I'm an avid reader, though I don't usually feel the need to get on the Internet and talk about whatever literary masterpiece I'm into at the time. This time, however, I'll make an exception.
I first heard of Clive Wearing about 19 years ago, in a psychology lecture at Auckland University. We were learning about the brain, in particular the hippocampus, a small, seahorse-shaped neurological structure whose function it is to transfer short-term memories into long-term ones. Put simply Mr. Wearing no longer has one. In 1985, a rougue virus, tragically co-inciding with the onset of the 'flu and thereby cleverly masquerading as such for several days, penetrated his blood-brain barrier, destroying many parts of his brain but most notably, this hippocampus. This left him with a memory no longer than a few seconds. 
Think about that. Who we are is basically the sum of our recall. What our names are, what age we are, our experiences in life are all contained within our memories. Imagine, then, what it must be like to exist eternally in the immediate moment, to have no memory of any other events in time.This is the story of what it's like to live out such an existence, and what it's like to live alongside someone living such a life, as Clive's wife, Deborah, recounts so movingly in this book. Amazingly, with the little that is left of Clive's memories, he does remember Deborah - not the marriage, not the wedding itself, not even the seven-year relationship that preceded it, but the person - Clive remembers that Deborah is his wife ("we're one", is how he puts it), and he remembers that he loves her. 
And this is why I find this book so fascinating. It appeals to me on many levels - not only is it exceptionally well-written in my opinion, with plenty of 'human interest' material for the people-person in me (although it's that, too). Most of all, 'Forever Today - A Story Of Love And Amnesia' is an amazing love story. Here is a man who has to be formally introduced to someone he has met before, after an absence as short as maybe 20 minutes. Yet similar re-unions with Deborah bring about an intense, almost overwhelming, reaction from her husband; tears, hugs, kisses on a grand scale. All this after a parting as short as the time allowed to go to the bathroom. Now, before you say, cynically but with perhaps the ring of truth about it, "Wouldn't we all like that from our husbands?", let me remind you what this couple have been through. As a 27-year-old newlywed, Deborah, formerly a shy, retiring, 'squeamish' woman, was faced with the sudden, devastating illness of her husband, along with the gradual realisation that he would never again fully be the person he once was. She could no longer live with him (after a long struggle to find adequate facilities for him, Clive is now living in residential care), and had to learn almost overnight to manage the daily business of living (car maintenance, paying the bills, all while trying to find appropriate care for Clive in a country which at that time was without adequate facilities for patients with Acquired Brain Injury) by herself. Who was it who said, "if you really want to test the character of a man, (woman), give him (her) adversity"? Faced with this predicament, this woman who had always let her husband take charge, became incredibly strong and fearless, able to take on health authorities and medical personell.
As for her husband, previously an accomplished musician, conductor, music historian and radio producer, it would be easy to imagine - as I did before reading the book - that life for him these days is, if not ideal, at least peaceful. Wouldn't the loss of memory help to blot out the trauma of the illness, along with everything else? Apparently not. Living in what is to him a world of ever-shifting perceptions is in fact incredibly stressful for Clive. At first, he suspected some kind of plot on the part of others was responsible, and violent moods (which were usually vented on his wife) were the result. In the end, it all became too much for Deborah, who fled Britain for the US, where she considered remarriage, her only reservation being unable to say the words "forsaking all others" truthfully. She couldn't, she knew, forsake her firsr husband. 
Surprisingly, this story has a happy ending. Deborah returned from the United States, became a Christian, and repeated her wedding vows to Clive. She is now 51, Clive is 70 ("and still the most handsome man in the world, despite having lost most of his teeth", writes this adoring wife). She and her husband seem to be, if anything, more in love than ever. As touching evidence that they really ARE "one person" (those being Clive's words), or as the Blble puts it, "No longer two, but one", when asked his full name, Clive answers, "Clive David Deborah Wearing".   

Tags: amnesia, book review, brain injury
Current Location: The Lounge
Current Mood: blah
Current Music: None.

When I walk into a room, heads turn. Sometimes conversation stops. Whispered comments are unusual, fixed stares less so. 
What did I do to gain this kind of rapt attention? I'm not a celebrity, not in any way a recognisable face, except among those I know. No, the reason for the stir I create everywhere I go is simple. 
I'm disabled. Not only that, I have an unusual problem - when I walk, especially when I'm tired, my head rolls around.
When put like that, it sounds almost incredulous. Why, in this age of sophistication, should an otherwise unremarkable person with a simple disability (albeit accompanied by an unusual habit) attract so much wonderment among the general population? For these are the days in which we are used to affliction, surely. People in wheelchairs hardly attract a second glance these days (and I'm sure most if not all of them are very glad about it!). So why all the amazement? Seriously, why?
The casual reader could accuse me of being somewhat over-sensitive. After all, I was born with the disability, wasn't I? So I should be used to it, shouldn't I? Well, yes and no. While I am used to some of the less pleasant aspects of my disability (crutches, for example), staring is a little bit harder to come to terms with. 
For one, it's so - well - RUDE. From a young age, little children are taught it's impolite to stare. That rule gets enforced by their parents in the beginning, and it holds true for everyone. So why should disabled people be any different? Yet I often catch children old enough to know better just about breaking their necks to get a second look at me. They are accompanied by their parents - and yet far more often than not, the parents are just ignoring them. To be fair, it's possible they're well aware of the situation and feel embarrassed, unlike the rather delightful woman I met at University once, who, on being asked rather loudly by her young child, "Mum, why does she walk on those things?" (meaning my crutches), said matter-of-factly, "Because she's got four legs, instead of two!". 
Some situations are even more interesting. Whenever I'm out with a good friend of mine, we attract lots of strange looks. The reason is not hard to work out - my friend is in a wheelchair, and with strange-walking, head-nodding me waddling along behind, we certainly make a good spectacle. My friend couldn't care less, or so it seems, and just streaks along in her chair, leaving me flagging in her wake like a beached whale (a good technique, she tells me, for encouraging people to avoid her). And while I'm not at all ashamed of my friend, quite the opposite in fact, the public reaction bothers me. The only reason I don't make a public protest about it is because it might embarrass her.
Now, let me be clear here. It's not little kids I'm talking about, but nine, ten, eleven-year olds. By that age, experience should have taught you that somewhere, sometimes in life, you are going to come across people who are different. There should be no curiousity, therefore, in being in the presence of disabled people. And I'm also not talking about a passing glance, where maybe the eyes linger for a little while, then move on. No, I'm talking about long, hard, rude, just-about-walking-into-a-telephone-pole-because-I-wasn't-looking-where-I-was-going, staring.
For another thing, it's very hard to know what to do about it. One doesn't want to be seen as being as rude as the starer, so that leaves out remarks like, "Take a photo; it lasts longer" (I've tried that one - believe me, the poor lady I said it to, looked so embarrassed I almost felt sorry for her, so I won't be trying that one again). Saying in a loud voice, "would you mind not staring at me, please?" doesn't seem to be a viable option, either. So the answer is not easy.
For my part, I can only appeal to people not to stare. Most disabled people, in my opinion, are more than happy to talk about their situation, provided people are genuinely interested. Why not talk to them, or, if the situation demands it, to their helpers? Just like striking up a conversation with anyone else, (mostly), you'll learn a lot about them, and may even enjoy the experience - anyway, it's better than a gormless, rabbit-in-headlights expression, and certainly you - and them - are sure to get a lot out of it.

Tags: disability
Current Location: The Lounge
Current Mood: cynical
Current Music: "Bliss" - Th' Dudes

I've been trying to think of what to say on this day - still 9/11 overseas. God be with the grieving, the hurting, the angry, those who still ask why. Bless the orphaned children, the lonely widows, the bewildered siblings, the families struggling to keep themselves together even today after the tragedy. Help us to remember those on both sides, because grief is universal, it doesn't just belong to us, or to anybody, it affects us all. Help us to remember that we all have to look at ourselves in honest self-examination, to look at the 'Man (Woman) In The Mirror'. That is the only way we can move forward to a bettter world. And please help us not to hate, because as an old episode of M*A*S*H* once said, "Hate makes war, and war is what killed (them) in the first place." It's what is still killing many in Afghanistan, Iran and America, all of whom are somebody's son, father, brother, daughter, sister, mother, friend. God cares about them all.
God bless. 

Tags: 9/11
Current Location: The Usual
Current Mood: Thinking about September 11
Current Music: None

 Well, that was a funny thing-there I was, just happily typing away, when all of a sudden, my entry just disappeared. It re-appeared later on, without a word on it, and somehow miraculously installed itself on the front page, just this blank space staring back at me. Among all the other journal entries with something to say, there was this one, just - well, blank.
Anyway, the thing I wanted to write about today was how New Zealand values it's disabled people. Apart from being a disabled person myself (and, I like to think, a reasonably valuable one), this subject began in my head this morning, when I recieved a nasty shock through the mail; a parking ticket. As ashamed as I am to admit it, I have blotted my copybook in that way recently, and so when I saw the stamp of our local Council on it, I thought at long last, they had got back to me on that one. Alas, not so. This one was for a subsequent offence, this time in another downtown street (just in case you're wondering, downtown Auckland isn't really the most accessible place for disabled people, which sort of explains the parking fines - well, sort of), and was for being parked in a disabled parking space without having my Mobility Parking Permit in the window. Well, I was shocked. As you can perhaps understand, I'm always championing the cause of anyone who'll do their bit to combat the abuse of disabled parking spaces. It doesn't matter whether you're there 'just for a minute' (the oft given excuse), or that you were caught short for the loo, or that you would move for a disabled driver of course you would, or that your wife's mother's cousin's aunt's hairdresser's dog's disabled, so you know exactly how I feel, poor thing. If you do not have a Mobility Parking Permit on your car while it's parked in a disabled carpark, you are breaking the law. Pure and simple. 
Anyway, I was just looking at this ticket and contemplating my bad fortune, when I noticed something. New Zealand has recently discussed upping the amount of the fine for such offences to $400. Yet on my ticket, the fine was $40. "Excuse me," I said to the Call Centre Operator when I rang, "but shouldn't this be $400? (She was rather taken aback; after all it's not every day someone rings up the local Council about a traffic ticket and asks to be able to pay more. She wasn't sure, so after speaking to her (and a very charming girl she was, too), I rang CCS, the organization which oversees, among other disability issues, the Mobility Parking Permit Scheme. Yes, they said, there was some talk of at some stage raising the fine for such an offense, and we're still trying to lobby the Government for it. We want it raised to $NZ400. The Government want to set it at $NZ150, hence a Mexican standoff (with apologies to any Mexicans who read this). So for the moment at least, the amount on your ticket is correct, and the fine is $40. Somewhat placated, I re-wrote the letter I had composed complaining about the amount of the fine, (this time leaving out the bit a bout 'I hope you are not letting people off lightly for this offence'), and that was that.
However, that conversation with the woman at CCS got me thinking. Apparently in America, if you left your car in a disabled parking space illegally, your fine would be $US1,000. In all other parts of the world, the fine for such an offense is way higher than it is in New Zealand. Is this an over-reaction to the spoilt demands of yet another minority, or does it show the caring and concern these countries have for their disabled citizens?
Parking illegally on a disabled spot is not just 'a stationary vehicle offence', as so coldly stated on the ticket. It is, believe it or not, an offence against people. Nowhere near murder, or assault, or any of those things, but it is against people. Those people can't just 'park somewhere else', or necessarily wait or come back later (and why should we have to, anyway? Disabled carparks are built specially wide, to allow for the extra room needed to offload crutches or a wheelchair or wheelchair lift. 
A friend of mine recently asked me a very pertinent question: why should disabled people have to come first in everything? A local celebrity two or three years ago questioned the need to build disabled ramps on a building which might be used by a disabled or elderly person once or twice a year. In my own experience, such alterations make life much easier, as when I used to have great difficulty accessing the spectator stands at the local Tennis Courts - not a place you'd expect to find many disabled people, at least not at that particular period in history (although sports clubs are now being encouraged to include people of all abilities in their ranks). The aforementioned celeb is currently running for Mayor of my district - if he is successful, can I then expect any attempts to make our suburban Courts more accessible than they are already to be delayed, or (worse), permanently shelved?
Such examples abound - buildings which, although built well within the auspices of the Building Act, don't have lifts, floors made of material more suited to ice skating than commerce (especially in Winter and especially in Auckland), disabled loos at the bottom of stairs with no other access, the list goes on and on. So much so that rather than asking, "why do disabled people always have to come first in everything?", the question should rather be, "Why can't we ever come first?".
Someone said, "The measure of a society is how it treats it's weakest citizens". A disability is a physical weakness. It needs to be, if not over-indulged (and boy, have I ever seen the results of over-indulgence of disabled people!), at least respected. I have to respect my body every day - by resting, by keeping supple, by getting sufficient excercise to keep my weight down. Why is it so hard for society to accept a role in that respect by at least not making it hard for me to access a building? It's not a matter of coming first. It's a matter of common courtesy of a different kind, to people of a different ability.
So the next time you're looking for a carpark, and you see a vacant disabled spot, and if you're not disabled, I want you to do something not often encouraged in this society - drive on by.

 

Tags: disability
Current Location: the usual
Current Mood: aggravated
Current Music: none

Well, it's been a good week. My new (to me) car has passed it's pre-purchase inspection, my house has been retro-fitted with nice, warm insulation and is now nice and cosy, and best of all, my husband intends on taking a week and a half's leave from work just to be with me. A new airline has hit town this past week offering inter-country flights to certain venues (any one of which I could definitely handle having a holiday in) for $39, making the existing competitors sit up and take notice - and lower their prices.
Speaking of planes, I saw something on the news tonight that really made me think (that's not an uncommon occurence, you understand, but it's a nice way of introducing the subject of today's journal). A topdressing plane (the kind used in the mountainous countryside of New Zealand to fertilize farm paddocks), was about to take off in a field. In that same field was a Plover, a large bird, and this one just happened to be a female, who just happened to be nesting at the time. At first glance, she looked like any other bird, but when the plane taxied for take-off, something dramatic happened. The Plover, enraged at the possibility of this strange, larger bird coming to steal her eggs, reared up and spread her wings protectively over the nest - then, when the plane came roaring in her direction, she did everything she could to stop it, including throwing herself in it's path, endangering her own life.
Anyway, the thing that struck me (because I'm not just going all David-Bellamy on you), was how much more mothering instinct that bird had than, sadly, a lot more women in New Zealand at this time. We're in the middle of a child abuse epidemic, and if I once again have to hear the words, "the death of a toddler in (place) is being described by Police as suspiscious...", I'm going to scream. In one famous case before the Courts right now, the Mother of twins who died in Star
ship Children's Hospital last year after allegedly being abused, reportedly said, when told her babies were seriously ill and might not last the night, and that the hospital was preparing a bed for her at the residential house set up for parents because she had to be there, is reported to have said, "I don't give a shit...I'm going home". What if she had had as much Mothering instinct as that Plover, so fiercely protective of her children? Because I doubt her reaction would have been the same. In fact, I suspect the Mother in question would have been unable to rest, instead determined to hunt for the inhuman being who had hurt her little ones. 
Look, I'm not a Mother, and I'm not criticizing good Mothers. Having never done it, I have the utmost respect for people who take on the job. I have no idea of the pressures that befall the family who are struggling to give children a good life. I'm just saying there should be more people like them having children, that's all.
And maybe we could learn a thing or two from the animals. 

Tags: child abuse, wildlife
Current Location: The lounge at home
Current Mood: sad
Current Music: Something country/pop on Rove.

I did everything to avoid writing this morning's entry. Usually, I log on, check my e-mails (from all 3 ISP's), scan the New Zealand Herald for any 'new' news, and settle in to write my occasional muse. But this morning, I knew what I had to write, and I didn't want to write it. I woke up to find (to my relief) my husband online, excited about some internet project he's working on. For a while, I shared his enthusiasm, then he went off to bed, tired after a 12-hour shift. Suddenly I remembered I had to ring our answering service to have the 'phone temporarily turned off to let him sleep, so that distracted me for a few minutes (it wouldn't normally have taken that long, except my husband, in the bedroom, didn't hear me calling him from the lounge, that I was in the process of doing this, and pulled the plug on the bedroom 'phone, making me start all over again - why was I glad?). But then, the moment had come. With heavy heart, I started to log into LiveJournal, and was unusually grateful when, five minutes later, my husband got a new lease on life and came out to use the computer, his head still full of ideas. Unfortunately for me, it only took him five minutes to connect to the person he wanted to talk to and for them to finish their discourse. Then, he was off to bed again, leaving me alone with the computer, the dreaded LiveJournal entry to write. And now, there are no more distractions - the screen is blank, the cursor is blinking at me, waiting for this entry to be written. And yet, I desperately do not want to write this.
It's about a little girl, Nia Glassie, who died yesterday in Starship Children's Hospital, Auckland, aged three years. Nia was flown to Starship a week ago, suffering from terrible injuries, thought to have been caused by the very people she should have been able to trust, her family. After wetting her pants one day, Nia was allegedly put into a tumble-dryer (not her pants, but her), and hung on a clothesline, which was spun around until she flew off, causing terrible head injuries. These are only the public details of the abuse Nia is said to have suffered over an estimated period of three months. Earlier news reports quote neighbours as saying they saw a terrified Nia stranded on the roof of the family home one day, crying, while being taunted from below. Who knows what else this little girl went through in her short life. Despite very serious injuries, Nia battled on for a week, before losing her fight for life yesterday. And we should all be glad, because had she survived, with the type and extent of injuries she had suffered, who knows what condition she would have been left in. I grew up around some people who had suffered brain damage in accidents, so I'm not for a minute suggesting Nia, or indeed any of them, would have been better off dead; but as one local talkback announcer said, with what her family are alleged to have put her through as a formerly perfectly healthy toddler guilty of the crime of wetting her pants, who knows what sort of care they might have taken of a child who couldn't walk, talk, see...
Elsewhere in this journal, I have outlined the struggle my husband and I went through trying to have children. In fact, I don't think I ever finished that story, as talking about it is so, so painful. What we wouldn't have given for wet pants and sleepless nights isn't worth giving. I know some would say that has nothing to do with the issue, and I guess in some ways, it doesn't. But in some other ways, it has everything to do with it. Watching every painful detail of Nia's demise, or indeed any other abused child (and, in New Zealand, there are just so very many) brings it home painfully to you that these people are fertile, and can produce children any time they like - sometimes too fertile, as the number of kids in the house can attest - while you and your partner, who have nothing but love to give a child, cannot have one. That knowledge is so painful. In fact, there have been times in the last week, when I have felt unable to go on watching this tragedy unfold, yet unable to ignore it, I go on watching. 
The usual platitudes are trotted out. More must be done! People must be alert to child abuse! One Maori MP has strongly suggested all Maori MP's of whatever party (because this problem is so prevalent among Maori) isolate themselves in a bunker at Waiouru Army Camp with a bunch of the foremost child-abuse experts in New Zealand (are there any?), and don't come out until they have found a solution. Well, at least you have to give him ten points out of ten for caring, while the authors of New Zealand's famous (or infamous) anti-smacking legislation - supposedly brought in to stop this type of abuse - are suspisciously silent. 
Well, I don't have the answers. I work at a local University, and am by no means an expert in the child protection field. I once saw a job advertised in the local paper for someone to work in this area, and as I was completing a Degree in psychology at the time, I probably was semi-qualified - at least, enough for that era. But I didn't apply. In those days (probably still), I wasn't interested in listening to hard-luck stories about 'how bad my own childhood was, how Mum and Dad beat me, so of course, I was bound to repeat the cycle'. No, I wasn't interested in listening to these monsters, only in hating them.
And to an extent, that hatred still continues. The 'monsters' that are said to have terrorised little Nia have had some exposure on telly this week, including the woman (I hesitate to use the word 'Mother') who carried her for nine months in her belly, yet still had so little regard for her safety that she allowed her to be swung on a clothesline and put into a tumble-dryer. Some would say we should think of the pressures she was under, how she was treated as a child, etc, etc. But I don't want to. What I'd like to do is find an adult-sized clothes dryer and put her and her cohorts into it, switching the temperature up to boiling point. I'd like to attach them to a clothesline and swing them round until they're at the point of nausea - then stop it with a spade. Many times, while watching the Court case, I have felt like it's a waste of time prosecuting these deadbeats - because even the prospect of spending eternity with beelzebub and all his fiery friends would be as a picnic, compared to five minutes with me. These are all thoughts which run through my mind when these images are shown on TV, and I bet I'm not alone. Not even my Chrisitian beliefs can overcome these thoughts at the moment - yet I know 'vengeance is mine, sayeth the Lord'. It's just that I'd like to get there before Him.
It's a total mystery to me how, in this lovely country where we really are blessed with everything, people can come to such a low point as to put New Zealand third on the list of OECD countries for child abuse. Maybe we just don't appreciate it.
There is really little I can add to close off this journal. Only an appeal to all those parents struggling to look after children, having a real hard time of it - please don't hurt your children.

Tags: child abuse
Current Location: the lounge
Current Music: NZ Top 40

Writer's Block: By Any Other Name

If you could rename yourself in real life, what would you choose, and why? Well, for one thing, I DEFINITELY would not be called Honor Kavanagh! It's a name my husband made up for me to give me anonymity on the 'net, and while I'm grateful to him, with all  due respect, it makes me sound like I'm about a hundred years old (in fact, if the person he 'named' me after were alive today, she WOULD be just about a hundred years old...).
That said, I wonder if any of us really likes our given names. I certainly hated mine, and would make up names for myself every week when I was about nine or ten, in an attempt to rebel against my real one. 'Beth' was a favourite, after the KISS song which was popular at the time. Heaven only knows what my parents must have thought of this constant re-working of the name they'd given me, though they endured it patiently. They had given me that name lovingly, or so they thought, after the daughter of a friend. She was a lovely girl, I was told, (though I never had the good fortune to meet her myself), and a Rhodes Scholar. That last part didn't mean much to me-after all, I was only five when she told me this. However, I do remember my Mother, in one of my angrier discussions with her about it, saying sadly, "We thought you'd be thrilled [with that name]". Poor Mum, she had such honest intentions. Sad to say that even today, my name has never quite grown on me. I content myself with using the short form of it, but when it comes to such things as filling out legal forms or being dealt with by official orgainisations, that too can be a hassle. I wonder how many of you out there are also unhappy with your given name(s)? Feel free to write and tell me about it.
Before anyone starts to think of me as having a nomenclaturally-deprived childhood, however, I need to point out that it wasn't all bad. For one thing, there was the blessing that at least I wasn't named after most of the rest of my family! In an incredible co-incidence, my Mum had had the good fortune to meet, fall head-over-heels in love with, and subsequently marry, a man whose first name just happened to be the masculine form of her own. When they finally had a son, my Mother, in a fit of high emotion (or insanity, as the case may have been), decided to name him after my father. If you think confusion must have reigned at that point, spare a thought for all the nephews, nieces, cousins, aunties, uncles and friends who loved my parents enough to name children after  one or the other of them (or maybe both!), and you have but a small picture, dear reader, of the chaos our family endured. Legend has it that at a family reunion once, someone called out to my father, and 150 heads turned in reply.
(In fact, this duplication of names wasn't just confined to our family; once, while staying with family friends, my father established that their oldest boy, whom Mum had delivered at birth, wasn't in fact named after Dad; he was named after Mum. God only knows how that would have gone down at the lad's school, him being a rugged country boy, had the secret ever been revealed).
No, if ever I was called upon to choose a name for myself (on the 'net, or for any other purpose), Skye would probably be the one. It's the name my husband and I were planning to give to our daughter if we ever had one. Alright, we were actually going to call her Jessica Jasmine Eilish Sonnet Skye Xanthe Noelle Cadence Corinna Cherith, but that's beside the point. I just love the name Skye - or any nature names, like Dawn, or Saffron, or any flower name you can think of. But Skye is a favourite.
Next to that, I love uncommon names. It seems like such an honour to me (no pun intended) to be given a name nobody else has, or at least very few people have. Leaving aside for a minute the increased chance of being found more easily on anyone's database, and the all-round increased visibility it brings, just the uniqueness of a name can make it special to me.
So, Skye, then. Next would probably come Noelle, which apart from being very similar to a family name in our family, is also very pretty and rather unusual. It means Christmas, a favourite time of year not just for me, but a lot of people. Neroli, a flower name as well as that of a much-envied relative, would come next.
And the surname? Well, I quite like ours, but neither it nor my maiden name would do justice to Skye Noelle Neroli. Such names call for something exotic, something Russian or French. LaTrobe, perhaps? Or Svevininska?
So there you have it, then. This is Skye Noelle Neroli Svevininska, signing off

Tags: names
Current Location: The usual place
Current Mood: calm
Current Music: Lionel Ritchie - "Hello"

...been a bit of a busy one, what with one thing and another. Saw my neurosurgeon on Friday, a day rich in legend and history. Not that it proved to be too much trouble to the visit to the neurosurgeon, who pronounced me healthy. But it was enough to give pause for thought, anyway.
And I was definitely deep in thought as I came away from the appointment. About how lucky I was to have been born when I was, and to have a chance to survive the condition that put me there. And about the man and his newborn daughter who made the whole thing possible.
My shunt (or, as some of you medical types like to call it, a Holter Valve) was invented back in the long ago by Mr. John Holter, a man of little standing otherwise. Necessity really was the mother of invention for him, as it was the birth of his hydrocephalic son which prompted the invention. Doctors told him there was no hope, that he may as well go home and have another child, as this one was going to die; nothing could be done to halt the flow of cerebrospinal fluid which was rushing into his ventricles, stretching, and therefore gradually weakening, the outer covering of his brain. Not to be outdone, Mr. Holter called in a friend of his who was a plastics manufacturer, and together they devised the tiny piece of plastic tubing with a differential-pressure valve on one end which was to be inserted into the baby's neck in an attempt to save her life. I regret to say I don't remember whether or not it was sucessful in this particular case, or whether or not the Holter baby died. Suffice it to say that it was, in many other cases, including my own, and the Holter Valve has been used in hospitals all over the world since, to save the lives of babies and older people who, like I did at birth, suffer from this debilitating and potentially life-threatening condition.
And I'm glad it has, because I love my life. My job is great, I have a roof over my head, and food on my plate. I have great friends, a great family, and a husband who has his moments (just kidding - actually I love him with a passion). I have two cats, one of whom loves me greatly (the other who tolerates me at best, but I love her still), and many friends, all of whom I treasure. Most of all, I have God, the Creator and sustainer of all life, who looked down forty-two years ago on a sick, fragile little human being with Spina Bifida and decided to save her life.
So first of all, for connecting me with my Mother, a trained nurse who wasn't daunted by all the medical procedures I needed; for hooking my parents up with Mr. Phillip Wrightson, the best neurosurgeon in New Zealand at that time; for linking us all with that little plastic tube with the tiny, bulbous valve at one end; and for keeping it in such good repair over the years, saving me from years of painful surgery and hassle; for that and so much more, this woman would like to say, thank you. Thank you very much.

Tags: god, grattitude, neurosurgery, shunts, spina bifida
Current Location: The Lounge
Current Mood: grateful
Current Music: none

I don't believe it, I don't be-flippin'-lieve it.
One second in it. That's all. One second. How can it get any tighter than that?
After the entire Louis Vitton Challenge, seven dramatic races, and a competitive spat on the water where the lead changed hands six times no less, New Zealand have lost the America's Cup by a margin of one second.
The really bitter pill to swallow is what made the difference - New Zealand incurred a penalty and had to come about (to use a maritime phrase) just before the finish line. That, and only that, saw the America's Cup go Europe's way - ironically, to a land-locked country.
Don't get me wrong - I've nothing against the Swiss. I have a friend who's married to a really delightful girl who is of Swiss extraction. I've met her Dad, from where she gets that particular part of her heritage, and believe me, what the less savoury members of the Alinghi team may have taken from the reputation of their fellow countrymen in front of the eyes of the yacht race watching public over the last few weeks, he definitely more than makes up for. So it's not that. I'm just devastated at the way it happened.
And to a land-locked country. How could they win over a country full of sailors who cut their teeth sailing optimists on the waters of Auckland's North Shore? Probably only because some of those very sailors were aboard their boat. Sorry, I know I sound like I'm eating a case of very, very sour grapes, but please understand, it's only about half an hour post-race, and that's how I feel right now.
So I guess we can only look forward to the next three years - Helen Clark has promised Team New Zealand Government funding for another challenge (how's that supposed to work, I wonder, if Helen Clark's Government aren't in power by then?). That's all we can do.
What really gets me is the way we lost. Trailing by over 100m halfway through the last leg, TNZ had just began to make up ground, and finally overtake Alinghi, when we had to carry out that damn penalty. While we were coming about (there's that phrase again), the Swiss came from behind and overtook them. And by one second, the Swiss won. Once again, hate to sound like sour grapes, but the phrase, 'We were robbed' comes to mind.
And the unkindest cut of all is hearing all the Kiwi accents speaking of how great it is to win. Takes me back several years ago, when those same accents (belonging, ironically, to the same people) were again congratulating themselves. Only on that occasion, the Cup came our way.
There's not much more I can say. I'm just so disappointed right now.

 

Tags: america's cup
Current Location: Auckland, New Zealand
Current Mood: crushed
Current Music: The sad, sad music of defeat

Tomorrow sees Race 7 of the America's Cup - it was to be held this morning but had to be postponed as the winds were too calm. New Zealand is really under pressure, as to have any chance of carrying off the Cup, they will have to win all three remaining races.
Opinions differ as to the possibility of the America's Cup returning to NZ after this regatta. In one internet poll, 55% of respondents said they didn't think we could do it. Poppycock, I say. For to say it is impossible to win the Cup this time is to ascribe impossibility to this task, which doesn't make sense. It must be do-able. Therefore, we have an equal chance of doing it. 
I'm not the only one to hold this opinion. Several TV commentators and yachtsmen involved in the Cup this year say there is nothing to choose between us and Alinghi. We have a good boat; they have a good boat. We have the skills; they have the skills. We have on board several expert NZ sailors, all of whom have honed their sailing skills on the waters of the North Shore of New Zealand; and, as it happens, Alinghi ALSO have on board several NZ...well, you know what I mean.
And New Zealanders are used to uphill battles. You only have to think of Sir Edmund Hillary on Mount Everest, or, much later, Chris Lewis' epic struggle against Johan Criek in the semi-final at Wimbledon in 1984 to know that. New Zealanders haven't just experienced Struggle Street - we more-or-less invented it.
But there is one question hanging over our heads, though - one that I wonder if it has any bearing on our chances of carrying off the Cup. It's this - do we think we can do it? And if Team New Zealand thinks we think we can (stay with me, here), will that make any difference to the psychological advantage they may have over Alinghi?
Several America's Cup campaigns ago, advertisements showed up on television depicting ordinary Kiwis listening to coverage of the race on television or radio, then going outside and blowing - the idea that they were supporting the New Zealand team by blowing wind into their sails. I liked the slogan. It had something to do with New Zealand's team having 'three million Kiwis sailing with them'.
So what I'm wondering is this. Does the support we give at home literally 'put wind' into our Kiwi sails at the America's Cup? Can our negative or positive attitudes make a difference, especially with the world being so small mowadays because of the Internet? And as small as the sample size may or may not be, when Grant Dalton and Co. read the results of a poll which tells them 55% of New Zealanders don't think they can win the Cup, does that negative energy really MEAN something?
My point (and I do have one) is that people who care at all about the America's Cup should try to think positive, even in the current climate. Yes, it looks bad, but by no means hopeless. At one stage, Alinghi were thought to be sunk (no pun intended) because we were three up on them. They came back to win three-in-a-row, and get themselves into a very positive position. As I said before, it is therefore do-able - and we can do it.
So come on, Kiwis. The boys need to know that we support them. Send them an email, sign any goodwill messages that are going around, and if you are a journalist, try to find a positive spin on the current situation. When the subject comes up in conversation, talk positively about our chances of winning. And for heaven's sake, if you are asked to take part in a poll on the America's Cup, make sure you are one of the 45% who at least think we can do it.
Because we just might. And I don't know about you, but I definitely want to be one of the 4 million Kiwis sailing with them WHEN (not 'if', WHEN) Grant Dalton and the boys sail across that finish line and carry off the Cup.
Because I believe they can.

Tags: america's cup, positive thinking
Current Location: The lounge at my place
Current Music: BBC World Theme