Don’t it always seem to go
That you don’t know what you’ve got
‘Til it’s gone
Big Yellow Taxi…a song that brings back memories for me. It was originally written and recorded by Joni Mitchell in 1970. But I wasn’t even born then, so I didn’t know about it until a cover by the Counting Crows came out in 2002. The music was catchy and it had poignant lyrics, so teenage me loved it. It was a good one to belt out in the shower, or on car trips with friends.
Other songs have come and gone since then. But this one has been playing softly in the background of my mind recently.
Gratitude is kind of an odd thing to be thinking about right now. I’ve been stuck in bed for the last few days with some kind of virus. You know the drill: your temperature keeps switching between hot and cold, your throat is scratchy, you can’t stop sneezing, snot is pouring out of your nose like some kind of mutated fire hydrant, your sinuses feel like they’ve been packed with lava and gravel, your face is swollen, and your ears are so pressurised you wish they would just give up and explode.
But while I tossed and turned in pain, nauseous and struggling to breathe, I kept reminding myself, Continue reading “Don’t know what you’ve got…”
When one Mum’s body started doing strange things, her daughter knew what it meant…her Mum was dying.
Only, the Mum wasn’t dying.
Her body just does strange things because she has dysautonomia.
The Mum tried to explain that to her daughter…but she couldn’t seem to find the right words to help her understand. So her daughter continued to be sad and scared.
The Mum messaged me in despair.
“How do you explain dysautonomia to a seven year old?”
“You make a comic!”
To that Mum… I hope this helps.
* * * Continue reading “Dysautonomia: a big, scary word?”
Note: This is part of a series of posts. If you haven’t read the previous posts in the series (linked below), I encourage you to pop over and read them first.
Hysterectomy: day 1
Hysterectomy: night 1
Hysterectomy: recovery week 1
* * *
By week 2, I was sick of drowning in my own stomach acid. In desperation, I called my local chemist and asked to speak to the pharmacist in charge. I didn’t hold out much hope – if the hospital in the city couldn’t help me, what were the chances of finding help in my tiny country town?
Well, it turns out, when someone actually wants to help you, the chances of getting help are much higher!
The pharmacist was absolutely lovely. He listened patiently, and then worked with me to find something that wouldn’t a) interact with the other medications I had to take or b) mess my stomach up even further. I immediately sent Mr Happy down to the chemist, and he returned with a purple packet of hope. They were 24hr tablets – designed to be taken once daily. I couldn’t open the box fast enough. Continue reading “Hysterectomy: recovery weeks 2 – 6”
I broke my ankle in early 2009. I wish I could say it was from something exciting, like a jet skiing accident. Continue reading “Through a child’s eyes…”