You’d laugh to see us on the street The scooter, me, my doggies dear The small one, Wookie, leads the way The big one, Rudy, in the rear. They’re both tied up, I’m sad to say, Can’t trust either not to stray, Rudy cos he hunts down chooks. That’s cost me dearly. As for Wook,…
Tag: MS
On the death of Gillian Mears
So, Gillian Mears is dead. Mears was an award-winning Australian writer of novels and short stories, and last year released a children’s book. She lived on her property near Grafton, NSW, with a horse she wasn’t able to ride and a cat. She had MS.
A sprinkle of charged glitter
Neuralgia again. Or is it? I’ve written about neuralgia—nerve pain—before, but this time it’s different. In the past it has started slowly—the occasional subtle ping, gaining in intensity and frequency, rising to a crescendo of penetrating stabs, seconds apart, with little relief between. Then subsiding again over hours, or a few days at most. But…
Scandi-voir
We’re on the ferry from Puttgarden, Germany, to Copenhagen. Bleak skies, choppy, grey water, the mournful cries of gulls. Grim Scandinavians frown into their shot glasses around me while I sit in the bar, reading. Then, from somewhere unseen, Wallander’s ringtone. I know it’s not Sweden—not quite—but my stomach drops. It always portends some alarming…
Don’t be sorry! Ask away.
I was at our doggie playgroup last Wednesday afternoon, talking to Rose (another human), and mentioned MS in passing. Dean had been listening. ‘So, is that what you’ve got? MS?’ He was new to the group and we hadn’t had that conversation yet. ‘Yep.’ I gave him that wry, weary smile. If you have MS,…
To sleep, perchance.
Hush, the babies are sleeping, the farmers, the fishers, the tradesmen and pensioners, cobbler, schoolteacher, postman and publican, the undertaker and the fancy woman, drunkard, dressmaker, preacher, policeman … And the anthracite statues of the horses sleep in the fields, and the cows in the byres, and the dogs in the wet-nosed yards; and the…
Mud, sweat and fears
I often think of Nelson Mandela as I wait, door ajar, for my shower to warm up. I have done so for years, ever since I read his autobiography. Mandela, imprisoned on Robben Island, had to endure cold showers for 30 years. It gets pretty icy on Robben Island. And I whinge about waiting 15…
Cooling my heels
If I do end up in a wheelchair, at least I’ll be able to wear nice shoes again. Are you shocked? I was, when I realised I’d had that thought. But I was having fond memories of working in Amsterdam in my mid-twenties, and how surprised and delighted I was to be able to walk…
A ring, a rock, an ambulance, an angel
Since I was 28 I have worn a ring on my right hand, a cabochon star ruby set in a gold band. Also known as corundum ruby, this complex, plum-coloured stone is the bedrock that nurtures ruby crystals – the bright, red, glassy stones more common in jewellery. In sunlight the hexagonal crystal structure shines…
It’s never boring
One hot summer’s day, years ago, I’d been out in the veggie garden doing some harvesting. Picture me, the flower-child – long floral skirt, tatty straw hat, basket filled with zucchinis, tomatoes, zucchinis, beans… more zucchinis… Anyway, I came inside and flopped down on the sofa, overheated and pooped, to give myself time to cool…