and plants a loving kiss on his cheek. He smiles faintly, bows his head.

“I am so happy to see you both again,” she says.

The Man gazes wearily at his wife.

“You belong here,” she says to him. “You belong with me and our baby.”

She embraces her husband with a more passionate kiss then draws back.

“You look tired. Why don’t you go have a shower? I’ll take over for a while, I’ll pour us a glass of wine.”

The Man nods silently, then turns away slowly. She watches him go, a look of concern in her eyes.

Interior, Bedroom, Evening.

He sits on the edge of the bed. He cups his hands together and rests them in his lap. The lump on his head throbs. His neck is sore. His knee clicks each time he moves it. He gazes through the window, through the street light beyond. A single tear forms at the edge of his right eye, it swells in size...

...Then trickles down his cheek.


DFA.

Copyright © 2014, Hambledown Road Imprints & Dean Mayes. Not to be reproduced without the prior permission of the copyright holder. 

Picture Filling.

The picture is emerging now.

Lucy had her ultrasound this afternoon. Another painful but necessary examination in order to fill in the gaps in our knowledge of her diagnosis of torticollis. It took a little over twenty minutes and she coped with it surprisingly well - except for one moment where the technician manipulated her head a little to far in an effort to expose her neck causing her to flinch and cry out in pain. Fortunately we were able to settle her fairly quickly there-after but she was pretty hesitant.

A doctor examined the scans as they were being performed and he hung around until they were completed. He put me at ease by explaining what he was seeing. 

The upshot of it all was as we expected. The right SCM muscle (the neck muscle running from up behind the jaw down to the collar bone) was thickened and significantly shorter than the left - accounting for the marked tilt Lucy has with her head favoring one side. Thankfully, there was no sign of any lesion or tumor that would account for her deformity, so you can imagine the relief there. Also, the technician took a look at her skull, examining the sutures or joins between the bones. They all appeared normal with no over lapping or deformity which means that, with time and intensive physical therapy, it should correct itself.

I brought her home this afternoon with a mixture of relief and emotion and I lay with her on the lounge room rug while she ate my nose and yanked on my beard.

This has been the first real scary experience we've had as parents with either of our children. And I don't mind saying it has knocked the stuffing out of both my serioso and I.

We're still unsure about how to approach the issue of the pediatrician. That keeps changing from one hour to the next...which probably means we'll end up not doing anything. I don't know if that's a good thing or not but right now, I think I'd rather focus on Lucy and getting her right again. Prolonged anger is just a waste of energy in the end anyway. 


We would rather deal in relief right now. Relief that it's just straight up torticollis without there being anything more sinister in play. That was the biggest thing for me. Our emotions have been all over the place and it has made us both extremely tired and a little fragile. Tears have come easily.

The picture fills in and we can go forwards.

DFA.

The Crooked Face, I Love So Much.

There is only happiness, a care free spirit, an innate sense of love received unconditionally. As she commando drags herself across the floor of our home, she has no idea of what is going on, of the worry that her loved ones bare on her behalf. Man, she can grab a good beard and pull!

For all intents and purposes Lucy goes on, day by day - the happy little infant she has always been. And that alone warms mine and my serioso's hearts and makes the events of the past few days seem lesser overwhelming. But I'm pissed off - and I know it probably does me no good. But I am none-the-less.

Lucy had her first physiotherapy session to assess the degree of torticollis and to structure a plan to try and stretch that abnormal muscle to try and get her back on track. It wasn't pretty but she bared up well. It involves gentle manipulation of the neck in an effort to work the sternocleidomastoid muscle, to lengthen it and hopefully make her skull symmetrical once more - or, more precisely, make it symmetrical for the first time.

Excuse my French but fuck me! How could have this have been missed.

Sorry...

It's like, 2 in the morning as I write this. I'm tired and I'm emotional. I have thought of nothing else these past few days.

Anyway. Our homework with Lucy is to spend an hour each day, using some techniques to encourage her to turn her head in the direction that will facilitate the stretch. My serioso brought a colored rattle with little beads inside that will provide some visual stimulation for Lucy and keep her interested in the exercises. Already, she is displaying a fiercely independent streak and doesn't always do what she's supposed to. I think we may have a firecracker on our hands...which is probably a good thing huh?

To watch her play on the floor, to crawl (aka drag!) herself across it, to sit up and hold herself up in the sitting position using her hands to stabilize her little body the degree of asymmetry is stark. It's going to take a lot of work to get this right again. 

My serioso and I have talked about what to do with regards to the pediatrician. And we've struggled with this. We've swung from being angry and wanting to write a sternly worded letter, to ringing the office and seeking a meeting, to shaking our heads and wondering if we should just let it go. We do have a routine follow up booked for August and I have half a mind to ring the office next week to see if the date can be brought forward. Again it seems to be somewhat of a dilemma. We also have an ultrasound booked for Monday next week and we have decided to go ahead with it. I need to rule out any possibility of a lesion. That's the thing that is scaring the shite out of me right now. The weight of expectation is terrible.

We see the physiotherapist again in a little over a week. That is something less daunting but I know it's going to hurt Lucy. I can take a lot of things but the tiny little yelp of my own daughter...well, that is gut wrenching.

To look into the crooked face, I love so much and see pain...

DFA.

The Tortoise Collar

So today we had the appointment with the Doctor to find out what Lucy is dealing with. The verdict wasn't really nice but at the very least we know a little more now. Lucy has been diagnosed with a particularly nasty torticollis - that is to say "wry neck" in the old terminology. 

Torticollis, in Lucy's case in particular, is a condition where - because of a malposition in the uterus during development and/or trauma during birth and delivery - one of the muscles in her neck has been damaged quite badly and this has caused her not only to favor turning her head to one side but to have it hang down to one side when in an upright position. Added to this is the rather worrying realization that, because she has for so long favored one side because of the damaged muscle - sternocleidomastoid muscle - her head has taken on an asymmetrical appearance - it's seriously been pushed out of shape. One side of her forehead is more prominent than the other and the back of her head has a protrusion that makes it look out of shape. Neither myself or my serioso actually noticed this initially. I kinda thought something about Lucy's head shape was amiss some weeks ago but I pushed it aside, focusing more on the increasingly alarming situation with her head positioning. 

We are now going to embark on an intensive physiotherapy regime with Lucy in an attempt to see if the muscle in her neck can be "stretched", whether the torticollis can be corrected. An ultrasound has also been planned to see how badly the muscle has been damaged or if there is any sort of lesion that might also have exacerbated Lucy's predicament.

The physiotherapy sessions are painful - as the first one last evening proved. Lucy yelped at the manipulation that had to be applied and the exercises that we've been given to do at home don't make for a very nice experience. Unfortunately this has been left to go on much too long and the degree of deformity of the muscle is greater than it otherwise would have been, had we been able to get to the bottom of this sooner.

I feel awful. 

Awful that I didn't twig myself that Lucy was indeed in trouble and awful that I didn't act sooner in getting Lucy seen to. As a nurse I should have picked this up. And I have to say that I am a little angry at our pediatrician. We took Lucy to see the pediatrician a couple of months ago on the advice of my MIL who is a nurse/midwife herself and who suggested that this needed to be gotten to the bottom of. At the time, however, the pediatrician dismissed our concerns as those fired up by an overly exuberant grandmother.

We paid $160 to be told that. 

The diagnosis that was made yesterday was by our GP (our "Becker" - American friends), a well versed and highly experienced medico in children's medicine who came to the diagnosis after a thorough examination of Lucy. 

We were bulk billed for that (i.e. Medicare). 

I've half a mind to call or write our pediatrician to let them know that we feel very let down by their lack of judgment. But that won't really solve Lucy's problems now. I just hope and pray that, because of my own failing in identifying this sooner as well as others missteps, we haven't caused Lucy lasting damage.

To those of you who have sent us messages of support in the last little while - each and every one of you are beautiful people and I thank you.

DFA.

Swirling Inside The Mind

Midnight is the worst time to be awake. Especially when you have been awake the whole preceding day and you know it's going to be at least eight or nine hours before you are going to be able to sleep again. Such is job that I do, working nights in the ICU of a pediatric hospital.

During these dead hours your mind becomes a kind of vortex of thought processes that refuse to stop swirling around inside the mind and they can get at you after a time. Sleep deprivation is a killer because it amplifies everything - especially your worries, your stresses and your fears. 

I'm worried right now. I need to talk about it - here - where I can do as loudly as I like knowing that it's in complete silence. 

Lucy & Me, waiting to board a flight - my umpteenth, her first.

My daughter Lucy is 8 months old now and she is beautiful. Of course I am biased - no secrets there - but that's just the way she is. Lucy has developed swimmingly. She is getting the hang of semi solid foods, is interacting and is very playful, she is almost crawling now. She can get herself into position to initiate crawling but she hasn't quite worked out the final launch phase. She ends up dropping into a commando crawl position and drags herself along the ground as though she were ducking enemy fire. When I pick her up, she grabs both sides of beard and buries her face in my cheek, giving me the sloppiest kisses. Salubrious affection I think I'll call it. My 4 year old son, Xavy, adores her, dotes on her - always wants to look after her and talk to her. 

But there is one thing that Lucy is doing that is causing me and my serioso great concern. Lucy's head is drooping to one side - as though it is too big for her to hold in a normal position. Her neck is very stiff and whenever we try to straighten her head it is clear that it causes her pain - a lot of pain. 

And it's getting serious. 

We began to notice it a couple months ago and we made an appointment with the Pediatrician. She actually stopped doing it for a while and we took her along to the Pediatrician who examined her and deemed it to be nothing serious - BUT - if it were to come back again, we were to make a follow up appointment with him immediately so he could investigate it further. Which we have now done - so we are left to wait a few days now before we can get her seen to. 

This is the pointy end of being a parent. 

I could be worrying myself silly over nothing and it could just be a simple nerve entrapment or muscle strain that she has inflicted upon herself but - and this is where my mind starts working over time - I fear that it could be something more sinister.

When I was 15 I was diagnosed with a rare form of spinal cord tumor - a schwannoma - which was then diagnosed as being Type 2 Neurofibromatosis. NF is a rare condition where tumors, usually benign ones, grow out of the brain and spinal cord and in some cases the cranial nerves. There's a lot of information out there on the condition so I won't bore you with the details (besides, I'm freaking myself out while I am writing this). Suffice to say there is evidence to suggest that the condition is genetic (ie. it can be passed from one generation to the next). It is too premature to start hypothesizing anything right now until we can have the Pediatrician's input - whose clinical knowledge is far greater than mine could ever be. But at 1AM in the morning when sleep deprivation is at it's worst, these are the thought processes that my sub par mind begins to toss around - the evil little shit (my mind I mean).

As I said earlier, in all other respects, Lucy is a perfect infant and I am probably fretting over nothing. 

Our dog Simon, who is getting kinda grumpy in his older years - he turns 14 on the 26th of this month - he adores Lucy in a way I've not seen him behave around other children. He is very serene and calm around her - inquisitive and he sniffs her face in a protective way (only when I am holding her however - I am well aware that he is a dog after all). But, you know what I mean...Simon is unique in that way. And I trust him. I often find myself wondering if he can sense anything amiss about her neck. I've heard and read about those dogs who can detect cancers in people - I saw a documentary somewhere on them, once - while I was researching for the novel.

I work in an environment where children and their parents live through peril every day. I take a private comfort in knowing that it's not me that's living their experience, that at the end of my shift I can go home and switch off. 

I don't want to be one of them. 

DFA.

Bill - wherever you are, I need you now.

Maybe it's because I'm tired or perhaps it's because I'm a little more emotionally responsible than the average male...but my son really tugged at my heart strings today. And my stoic facade cracked.

Xavier has been attending kindergarten. He started just a few weeks ago and he has been enjoying it. He has boundless energy and at the age of three and a bit, Xavy just wants to get in, grab the world with both hands and live it to the full. It's wonderful to experience as a father and his enthusiasm is certainly infectious.

At kindergarten, Xavy has found a little play mate, a little girl named Clare whom he so innocently besotted in. They have played together, sat together, painted and built and shared their milk. And Xavy's cheeks have flushed red whenever he talks about her when he comes home. It's a delightful thing to observe - an innocent, childhood friendship in the burgeoning tradition of say a 'Kevin and Winnie/Wonder Years' kinda thing.

Today, however, something happened to have us all slam into a - figurative - wall.

Xavy came home from kindergarten with a look and a demeanour that could only be described as devastation.

Clare didn't want to play with him today.

And he didn't quite get the message right away. He persisted in trying to join in with what Clare was doing but she apparently and eventually told him to leave her alone - loudly as it were - and it would appear that Xavy's heart got a little trampled.

He was very quiet when he got home. His eyes were swollen with tears and the bottom lip was quivering on and off. Emily, my partner, explained to me what the kindergarten teacher had explained to her.

What can one say? I was completely stumped.

Welcome to the world of socialization, I guess. On one hand, there's the whole thing about Xavier having to learn about what is appropriate and acceptable in the whole social interaction thing/realm/sphere...

But man, he got his heart trampled on today. And do you know what he said to me during bath time this evening?

"I didn't mean to Daddy. I'm sorry I upsetted her"

*heart strings tah-wanged and snapped big time*

All rational thought got swept away and I was quite unable to offer any sort of fatherly "stuff". Xavy was just shell shocked.

See - this is all academic really. I, as a parent, should be more than capable of explaining what's right and wrong and all that important stuff - but when a child already, kinda 'gets it', as Xavy did, there's no where to go.

Am I making any sense here?

In the end, all I could do was give him lots of cuddles and tell him that maybe next week it will all be better.

After bath time, we sat down to our new favorite thing - watching re-runs of "The Cosby Show" on pay-TV. The instant those opening credits started, where Bill "Heathcliff Huxtable" Cosby begins dancing with each of the members of the Huxtable family, pulling those impossibly elastic facial expressions, all of our hearts seemed a little less heavy.

Xavy loves it when Bill Cosby pulls those faces.

But, as I said at the beginning - maybe it's just because I'm tired at the moment...I'm just a big baby.

I think I've just added another book to my 'to read' list for the winter...

DFA.