I am neglecting all of my other duties. My children are getting around unwashed and unfed (well, not quite but it’s just lucky I have Beefcake). I have sore swollen hands from click, click, clicking my mouse looking for that tiny nappy. It is not compatible with arthritis.

Speaking of arthritis, I had my Rheum appointment. As I suspected would be the case, my x-rays showed a normal pelvis. Okay, not normal exactly but there were no signs of arthritic change. You can see marked asymmetrical separation of the pelvic bones, which I suppose is a validation of sorts but it didn’t stop me from bursting into tears. If there is nothing concrete to treat then my problem remains untreatable, you see. I feel desperately low at the thought of having to go on like this indefinitely. I feel very lucky that my Rheum takes my pain very seriously.

The plan of action is as follows:

• Stay on arthritis drug that hasn’t yet worked as it still may start to have an effect.
• Have an MRI to have a better look at my pelvis.
• Have steroid injections into the joints of my pelvis – this should (in theory) really help.
• Start a new and very toxic (actually used for chemotherapy) drug to see if that also helps.

It feels good to have a plan in place but I am also a bit sad. The new drug is most definitely not compatible with breastfeeding. I have allocated two weeks to wean Grub before I start taking it. She is doing ok. She is at two feeds a day and so far I have been able to put her off when she asks for other feeds. I am trying to drop the first thing in the morning feed but I have to admit that I am struggling. I keep looking into her sweet face and thinking there are so very few feeds left. I don’t want to tell her no. I know it’s best to gradually wean over these two weeks but I actually feel like I want to fit in as many feeds as possible before it comes to an end. That must sound so silly but she is my last baby and…… I will miss it.

Well, because I am now bawling I think that’s all I have to say.

There are still nappies to find.

On the weekend, Beefcake and my brother-in-law helped my Mum move into her new house. She is still guided by the habits of the last few decades. Sometimes she’ll say something or rather that she’s planning to do something and we all have to explain to her why that’s not a good idea and it would be just as easy to take option b, which will break these patterns and spare her all sorts of stress. She’s made a lot of progress though and having her in her own house is such a big step, we are all very relieved.

I’m not really comfortable calling my father by name or calling him my father, really, so from now on I will refer to him as B.

B has been re-detained in hospital under another 21 day order. He will be in hospital now until the middle of March and he may well be detained again. I suspect that they will have trouble getting any medication to work for him now, he has been heading in that direction for many years (in my opinion). Despite being very heavily medicated he was becoming more and more unstable, with each passing month.

The restraining order becomes final on Wednesday. My mother told me with a heartbreaking smile that it is their 37th wedding anniversary. There is no correct way to respond to that.

My nightmares and insomnia have worsened but I have recently read that this may be a side-effect of the arthritis medication I am taking. I see the Rheum on Wednesday and unfortunately, after three months, I have seen no improvement. In fact, my arthritis is worsening, with new joints now affected.

I’m very disappointed. I have decided that if the Rheum says the other drug options are not compatible with breastfeeding then I will wean Grub. She is 20 months old and I wanted to get to 2 years but my pain is so bad that I feel a little bit trapped. I am sad but I’m sure she’d rather have a functional Mummy than boob…….Ummmm, maybe not, but that’s what she’s getting.

I had an excellent GP visit last week. Not my usual GP, but one I’ve taken the kids to before and he was so sympathetic to my need to keep getting pain med prescriptions that he gave me the mother of all authorities (means I can get large amounts of pain med very cheaply on the pharmaceutical benefits scheme). The size of the script is almost comical but we discussed the next step up for pain management and let’s just say I hope I don’t ever have to go there. It is a relief I won’t have to worry about it running out. Usually when it does I tell Beefcake that I am going to try and go without for a while. I get more and more grumpy and eventually give in and go to the GP.

This time he rang and made an appointment for me before that could happen.

He’s learning.

I love it. It is pretty, it comes in a range of lovely colours but this is my fave. It is limey green, green makes me happy and peaceful and serene. The thing about it is, it’s not got the most powerful motor. It’s a bit of a baby motor, if truth be told. Although I love it and would love someone to be willing to spend that amount of money on buying one for me (by that amount I mean lots of dollars by the by), I wondered if there were not something better out there.

It turns out that in Australia we get a bit of a raw deal actually. There are a shit ton of fabulous stand mixers made by Kitchenaid that have tougher motors and better features. The artisan (above) has plastic dough hook and paddle, it is a tilt arm mixer and the motor is a touch pathetic (for the price). I’m a little bit torn. The artisan comes in an array of pretty colours that make me go “oooooooh shiny!” but I just feel they lack substance.

This, does not lack substance:

This is the Professional 600 series. It has a much bigger motor and is a bowl lift mixer, which I have read would be better for my arthritis (grasping at straws much?). It has a stainless steel dough hook and paddle.  It does not come in the same array of pretty enamels but I like the one pictured here or there is a super glossy black or slightly matte black that are both very appealing.

Now, here’s where it gets tricky. You cannot buy this in Australia. You cannot buy it in the UK. You can only buy this baby in the US, with their 110v power. Cue long and very confusing discussions and research of stepdown voltage converters (which cost eleventy seven billion dollars) and may or may not address the issue of frequency as well, which may or may not burn out the motor if it is not addressed correctly.

The problem is that now I have want. Very much want.

I also have such a thing as a dangerously irresponsible and sweetly indulgent husband. It is not often that I get true want. Just occasionally I become so obsessed with an object that I think about it night and day and want, want, want! Truthfully I usually worry about buying myself a new mascara or replacements for my holey undies.

Beefcake has told me to buy it when we get paid. I have told him no, we should save and maybe he could get it for my birthday.

The thing is, it’s a big investment for something that may ultimately not work properly ever or may end up needing a new motor to make it work here but………want?

So, I can’t write anything nice, I can’t write what’s on my mind, therefore I can’t write anything at all.

This is my blog, though, isn’t it?

Consider yourselves warned.

It is exhausting having to put on the cheerful, functional act for people in the real world. I can’t say to most people – Yes, I am in pain. Yes, still. No, I’m not any better. No, those 43 helpful suggestions of things I might like to try to make-myself-better-and-why-aren’t-I-doing-them-already are not any more helpful or useful than the last time you made them to me. There is no simple thing that just hadn’t occurred to me before that will suddenly make it all better.

It’s just so very much easier to say, “I am fine, pelvis is fine thanks”.

So, in case you were wondering, pelvis is not fine. I am not fine. But what do you do? You can’t get a replacement body.

I had pelvis x-rays the other day. I am convinced that they will show a normal, happy pelvis. Pelvis knows how to turn it on for the doctors. The rheum will tell me that my pain is in my head and I will be back in the land of no-one gives a shit.

Gee, I’m an upbeat little thing, aren’t I?

*****************

He gets out on Monday. His detention is coming to an end, our piece of mind with it. He appealed his detention, subjecting us all to more stress but thank goodness it was upheld. He has been on his best behaviour though (we think, no way of knowing for sure) because he has been transferred back to local, not so secure public hospital ward.

The police screwed up the restraining order. A typo means it started and ended on the exact same date. It went back through the magistrates court to correct that today but the paperwork Mum received still shows the typo. The police can’t serve him with the typo in place. Did I mention he gets out on Monday?

We are hoping that the court mistakenly faxed her the old, unaltered one and he will be served tomorrow. I am not that hopeful.

If it doesn’t happen before he gets out then we will have to convince her to hide somewhere.

***********

As my more astute readers will have surmised, Beefcake is, um, beefy. He’s been that way since shortly after we met. I like to joke that once he’d snagged me he just let it all go. It’s kind of true. So. I was whining to him about it tonight. I’m not annoyed about his huskyness so much as the vast sums of money we’ve sunk into his weight loss in recent times only to have him turn around, sit down and gain it all back again.

He takes my annoyance (mostly) good naturedly as he knows it’s just the general background drone of whining I like to produce to accompany our lives. Tonight though, he came up with a phrase that I felt was so genius, I had to share.

Apparently all of this losing and gaining has been of benifit to him after all as he is working towards “adjusting his fat paradigm”. His father subjected him to many a self-help tape as a child and it has obviously had an effect. Imagine trying to have a serious whinge to someone who is adjusting their fat paradigm. Ain’t gonna happen.

At least he makes me laugh.

Update: The magistrate’s court did indeed put it through complete with typo AGAIN! Seriously.

I am very relieved and happy to say that my Mum did not return to live with my father.

I wish that I could say that she has stayed away because she has finally broken free, that she will never go back. She says that this is the case but it has been such a long road that I will need some time before I can trust it.

His state of mind continued to deteriorate.

I can’t or won’t (I’m not sure which) go into the details of it. A friend told me that it is all so bizarre and dramatic that you couldn’t make it up. That’s true but there is nothing funny or light hearted that I can pull out of all that tangled mess.

It took many years for me to realise that I need not carry shame for who he is, for the things that he has done. I feel so angry that he has invaded my life with that shame again. I can’t write the things that he has done and that infuriates me.

Thankfully it all finally came to a head and he was arrested and subsequently placed in a secure facility. Not before terrorising many people. Actually, it was the fact that he finally did something overtly threatening to a stranger in a public place and commited petty theft that got him arrested. Without that perhaps it would still be going on.

Despite repeated calls (from many different sources) ACIS have continued to buy all of his manipulative bullshit. To them he is a nice, if unwell, man who hasn’t been supported properly by his family. One member of the team actually told her that “it’s a recipe for disaster leaving him alone like that”, whilst they were inspecting the damage he had done to the house. Because it’s her fault. Naturally. When a violent alcoholic psychopath is threatening to kill you, you stay and care for them.

She was granted a restraining order today.

She has a lawyer.

It looks like he will be in a secure facility for some time yet.

We are slowly getting my Mum convinced of how to proceed. She is shell shocked. She is traumatised. She has been abused for so long that it will take her a long time to see things clearly.

She is alive, though, and I am just holding my breath that she will stay away. I hope he’s done enough now that she will never go back.

I hope.

Now, I’m not knocking Aussie music. I like to listen to Australian music, I own plenty of it, in fact I probably have a slight bent towards liking Aussie music over that foreign nonsense.

The thing that struck me though about this countdown, is that it all seemed to be stuff that I would consider scraping the bottom of the barrel. I’m not saying that those bands/artists are at the bottom of the barrel, just that the songs that were chosen for the show seemed to be the B side off the limited edition EP that they only made a hundred of or something.

Seriously, if I wasn’t familiar with our strong musical offerings this show put forward a pretty decent case for never, ever listening to Australian music.

Allow me to demonstrate:

Vanessa Amerosi, Shine. I have a few problems with this. I’m not normally such a bitch but it really, really bothered me when I saw it. First of all, the song is dreadful. No point in denying it, it just is. Second, she seems to have a continual gale blowing directly in her face and not only does this not bother her she seems quite satisfied, no thrilled even, with that.

Finally, and most heinously of all. Her outfit. An ill-fitting black turtle neck and camel coloured pants that are two sizes too wide and made for a woman twice her height. You can get a very clear shot of this from about 2:36 onwards. I am baffled. I mean, fine, if you’re going to the supermarket to grab some milk but who wakes up in the morning and thinks “Hmmm, what do I have on today, oh yes, shooting a music video, oh I’ll just bung on the trousers I stole from the goodwill bin and my comfy old jumper, that’ll do!”

I know you’re gonna say she had a stylist or something but they had to be taking the day off that day because there’s no way anyone will convince me that someone put her in that outfit on purpose. I mean even if she’s supposed to be a hobo or something (which could very well be the case, I can’t say I was paying a lot of attention to the “storyline”) surely they could have done better, some feathers? Glitter? I think a dress of old Twisties packets and Mars bar wrappers would have been more chic.

Next I give you:

“Jackie” by B-Z featuring Joanne. I have to confess to feeling the urge to do a bit of a dance to this one. It makes you want to bop and sing along, I’ll admit but the woeful dancing and odd facial expressions had me really wondering. This is really the creme de la creme of Aussie music? Seriously?

Finally, just to bang the final nail in the coffin of Australian music as presented by this show, the threw this one at me:

Peter Andre, Mysterious Girl.

Oh.

My.

God.

I wanted to take to my eyes with a scourer and some bleach after his oiled torso had gyrated in front of me for the length of the video clip. Uuuurrggh. I feel so dirty.

So, Happy Australia Day!

This is the best we have to offer.

Nevermind.

I sense there will be several child-related update posts in the near future.

Today though, I’d like to talk about Grub.

It’s amazing. She is really getting so big and so mature.

She’s almost nineteen months old.

You would not believe how much this child talks. Seriously, she’s my fourth, it’s not like I’m the doe-eyed first time Mummy who thinks her precious baby is a prodigy. Trust me, I know how speech and language development go. BUT. Oh. My. God. I’ve never heard anything like her.  She copies (and understands- then incorporates into her vocabulary) pretty much everything she hears (*ahem*, literally everything she hears…). It’s so sweet, I often hear her practising words so that she can get them just right (of course she doesn’t get them all quite right but she’s 19 months!). I know, I’m bragging but she just blows all of our minds, I can’t get over her.

I guess the obvious benefit of her being able to communicate is that she can, well, communicate. Her ability to tell us what she’s thinking, what she wants etc has lead to her asking us, in recent weeks, to take her nappy off so that she can use the toilet. For months, actually, she has done the odd wee or poo on the toilet but all kids like to give it a try. We sat her there and let her as a novelty really.

Last week though, as it’s been so warm here (read hotter than the Satan’s ring) I thought it would be the ideal time to let her go pant free a fair bit and see how she goes using the potty full time.

I know she’s young – Pudding didn’t toilet train until he was just gone 3 but she just seemed ready, somehow. So, off with the pants, cue asking her every 3.5 seconds if she would like to do a wee. It may seem like a hassle and I’ll admit that we are running slightly low on mopping up towels – mostly from her starting to go somewhere, realising and then leaving a trail between wherever she was and the potty/toilet. The aroma of our house has some distinctive top notes of pine-o-cleen and pee these days and still I am thrilled to bits.

We’ve been out and about all over the place without a nappy and only had a few “accidents”. For the first couple of days she was a bit snippy about using the potty whilst we were out but we’re getting there. It turns out she waayyyyyy prefers to use the toilet, potties are so 2009, donchaknow.

She’ll be in night nappies for a while but being nappy-free during the day is so worth the very small effort we’ve had to put into it. I actually can’t believe how easily this has happened.

We’ve had our fair share of toileting nightmares with the others. Rhubarb took a full year to train, Poss took nearly as long and Beefcake spent countless hours reading stories with her perched on the loo just waiting for a poo to happen. Pudding was relatively easy, he only took two days because we waited until he was three but he did poop all over the floor (and inside of his pants) at my friend’s house just to let me know who was boss.  She already comes and tells us fairly often when she needs to go. It’s almost unbelievable.

There’s just one problem. Do you know hard it is to get undies for a child that is as small as she is. She’s kind of tall and thin and, I mean, she’s nineteen months old! I swear when I trained the big kids you could get undies in size 1-2. In fact I know that you could because when I went to train Pudding I found some old training pants that were tiny – waaayyy to small for a toilet training 3-year-old. Unfortunately the elastic had perished so I chucked them – wish I hadn’t now.

So um, bum! Kind of literally, in my face , all day, every day.  I don’t mind around the house, she likes to be nude and she’s still in the early stages of training really so that’s what’s best but when we go out she needs some sort of modesty cover. I bought her a pack of size 2-3’s but they’re soooo baggy. You could fit two of her in them. They are constantly on the verge of falling down, which I think you’ll agree defeats the purpose of her wearing them.

It’s dress/skirt weather. She has two pairs of shorts that fit her but all of the ones that I bought her for Christmas are too big – she’s really narrow around the hips – thanks to inheriting my “unique” body shape. I think there is nothing for it but to make her some pairs up myself. I have seen a pattern for very small undies somewhere on the internet, I’ll have to chase it up. I can’t think of many less inspiring and more fiddly things to be sewing but there you have it. The girl has to have pants!

So, think of me in the coming days as I try to make becoming undies for my little girl. After all she can barely be called a toddler any more.

P.S. Yes, I know that my photo is blurry but in my defence, Poss drowned the good camera and I have my Iphone and an almost as bad thing that someone gave me for free because they bought a new one. I could go on, I have more excuses. If you would like to hear them feel free to berate me for my inclusion of a blurry photo.

Originally I couldn’t get an appointment with the specialist until March. March, I thought in November when it was becoming clear that my hands and other joints were only getting worse (don’t even mention the pelvis, just don’t), was not good. Straight away I asked to be placed on the waiting list for cancellations and miracle of  miracles on about the 18th of December I got a call to say that they could fit me in on the 23rd if I could make it. Um, hell yes!

The rhematologist was actually really sweet. She listened to what I had to say about my falling apart body. She took what I had to say seriously. She examined me thoroughly. She wasn’t surprised or indeed horrified when I said that I was still breastfeeding my toddler (as doctors seem to love being). All in all, it went well.

Numerous outcomes of that appointment were:

• I am very, very flexible. Not quite as freakishly flexible as some people but apparently the resting position of my feet when I am lying down is not right. They flop down or something, who knew.
• Multiple other joints and bits and bobs do things that they are not meant for. Things I didn’t realise they did, or at  least that what they did was wrong, until she asked me to show her.
• That flexibility is kind of on a continuum, my level is not quite at the extreme end where connective tissue disorders reside but not really okay either and certainly contributing to some problems.
• I have some sort of non-specific inflammatory arthritis in my hands. When she first saw them she inhaled sharply and said “oooooo”, which I took to mean that it wasn’t just me who thought they look a little strange.
• She’s not sure about my pelvis. She thinks that, although she’d like to unify my problems under one diagnosis, there may be several things wrong with me that are not really related. Awesome.
• She took my pain seriously and has placed me on two new medications to be taken every day, to reduce inflammation and pain etc.
• She wants fresh pelvis x-rays and blood tests. No other doctor has ever wanted pelvis x-rays, I only had some done because a friend of mine is a doctor and she wanted to make sure I wasn’t dying of bone cancer while we were visiting her in Spain. This is a pretty big deal. She actually gives a crap about investigating my pelvis.
• The original blood test results weren’t normal. Something or other was elevated, which it would be in arthritis, hence the new blood tests to see if it is worse.

I left feeling really optimistic. She’s not 100% sure that she can do anything for my pelvis but she feels she can do something for my hands and, you know, she is trying to help me, she listened, she heard.

So, for the moment I am holding my breath and managing my pelvis pain and taking my pills until I next see her in March and even though the state of play is pretty much the same. I feel better. I do.

If you find a man NAKED wandering around in the bush after having spent the night out there and you are a police oficer, what should you do?

Answer:

The man seems perfectly “fine” just a bit disoriented. There is no need to do anything. Just call his estranged wife and seat him in the public waiting area while she drives the long distance to far away country town to get him.

Yes, because that makes perfect sense.

Oh and if you are the man’s psychiatrist? You hope that the police will section the man and when they don’t you ask the estranged wife to try and talk to him into going into hospital, I mean, it’s not as though the man is at the very brink of a massive psychotic episode. Let’s just wait for him to hurt someone before we do anything drastic.

Anyway, the private hospital has no beds until tomorrow so we should just hang on until then. That’s only sensible.

So, as of this moment, he is at home, by himself, not going to hospital, not being helped. Because, my friends, the system is fucked.

The end.

Where to begin?

My mother. Those of you who read regularly will know that I recently severed ties with her. Well, to be honest, my exact words to her were “I can’t see you for a while”. I just couldn’t bring myself to make a more final statement than that. Not with her. For my father it’s easy. I know that I will never want to see him again. It is pure relief to have him out of my life and I would not go back to what was. Not for anything.

My mother though. It is so much more complex. While she was living with him, I told myself, I had to separate myself. For my sanity, for my heart. It had to be done. I feel guilty at how brilliantly easy and peaceful this last little while has been without her around. I have found more serenity than I have felt in a long time.

Around Christmas she reappeared in subtle ways. At first asking to buy gifts for the children. I thought about denying her that but then decided that I couldn’t do that. Either to her or the children.

When I saw her on Christmas day she seemed so fragile and small and….. on the edge. Just at the edge of tolerance for what life could throw at her. I couldn’t bear to tell her that she had to continue to stay away. Instead I told her that we would see her again. I held the little woman and said that it would be okay. That she could see her grandkids and us and we would be there for her again. I felt very ashamed at the gratitude she showed me then. She has done some things that were not okay, I don’t always respect her actions but I hadn’t meant to cause her the kind of pain that I saw.

She was still living with him though. Telling us that she was making plans to leave, that things had progressed and that they were moving towards the sale of the house and separation. This, to my mind, is far too sane a path to take in this situation but we just haven’t been able to get through to her.

Thursday.

Thursday night I get a call from Patchouli! (my sister). Have you had Mum’s message? She sounded very shaken, not okay. My first thoughts are always what has he done?, what has happened?, is she hurt?

The message says that nothing has happened. Nothing dramatic. She has left though, is staying with my aunt. Nothing dramatic but she just feels that he has drifted so much closer to that edge. He is not really there at all, he is becoming psychotic, he is warning her to get out, leave the house. He has done strange things. She knows she just can’t go there again.

I tell her he is dangerous. She doesn’t want to believe this but agrees that it could be true. She has left.

He has gone around the house and smashed things while she has been out and then hidden the evidence. Mostly inconsequential things but also a beautiful statuette that was his grandmothers. I have always loved it. I know that he did too.

He stands in the yard and stares at the sky, muttering to himself for hours.

Realistically he is barely holding it together. He is already psychotic.

And people? Do you know why? The antipsychotic drug was causing some (quite bad) long term physical side effects and so the fucking arsehole psych took him off of them. Sent this man who, without anti-psychotic drugs is, well, psychotic, home to live with my mother. Knowing they are in the midst of separating. Knowing he has planned, let’s just say violent things before in a state of psychosis.

No extra monitoring or plan in place for his care.

If it weren’t so exhaustingly predictable it would be laughable. Does he think that my father will recognise his own psychosis and trot himself off to Glenside? Yeah, realistic.

There is nothing that anyone can do. The last time that we tried to have him sectioned under very similar circumstances it was a farce. They had “lost” all record of his two previous sections. His doctor would not recommend section as it was a breach of trust with his patient (no, not joking). We just had to wait until he attended a psych appointment and the psych was able to talk him into voluntary hospitilisation.

It makes me feel so…. tired.

I wish that I cared to intervene but I don’t. I will not write here what I wish to happen.

I am not letting myself hope too much. We have been here before and she has returned to live with him. If we can just get her to make a decent break this time though….

Maybe.