Yeah, i have been thinking of you. It’s just that when i said back in March we wanted to move, i didn’t expect it to take so long. Just deleted the fourth new post i’ve tried to write lately. They didn’t sound right. I’m not a journo, or a paid blogger, forced to churn out copy, and my blog hopefully doesn’t sound like it, but those posts did.
Anyway, back in early May, Mr Whatsit (whilst organising a possible source of moving-house funds, in the form of a forgotten part-year tax refund from 8 years ago) tried to get old paperwork out of a medical insurance company.
Here in Australia, if you don’t have medical insurance when you can afford it, (he was high up in a telecom company then, and could), you get a nasty tax penalty – which would be the whole amount of the refund. So to get his tax back, he has to prove he paid for insurance.
The company was scarily inept on the phone, (they let slip that Mr Whatsit’s ex still has the same postal address, for instance, plus other indiscretions), but they decided to be extra-careful of releasing any info, and said it had to go to legal.
Mr Whatsit was told at least 6-8 weeks, waited patiently, then was ill, so didn’t call back at 8 weeks. When he did call, at 11 weeks, was told, “Why hasn’t this been sent to you? It’s just sitting in the stack.” Nice lady put it in the post, it was here in one working day – by the end of July.
So now we can fill in some forms, and start waiting again. Which is one reason why i’ve not been into blogging. What’s the point? Absolutely nothing is happening.
In case you’re not clued up, it’s the bleak midwinter, southern hemispheric-ally speaking. That is, in the Land of Oz, it’s cold and drear… oh, but the sun is shining today.
And i’m tired of whining about being sick, so can only imagine how you lot feel. The flu is finally starting to let go a bit, but after one major relapse with it, i’m not going to tempt Fate, and say i’m over it.
Unfortunately, Mr Whatsit’s become very ill, and may need spinal surgery – nothing to do with the flu, except that coughing and sneezing may have set the whole thing off.
His doctor is being a prick, refusing to give us a referral back to Mr Whatsit’s neurosurgeon, (who operated where the pain is, so should be consulted), and saying we should wait for A FUCKING YEAR to get into a clinic in pain management up in Newcastle.
He doesn’t need freaking management from some hippy with Certificate II & III in Chronic Pain Management in a year, he needs to see his neurosurgeon NOW, or (without unfortunately, any exaggeration whatsoever), he’ll be on morphine in a week or so and in a fucking wheelchair before fucking Christmas!
Ahem – Mr Whatsit has had around 8 major spinal operations – amateurs do not get near him. Just touching him wrong could cripple him – his spine is fucked. So we go back to doc, (and the government pays his fucking fee again) and this time, tell him to sign a freaking referral – no more asking nicely – or we will find someone else who will.
I’ve tried to get into some other subjects – fashion, for one – but nothing worked. I nearly got a blog post out of the latest no-eyebrows look, (as seen in Balenciaga & Givenchy collections) but it went blah.
Yes, they look like the Vulcan/Klingon crosses on Star Trek, or maybe emos with Neanderthal tendencies, but I am lacking patience – trying to do a light, funny post on the idiocies of fashion victims wasn’t a good move.
Promoting death for fashion designers who make women look fugly probably isn’t legal. When it comes down to it, though i can still reach Zen, it’s been a rough winter.
So that’s why, though i can happily lock in for hours on my novel or dip for a few minutes in the happy splashfest of Twitter, writing a blog has been so hard.
Sorry, nothing left to be amusing with.
This blog’s never been particularly about my life on a day-to-day level, so it feels weird to be putting this here, but i am honest in these posts. (Hard to tell with the mad parts, but i am.)
But i guess you need to know why i’m not writing.
I’m too fucking worried.
In other news, i may have found the funniest thing ever. Srsly. Extreme sheeps and the men who love them. (That’s a video link, which i don’t do usually, but it’s only just over 2 mins long.) The wonder of what happens when men are left alone with sheep.
Totally safe for ewe to put onscreen at work, and worth watching all the way to the end. I just love it – humans – so amazing.
(I didn’t actually find it – @Froosh posted it on Twitter.)
Oh – and i’m completely undrugged…. which is shocking and accounts for part of my inability to show tolerance and kindness. I did sneak around Twitter doing good deeds and helping people this week. Nothing like a bit of voluntary work to help you forget your own problems.
How does one sneak? I was looking for things, and spotted people I wasn’t following who weren’t following me, asking questions or having problems, and helped them. I know, i know – it’s some kind of weird compulsion. White_wave even said
That was so sweet. Sprung! Yes, we have become co-Tweeple.
Well, i’m drug-free except the prescription ones that keep me alive – the mould in the house doesn’t agree with my heart, apparently, along with putting my body into a permanent state of extreme allergic reaction.
Straight sucks. How do people live like this?
The voices outside-my-head say we can endure.
So, we endure.
EDIT : some good news, the latest scans today (28th July 09) show Mr Whatsit’s spine is crap, but where he has the artificial disk (a piece of metal nestling rather close to his spinal cord) is apparently all fine. This is an incredible relief, as if it went wrong, a fused neck would be a good outcome, and a bad one was quadriplegia. He may still need surgery, but having been through 4 fusions and a disk replacement, pfft – this is something we can deal with.
NOTE: in case anyone thinks my drugfree state is me coming off some hard drugs, it’s not – i just have no painkillers – otherwise known as marijuana. Without it i have to rely on pharmaceutical painkillers – which don’t actually work half as well and are poisonous to my body – for my own rather fucked up back.