IT’S THE CLIMB

These past few weeks have culminated in today.

This day that finally broke me. I knew I was a beaten woman when Miley Cyrus and her irritating climbing the mountain song came on and I didn’t even swat her away.

I just no longer tried to stop the flood of frustration that has been building up.

It started with Mums cancer diagnosis. I am too much of a technotard to give you a link, but if you scroll down the side, you can click on the The C Word to read about this.

This threw us for a six because even though she’s 75, mum to us, was indestructible. To be told she has brain, colon, liver and lung tumours was a massive wake up call to both my brother and myself.

The good news is she had her brain operation Thursday and was out asking the (hot) male nurse for a cup of tea within 10 minutes of waking and giving him cheek about his longish blond hair. Did I mention he was hot. Check. What comes next for Mum? Time is a great teller.

What has been an eye opener is the hospital on a day to day basis. The vast array of people that make the place run, the social classes of people who are patients and the delightful people that have presented themselves along the way (I say this in both a truthful and facetious manner)

The true delights have been the nurses who take my mothers dentures from my hands and won’t hear my protests about me being able to clean them so they can do it themselves. Who go beyond their duties as nurses because they want to. Who make sure Mum is happy and cared for and loved when she may be feeling lonely or scared.

Too, there is a lovely man, not much older than myself with three adorable children who was in the hospital in the same situation as Mum. Cancer riddled. A teacher. A lovely member of society and from the small glimpse I got, a great dad and husband. A man worthy of the highest praise for the way he was handling his situation.

The other “delightful” people have both disgusted and intrigued me.

The most disturbing moment came when an elderly yet distinguished lady who was in a bed beside mum was 20 minutes from going into her operation (similar to mum, brain tumour removal) was once again, down having a fag with her daughter. When she came back to the ward to the staff searching for her, she complained of chest pains and was refused surgery until the following week.

Her daughter then starting ranting and crying and complaining. Um, hello fuckhead, you took your mother downstairs for a cigarette, not 20 minutes before major brain surgery and now you are calling the the nurse a bitch?

So many similar incidents which just boggle the mind.

One where a patient abused the nurse because she wet the bed and the nurse was trying to get it sorted out. The abuse that continued was as none I’ve heard. The real “C” word and fucking useless bitch etc etc. The nurse cut her hand still trying to attend to her and ended up fleeing in tears. I know how much Nurse’s get paid and let me tell you, it’s nowhere near enough.

Next in our own personal experiment of “How many times can the Morley’s visit a QLD Health establishment in 14 days” were Sam and his 5 rounds with the school playground.

Friday rolls around and it’s one of the only days I pick up 7yo Sam after school. There he is, last child to be picked up WITH A MASSIVE EGG on the side of his eye. No incident report. No note in the bag. Just Sam in his very direct manner telling me he ate it on the step bar after trying to jump from the monkey bar to the step.
Doc’s gave it the all clear but over the next 4 days, he turned into the beaten child. Many stolen glances by concerned citizens at the shops were had. It could have been worse. He could have broken his eye socket. I think there was a fine line between the two.

Two days later, M the 9 year old, develops some icky looking things around her mouth. Being the doting mother that I am, I pass them off as cold sores even though she’d never had one in her life. When they multiplied and crusted her nose over (I know and I am sorry) I knew we were in for bigger and better things. So after leaving a visit to Mum at 7pm, we went to the doctor and were given the diagnosis of impetigo (school sores). The doctor also most more than likely made notes about her 7yo brother and his now purple eye shadowed eye. He did question him as to how he got it. I looked like I had stepped out of the insane asylum with my frizz ball hair at 8pm mode and a feral 9yo who doesn’t wash her hands.

He probably dialled DOCS the minute we walked out. Anyway the 9yo received many lectures regarding cleanliness, bum picking etc.

Days off were had and antibiotics were our friends.

Next in our own personal hurricane came her exorcist moment.

M the 9 year old complained of feeling sick about 4 days later. As I’m sure all good working mothers do, I kissed her goodbye at the school gates and told her she’d feel better once she saw her friends. Nope.

I got half a day at work before the phone call came – in sick bay looking pasty. Mother of the Year Academy is having my plaque made up as I type.

She was fine. DVD’s rented, no food consumed (which should have told me all I need to know – this girl does usually not stop eating). That night whilst in the kitchen, I hear the urgent “Mum, Mum!!!!”

“What?” Me exasperated

“I’m vomiting” She yells back.

After surveying the situation, all I can think is that she stood in one spot and twisted her head 360 degrees and hurled. Or did a roundhouse kick whilst spewing. Only two options I can think of.

There was green chunky spew EVERYWHERE. Everywhere except in the vicinity of the toilet bowl. Apparently feeling sick at lunchtime had not stopped her from eating her blue heaven quench drink and lasagne. The evidence presented itself in front of me.
She leaked from the top and the bottom (mid grocery-shop) intermittently over the next 4 days.

Next was me. The flu. Or some variation of this. As I am a woman and we just get on with this stuff, all you need to know is that yes, my throat and ears hurt like they are giving birth and I have no voice left. But I will solider on. Being maters – it’s what we do best.

Last but not least is my 7 year old Sammy – who’s has boils. On his bum. Started as one but has multiplied today. Off to the doctor. Same doc who saw him with the black eyes. Comments he looks better today. Checks all is AOK at home. Holy crap, he thinks we live in a domestic situation. Yes thanks. This was not helped when doc was inspecting bum boils and 7yo tells him “don’t slice my doodle”. Fucking What? Ok give me the script, the two snake lollies and let’s get the hell home.

Where by the way, we have been building not only a deck but a whole new add-on for Mum to come and live in. We haven’t even started discussing tile colours. I don’t have the strength that requires.

Hence the day’s end and the Miley Cyrus incident. She broke me but like she says – It’s the Climb. Or the foetal position. Which ever works.