The other day I was busy working my checkout at the big green supermarket when I had an encounter of the 8-legged variety.
There I was scanning the customer's groceries when I suddenly became aware of squeals and shrieks very close at hand.
Looking up I noticed my female supervisor and the female customer, both with horrified looks on their faces, hopping around squeaking in fright.
At first I was puzzled, what had I'd done? Then I became aware of the breathless squeals of "spider, spider, spider". It took me a while to locate the fearsome beast that was causing such a panic...that's because it was TINY! about the size of a match head or a grain of rice. Its a variety that we, in Australia, call a 'jumping spider'. They're totally harmless! Not that you'd know it with the way these two women were carrying on! Before I knew it the panic had spread to the (Filipino) checkout girl who was standing behind me and she started squealing and trying to get away from me.
Where was I in this melee? I abandoned the groceries and began attempting to capture the wee beastie before the panic spread. I succeeded in catching it, then took it over to release it in one of the potted plants in the shopping centre. Crisis averted and I went back to work.
I've always been interested in natural history. As a kid I read books by people like Gerald Durrell, James Herriot and David Attenborough. Sadly not all my family members shared the fascination.
I grew up on an 800 acre sheep farm so there was always plenty of wildlife to study. I often found weird looking insects in the firewood pile. I'd load it into an old jam jar and race inside to show Mum the cool critter I found. I'd be so caught up in the moment that I generally ignored the face that Mum was halfway up the kitchen bench, hyperventilating, but trying to pretend interest. "um, yes dear" *gasp pant* "that's great" *pant, pant* "now, how about you let it go" *wheeze* "I'm sure it doesn't like being in that jar".
Mum and my sister are both major arachnophobes so I was regularly called in to rescue them from some crawlie beastie. They'd lock themselves in the bathroom. They took to stuffing towels under the bathroom door after one of my brothers threatened to stuff the spider under there with them.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
call me a fighter
What were you doing when you were 11 years old?
In Australia that's year 6, the second last year of Primary school.
When I was 11 years old an orthopedic surgeon told me that I would be in a wheelchair by the time I was 20. As if puberty wasn't bad enough. I'm being told that I face the rest of my life as a cripple. Well, its been 20 years or more since that shocking news. The good news is that I am up on two feet. I walk without help. Sure, they're not the prettiest pair of legs by any stretch of the imagination, however they get me where I need to go. That's why I call myself a fighter.
I have a condition known as Spondylolisthesis. Basically my entire spinal column had slipped off of my pelvis by up to 75%. I also had a very severe case of Knock-knees. I underwent four operations in the space of three years; spent a total of five weeks in hospital and missed many hours of school since we lived nearly five hours from the nearest surgeon. The bottome three vertebra of my spine have been bolted into my pelvis with titanium rods and screws and I have a pretty impressive collection of scars.
My parents handled the diagnosis in very different ways. My mother was very pragmatic, level headed and supported me unreservedly.
My father reacted badly. For months leading up to the doctors' visit he had refused to believe that I had a real, legitimate problem. Instead he yelled at me for being lazy and performed these horrible parodies where he'd stagger around, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth and making gurgling noises. After the initial diagnosis it seemed like he could not get out of the room fast enough. He only visited me once in hospital, never came to another medical appointment and would bolt every time I tried to start a conversation with him.
While my Mum busied herself with ferrying me back and forward to numerous tests, xrays and medical appointments- all while juggling three younger children (including a toddler and a baby). My father threw up a wall, put his fingers in his ears and tried to forget that I even existed. Like I was this massive embarrassment to him. The brilliant veterinary surgeon and geneticist couldn't even breed his kids right!
But, I survived all the surgery. I have some pretty impressive scars and I've been told that I walk with a hitch in my step. You know what? That doesn't matter to me now. What's important is that I beat the doctor's prognosis. I am walking. I don't need that wheelchair. I live with pain but I've learnt to push that to one side and keep on moving. Scars can be hidden under clothing and I can choose to tell people about my 'disability' or not. With all this titanium I'm carrying I reckon I'd be worth a great deal- going on current world metal prices -hope no one gets crazy ideas!
They might not be the best, most attractive set of feet but at least I can walk!
In Australia that's year 6, the second last year of Primary school.
When I was 11 years old an orthopedic surgeon told me that I would be in a wheelchair by the time I was 20. As if puberty wasn't bad enough. I'm being told that I face the rest of my life as a cripple. Well, its been 20 years or more since that shocking news. The good news is that I am up on two feet. I walk without help. Sure, they're not the prettiest pair of legs by any stretch of the imagination, however they get me where I need to go. That's why I call myself a fighter.
I have a condition known as Spondylolisthesis. Basically my entire spinal column had slipped off of my pelvis by up to 75%. I also had a very severe case of Knock-knees. I underwent four operations in the space of three years; spent a total of five weeks in hospital and missed many hours of school since we lived nearly five hours from the nearest surgeon. The bottome three vertebra of my spine have been bolted into my pelvis with titanium rods and screws and I have a pretty impressive collection of scars.
My parents handled the diagnosis in very different ways. My mother was very pragmatic, level headed and supported me unreservedly.
My father reacted badly. For months leading up to the doctors' visit he had refused to believe that I had a real, legitimate problem. Instead he yelled at me for being lazy and performed these horrible parodies where he'd stagger around, tongue hanging out the side of his mouth and making gurgling noises. After the initial diagnosis it seemed like he could not get out of the room fast enough. He only visited me once in hospital, never came to another medical appointment and would bolt every time I tried to start a conversation with him.
While my Mum busied herself with ferrying me back and forward to numerous tests, xrays and medical appointments- all while juggling three younger children (including a toddler and a baby). My father threw up a wall, put his fingers in his ears and tried to forget that I even existed. Like I was this massive embarrassment to him. The brilliant veterinary surgeon and geneticist couldn't even breed his kids right!
But, I survived all the surgery. I have some pretty impressive scars and I've been told that I walk with a hitch in my step. You know what? That doesn't matter to me now. What's important is that I beat the doctor's prognosis. I am walking. I don't need that wheelchair. I live with pain but I've learnt to push that to one side and keep on moving. Scars can be hidden under clothing and I can choose to tell people about my 'disability' or not. With all this titanium I'm carrying I reckon I'd be worth a great deal- going on current world metal prices -hope no one gets crazy ideas!
They might not be the best, most attractive set of feet but at least I can walk!
What's my story?
Okay. Who am I and what's my story?
I'm a 30+ female living in Western Australia. I set this blog up to tell my story.
I'm not doing it for fame or glory. I just think that I have some interesting stories to tell and this seems like a good place to tell them. So, I'm going to treat this blog kind of like an online diary. Feel free to read it, let me know what you think. Just don't abuse me for what I post.
I have stories about me. Stories about my family and some of my photography to post.
I'm a 30+ female living in Western Australia. I set this blog up to tell my story.
I'm not doing it for fame or glory. I just think that I have some interesting stories to tell and this seems like a good place to tell them. So, I'm going to treat this blog kind of like an online diary. Feel free to read it, let me know what you think. Just don't abuse me for what I post.
I have stories about me. Stories about my family and some of my photography to post.
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