Back at it. Back to work, after the majority of the past two weeks off, with bronchitis. I have had to use some of my annual leave for this extended time off work. And it’s felt a little like a holiday, being with the family all this time – one which we wouldn’t otherwise be having. Only instead of photos of us at the beach I have a stack of invoices from my doctor and Chemist Warehouse.
And I’ve been away from here a long time too. If you’ve been wondering, I’ve been too sick to write. I’ve been too stressed to write. Yes, it’s true. To quote Holden Caulfield, I will save you “all that David Copperfield kind of crap” – well, as much as I can anyway. And for those who sent e-mails enquiring, thank you.
Saturday night
Waking from my sleep before I go to work I feel like I have been living another life for this time. A more quote-unquote normal life. Particularly today, Saturday. We spent the morning shopping together, as a family, and as Mrs H noted, there’s something to be said for being part of the masses. Especially when we / I have been on the fringe so long. Maybe I’ll soon be taking steps toward further assimilation. I hope so.
Dressing for work, I put on my heavy Howler industrial shoes – I bought them when I stood in the kitchen for hours at a time, and they are the most comfortable shoes for my work as night manager, howling ugly as they are. I can feel my feet have grown accustomed to wearing my beat-up Colorado sandals instead these past two weeks.
On the way in I play Chinese Democracy again, loud, and I haven’t listened to it for, well, two weeks. The past rituals are resumed one by one. And even if it doesn’t quite evoke the energy of Axl tied to a chair in a straitjacket screaming his head off, the way he did in the Welcome To The Jungle video, the opening three tracks certainly pack a more powerful punch than the image of fat Axl in braids at the MTV Awards that first appearance after the years in isolation.
A block from work there is an unmarked police car parked in the tram lane in the middle of the road, its red and blue lights flashing mutely from behind the windscreen. To my left I see the two officers wrangling a big guy, young and well-built. They are in a wrestling match with him and his mate, who’s clinging to him faithfully. It’s early, not yet eleven, and the guy looks out of his mind, like he’s taken something. He could just be pissed, but it doesn’t look like it to me. His eyes are blank. I shudder.
As I approach the car park, two young girls in summer dresses cross the road, barefoot, clutching their high heels. The footballer haircuts are out; the groups of two, three or more blokes in their Travisty T shirts or brightly coloured and emblazoned polo shirts with matching bouffed and coiffed bleached locks. I clench my jaw and grind my teeth. Park the car and make it out of the car park to the sound of wolf calls as a gang of yobs harass a pair of girls walking fast the opposite way, arms crossed, heads down.
Taking the bins out from the fire escape, there is an overwhelming smell of canned parmesan cheese, probably the remaining traces of washed away vomit from last night’s drunks.
Back at it. Back to work. Just another Saturday night on King St.
better
My recovery has come about quickly, and it’s hard to remember just how bad I felt only a few days ago, when I was coughing so hard I felt I would either throw up or risk a heart attack. I kid you not. The doctor diagnosed bronchitis Monday two weeks ago, and prescribed two courses of antibiotics. After four days off (including my rostered days off), I returned to work last Saturday and Sunday, and only wanted to sleep during my shifts. Plus I was coughing – make that barking – every time I spoke to a guest, and most of the rest of the time, too.
On Monday I went back to the doctor, who prescribed a third course of antibiotics and sent me for a chest X ray on Tuesday. I asked if it could be lung cancer, or a collapsed lung (one lung had collapsed after a broken rib pierced it in my car accident all those years ago, and perhaps this was old damage showing up again). Or maybe it was pneumonia. When I called my doctor for the results of the X ray, he told me “they have covered themselves, they’re not really saying much. It’s nothing life-threatening though.” Not really a value for money assessment, to my mind. But some relief anyway.
unexpected change/s
So my daily medication has changed – and the pills I was taking for my stomach pains have run out, and I don’t need to worry about that any more. I went cold turkey on coffee some time around Christmas, I suppose. Maybe it was just after Christmas, I don’t remember. I just found I wasn’t enjoying it. Unbelievable as that seems. Mrs H says it’s just because I’ve been sick, but I tell you, I keep trying to drink it – old habits and all that – but it just doesn’t taste good. I’m still having one a day, trying to see if I can develop a taste for it. Not much interest yet though. I can’t believe it.
Like I said, I feel like I have been living another life. As part of my decision to try and get healthier, as well as part of my treatment when I was sick, I began juicing fruits and vegetables at home; freshly squeezed juices for breakfast and lunch. I may even have lost some weight from it too. I felt a little less bloated and blimp-like.
Of course, with the recovery of more normal health, I’ve fallen back into bad eating habits – a margarita pizza for lunch on Saturday, since there was a spare homemade base in the freezer from when Mrs H made them on Thursday. And even though I gave up with one slice left (just one), that didn’t stop me downing a few quick lines of Cadbury Dairy Milk as a chaser. (With only a bite of assistance from Littlest Miss H, I have put away the best part of a family block in the last 24 hours).
mindfulness of living
On Friday night you had the rare opportunity to go out with your wife for dinner, while Granny and Grandpa minded your girls. Papa Gino’s first, then Brunetti; two mini vanilla panzerotti, you order a hot chocolate, and she has a skinny cappuccino. And talking the way you only can when you are out of the house, face to face, eye to eye, and uninterrupted, it is the precious but painful kind of conversation where your best friend and life partner can open up and not hold back, and tell you exactly how she feels in words that shall not be repeated here. And you push aside your own problems and listen, and what you hear enables you to change.
Her words were with you all through the night, and through Saturday too. Mindfulness, the Buddhists call it. And now you realise, and you accept it’s up to you to make the changes this time. It’s your responsibility. Your move.
And I’ve been away from here a long time too. If you’ve been wondering, I’ve been too sick to write. I’ve been too stressed to write. Yes, it’s true. To quote Holden Caulfield, I will save you “all that David Copperfield kind of crap” – well, as much as I can anyway. And for those who sent e-mails enquiring, thank you.
Saturday night
Waking from my sleep before I go to work I feel like I have been living another life for this time. A more quote-unquote normal life. Particularly today, Saturday. We spent the morning shopping together, as a family, and as Mrs H noted, there’s something to be said for being part of the masses. Especially when we / I have been on the fringe so long. Maybe I’ll soon be taking steps toward further assimilation. I hope so.
Dressing for work, I put on my heavy Howler industrial shoes – I bought them when I stood in the kitchen for hours at a time, and they are the most comfortable shoes for my work as night manager, howling ugly as they are. I can feel my feet have grown accustomed to wearing my beat-up Colorado sandals instead these past two weeks.
On the way in I play Chinese Democracy again, loud, and I haven’t listened to it for, well, two weeks. The past rituals are resumed one by one. And even if it doesn’t quite evoke the energy of Axl tied to a chair in a straitjacket screaming his head off, the way he did in the Welcome To The Jungle video, the opening three tracks certainly pack a more powerful punch than the image of fat Axl in braids at the MTV Awards that first appearance after the years in isolation.
A block from work there is an unmarked police car parked in the tram lane in the middle of the road, its red and blue lights flashing mutely from behind the windscreen. To my left I see the two officers wrangling a big guy, young and well-built. They are in a wrestling match with him and his mate, who’s clinging to him faithfully. It’s early, not yet eleven, and the guy looks out of his mind, like he’s taken something. He could just be pissed, but it doesn’t look like it to me. His eyes are blank. I shudder.
As I approach the car park, two young girls in summer dresses cross the road, barefoot, clutching their high heels. The footballer haircuts are out; the groups of two, three or more blokes in their Travisty T shirts or brightly coloured and emblazoned polo shirts with matching bouffed and coiffed bleached locks. I clench my jaw and grind my teeth. Park the car and make it out of the car park to the sound of wolf calls as a gang of yobs harass a pair of girls walking fast the opposite way, arms crossed, heads down.
Taking the bins out from the fire escape, there is an overwhelming smell of canned parmesan cheese, probably the remaining traces of washed away vomit from last night’s drunks.
Back at it. Back to work. Just another Saturday night on King St.
better
My recovery has come about quickly, and it’s hard to remember just how bad I felt only a few days ago, when I was coughing so hard I felt I would either throw up or risk a heart attack. I kid you not. The doctor diagnosed bronchitis Monday two weeks ago, and prescribed two courses of antibiotics. After four days off (including my rostered days off), I returned to work last Saturday and Sunday, and only wanted to sleep during my shifts. Plus I was coughing – make that barking – every time I spoke to a guest, and most of the rest of the time, too.
On Monday I went back to the doctor, who prescribed a third course of antibiotics and sent me for a chest X ray on Tuesday. I asked if it could be lung cancer, or a collapsed lung (one lung had collapsed after a broken rib pierced it in my car accident all those years ago, and perhaps this was old damage showing up again). Or maybe it was pneumonia. When I called my doctor for the results of the X ray, he told me “they have covered themselves, they’re not really saying much. It’s nothing life-threatening though.” Not really a value for money assessment, to my mind. But some relief anyway.
unexpected change/s
So my daily medication has changed – and the pills I was taking for my stomach pains have run out, and I don’t need to worry about that any more. I went cold turkey on coffee some time around Christmas, I suppose. Maybe it was just after Christmas, I don’t remember. I just found I wasn’t enjoying it. Unbelievable as that seems. Mrs H says it’s just because I’ve been sick, but I tell you, I keep trying to drink it – old habits and all that – but it just doesn’t taste good. I’m still having one a day, trying to see if I can develop a taste for it. Not much interest yet though. I can’t believe it.
Like I said, I feel like I have been living another life. As part of my decision to try and get healthier, as well as part of my treatment when I was sick, I began juicing fruits and vegetables at home; freshly squeezed juices for breakfast and lunch. I may even have lost some weight from it too. I felt a little less bloated and blimp-like.
Of course, with the recovery of more normal health, I’ve fallen back into bad eating habits – a margarita pizza for lunch on Saturday, since there was a spare homemade base in the freezer from when Mrs H made them on Thursday. And even though I gave up with one slice left (just one), that didn’t stop me downing a few quick lines of Cadbury Dairy Milk as a chaser. (With only a bite of assistance from Littlest Miss H, I have put away the best part of a family block in the last 24 hours).
mindfulness of living
On Friday night you had the rare opportunity to go out with your wife for dinner, while Granny and Grandpa minded your girls. Papa Gino’s first, then Brunetti; two mini vanilla panzerotti, you order a hot chocolate, and she has a skinny cappuccino. And talking the way you only can when you are out of the house, face to face, eye to eye, and uninterrupted, it is the precious but painful kind of conversation where your best friend and life partner can open up and not hold back, and tell you exactly how she feels in words that shall not be repeated here. And you push aside your own problems and listen, and what you hear enables you to change.
Her words were with you all through the night, and through Saturday too. Mindfulness, the Buddhists call it. And now you realise, and you accept it’s up to you to make the changes this time. It’s your responsibility. Your move.
Posts
Really good to see you back in print, Matt. You had us worried there for a while, I can tell you (again!) As ever we'll be happy to look after your darlings to give you time off.
ReplyDeleteExcellent to read you back in the mix of routine and mindful living. And with such an auspicious diagnosis like "nothing life-threatening." Someone give the doc a certificate of um'okay!
ReplyDeleteThanks Ms GroceryLove :)
ReplyDelete