Like a macabre Bo Peep. . . (PG for illness)
. . . I carry a bucket wherever I go.
Things that have caused me to vomit:
1. Walking past food.
2. Sitting at a table (as opposed to lying down, which is where I am for twenty hours of each day).
3. Taking a shower.
4. Brushing my teeth.
Last Friday my period would have been due. One of the best things about pregnancy is having no periods. I was especially looking forward to that, since Curtis women have rather nasty periods. However, I observed last time my period was due that I had absolutely everything I’d normally have in a period – cramps, illness, etc – except the blood. This “period” was similarly unpleasant, except I’m much sicker than I was a month ago.
And so it was that I threw up, on myself, in front of a student (he’s fine; handily distracted by going downstairs to play with Ana, and by my ability to calmly converse while spewing).
The rule of thumb is that if you can’t keep anything down, you go to hospital. Since I was throwing up water, and had lost over three kilos in two weeks (it’s now 5.5 kilos in three weeks), I thought, “Maybe I’ve done enough now and can get better treatment.” My doctor was closed for the weekend, so I found a health advice line to ask whether I should go to hospital or not.
The lady on the advice line asked a few questions about other minor symptoms (some of which I knew could be portentous), then said, “Yes you should go to hospital – within the next four hours.” I figured something had thrown up a red flag, and wasn’t concerned – just hopeful that I’d get me some more betterer drugs.
When we saw a doctor, she did absolutely no tests (not even for dehydration) and said, “Yeah, those health lines tell every pregnant woman to come in – otherwise you might have an unrelated miscarriage and sue them.” (Something which, incidentally, clearly didn’t concern HER.)
And that was our second hospital visit. The doctor did say a lot of women improve in week ten (that’d be one week from now), which I’m clinging to in hope despite the fact she was almost certainly lying through her teeth in order to get rid of me more quickly. She also made the valid point that hospital doctors don’t know me, and can’t treat me as well as my regular GP – who should be “monitoring” me.
And so it was that my Mum made a Tuesday (yesterday) appointment with the doctor who has treated my entire immediate family since time immemorial (ie NOT the one who said if I was “really sick” I’d have acupuncture).
Usually mornings are my best time, but the whole “period” period had been unusually bad, and I was unable to eat at all that morning. I had a shower and threw up – nothing but bile and air, since there was nothing else (I also hadn’t had anything for dinner the previous night, and nothing but an energy drink for lunch the previous day).
Mum picked me up and drove me the half hour to my childhood doctor. I told the doctor I was pregnant; she was thrilled (she knew I was trying – she keeps up to date with all our family gossip). I told her I was on Maxolon but still hideously ill; she immediately prescribed stronger drugs (namely, Ondaz Zydis). Then we had a brief chat about how barbaric it is that medical professionals continue to say, “Oh, you’re pregnant. Whatever illness you’re going through is therefore normal.”
So here I am at Week 9, on much better drugs. I ate solid food for dinner last night (for the first time in two weeks), then got overexcited and brushed my teeth like a mad fool. That didn’t end well.
At this stage, I don’t know if I can stomach a second pregnancy (probably I can, considering I get a human being at the end). I do know I’ll be seeing a doctor who actually believes me when I say I’m sick, and who cares enough to want to make it stop.
In unrelated pleasant news, a children’s book I wrote was shortlisted (ie it came either third or fourth) in the “Voices on the Coast” contest. That’s the third time one of my novels has placed in a contest (all different novels, too).
Piper’s Lookout
Way back in Summer, when CJ and I were on our way back from our Merimbula holiday, we stopped off about half an hour along the road to admire Piper’s Lookout.
Mr Piper was (by all accounts) an heroic busdriver who traversed the mountain road hundreds of times. The lookout is beautiful, with panoramic views and winding paths into the trees.
Guide to the Australian Bogan
Bogans. They’re everywhere. There’s a little bit of bogan in all of us – unfortunately.
Some of the major types of bogan:
1. The standard bogan.
The standard bogan is a little like the American redneck, with a strong smattering of white trash thrown in. They are usually country dwellers (easily spotted by the broader Australian accent), undereducated, and overopinionated. Standard bogans move in packs and are suspicious of all outsiders.
A bogan woman’s purpose is to catch a man and have little bogans. She achieves this goal by being (often artificially) blonde, (often artificially) tanned, and by wearing as little fabric as is legally possible. Once married, she has achieved her life goal and can either (a) Stop worrying about her appearance ever again, or (b) Become rapidly pickled in her teen-queen state, maintaining it as long as possible despite having an inceasingly leathery skin texture. The most bogan female name is Sharon, aka “Shazza”.
A bogan man’s purpose is to have beer, and sex. He will probably require some kind of blue collar work and/or the dole to achieve this. The most bogan male name is Barry, aka “Bazza”. I once met a couple called Barry and Sharon (not their fault).
2. The travelling bogan.
The travelling bogan goes to Bali, wears even less clothes than usual (probably literally unaware that Bali is part of the Scary and Muslim nation of Indonesia), talks loudly, gets even more tanned and/or drunk, and if female gets their hair done in those tiny braids.
Although this bogan is probably the second-most embarrassing bogan, they never leave the Kuta Beach area and hang out mainly in Australian bars. They are thus largely familiar and harmless to the residents (who can simply avoid them when they’re dangerously drunk, ie awake). Unlike. . .
3. The nationalistic bogan.
Most Australians are frankly suspicious of nationalistic fervour – after all, it’s precisely what killed most of our indigenous people. (We only turn patriotic in response to absurd claims of superiority from other nations, which are patently untrue.) We are a “new” country (99% of the population arrived in the last two hundred years), as well as being emotionally tied to Britain and the USA, but physically tied to a whole bunch of countries that are utterly different to us (with the exception of New Zealand, which we love like they love sheep). This makes Australia one of the most multicultural nations on Earth.
The nationalistic bogan has a huge problem with this, and strenuously objects to “all those foreigners” who should “go back where they came from”. To which our indigenous people roll their eyes and say, “Wouldn’t that have been nice?”
4. The ironic bogan.
All Australians have an Australian accent. All Australians live a slightly sheltered life (we’re an island, after all). All Australians are dumb sometimes. All Australians – like all people – are a little bit racist. Some of us choose to remind ourselves we’re not so smart after all by embracing the harmless side of being bogan. Here’s a beginner’s guide:
“Australia” is pronounced “Straya”.
“Target” (a cheap clothing chain) is pronounced “Tar-shay”.
“Champagne” is pronounced “Champers” or “Sham-PAG-nee”.
This picture is of Felicity Ward, a comedian from Woy Woy, who is an ironic bogan.
5. The cashed-up bogan
This type of bogan has a lot in common with the denizens of the Jersey Shore (I’m basing this on ads for the show). They have money, but no taste. Think leopard print, extreme plastic surgery, and unironic white-person bling. Somehow, the C.U.B. STILL doesn’t actually have a job.
Note: The New Zealand bogan, in sharp contrast to the Australian bogan, tends to be OVER-educated, to fit badly into most social groups (generally because of overintelligence and/or a lack of respect for the fashions handed down from on high), and to be more accepting of other outsiders.
A New Zealand metalhead bogan, my friend SteffMetal.com:
Victorian London
http://www.victorianlondon.org/ is packed with wonderfully vivid primary sources. If you used a book like “Victorian London” by Liza Picard to get an overview, then read through the bits of this site that appealed, I think you’d have an excellent sense of the time and place.
Here’s what the site has on rain, for example:
He who has not seen it rain in London, has not seen London; and I had this pleasure the morning I went to see the Tunnel under the Thames. Then I understood how, in such weather, one can be seized with the temptation to give one’s self a pistol shot. The houses drip as if sweating; the water seems not only to descend from the heavens, but also to ooze from the walls and ground; the sombre colors of the buildings turn yet gloomier and take on an oleaginous look; the beginnings of the streets seem like entrances to grottos; everything seems foul, used up, mouldy, and sinister; the eye knows not whither to turn, not to meet something disagreeable; one feels shudderings, which have the effect of a sudden attack of misfortune; one feels an irksome sense of weariness, a disgust with everything, an inexpressible wish to go out like a lamp from this weary world.
Edmondo de Amicis Jottings about London (trans), 1883
It also has plenty of maps like this one, from 1899:
Ten Reasons to Rewrite that Scene
By The Intern.
The article is here.
Top Ten Reasons You Should Rewrite That Scene
10. The scene is not really a scene.
Your scene is not a scene if nothing has changed by the end of it.
Your scene is not a scene if there was no internal or external conflict, no matter how subtle.
Your scene is not a scene if you were too timid to let anything dangerous happen.
Your scene is not a scene if you were too cautious to let anything unexpected happen.
Your scene is not a scene if the reader is banging her head against the wall saying “What was the point of that stupid scene?”
Basically, your scene is not a scene.
9. The scene doesn’t achieve anything new.
Does your scene introduce important new plot information? How about new emotional information? Are the characters’ relationships developing? Or is this scene just rehashing material you’ve already covered in other scenes? You might have a case of scenis redundanitus (see here for INTERN’s post on that subject). If your scene doesn’t bring anything new to the table, what’s it doing in your story?
8. The scene isn’t “worse” enough.
Read more here.
And here’s my older cat’s response to the prodigal’s return:
Guess who just walked in?
She was very hungry (but not thirsty), and slightly damp.
Wiser? Well, we’ll see. . .
“Grimsdon” by Debora Abela
Generally when I go to a writing con, I try to read as many of the participants’ books as possible before I go. I didn’t read any of Debora Abela‘s books pre-con, because she’s best known for “Max Remy Super-Spy”, which is too young even for me (my reading level is about 9 and up 🙂 ).
But then she opened her comments by saying, “All kids’ writers face the problem of what to do with the parents. In Grimsdon it was very simple – I killed them.”
Naturally, that meant I had to read it. As a bonus, it’s set in a flooded city, and is written for a slightly older age group than her other books.
I was right to be excited: the world is haunting and brilliant (I especially loved the underwater scenes), and the obvious Global Warming theme is brought up without massive preaching.
The characters and writing style are great too, with plenty of tension between the young protagonists.
There’s just one problem: the plot. The book survives on the Rule of Cool – implausibility in fiction is fine as long as it creates a truly awesome situation or world – but the resolution completely backs off from coolness to good sense. Worst of all, it makes 90% of what the characters have been through utterly pointless.
I think non-writers would be a lot less sensitive to this flaw – at worst, they’d feel mildly disappointed by the ending. But it was a real shame all the same.
The book is winning a whole bunch of awards all the same.
Right now I’m re-re-re-reading one of the “Samurai Kids” series by Sandy Fussell, which is aimed at around 9-year olds while simultaneously being one of the best (even the most literary*) series I have ever read.
*without ever being boring.
Belucci’s Restaurant
It’s a pretty, pretty Italian place in Woden (Canberra). CJ and I ate there last week in an effort to entice my body to take on more food. It worked well at the time.
I love all the wood, glass, and brick – with highlights of marble and steel. One of our friends did the lighting. This photo was taken with CJ’s phone, and doesn’t do it justice.
We took photos of the (rather nice) food, but I can’t stand to look at them again, sorry.
Pregnant women are infamous for vivid dreams. Last night, between 1am and 8am, I dreamed the following:
A pleasant afternoon with my long-dead grandparents; sneaking lemonade cordial into a radio station where I was due to read out 1 Kings (from the Bible); the pregnancy side-effect of mushrooms growing out of my hair, forehead, and the roof of my mouth (that dream also featured Lily and Marshall from “How I Met Your Mother) – oh, and my blood turned green; kissing a girl (who was displeased that I’d suddenly turned goth since we began dating); learning to drive a big rig during Christmas traffic.
*shrug*
The fears
These are/were my fears, in roughly chronological order:
1. Infertility.
Well THAT’S no longer an issue 🙂 I did gain 7 kilos from the mere thought, all the same (handily, I’m so sick I’m losing weight faster than a crash diet. . . yay?)
2. Miscarriage.
Not a big issue – plus, again, the intense nausea is reassuring.
3. Annoying strangers approaching me to tell their labor horror stories. My plan for this goes as follows:
Random stranger: Are you pregnant?
Me: Yep! Fifth time lucky – well, fifth child. Third pregnancy.
Random stranger: You had. . . triplets?
Me: Yep. See you later.
I’ll let you know if it works.
I gathered horror stories from friends pre-pregnancy (some are truly horrific) as a kind of innoculation.
Wacky conversations so far:
One friend seemed to suggest that I should go on a raw-food diet. To which I say HAH!
Another friend told me she was throwing up so much all through her pregnancy that she lost three stone and was eventually induced. (Had a great birth, though.) At the time, I thought, “Well, *I* won’t be constantly throwing up.”
One person (who has a gift for giving terror-inducing reassurance) told me (the pregnant woman with the anxiety disorder), “The most important thing about labor is you MUST STAY CALM. Otherwise your body releases adrenalin, and it hurts SO much more. And don’t scrunch up your face at all, either – that tightens things “down there”, and completely screws up the whole process.”
4. Labor itself (just not thinking about it).
5. Some kind of deformity (see two weeks ago for the squid baby – which CJ and I would love JUST AS MUCH), particularly one that took away Mini-Me’s chance to become independent one day (for his/her sake and for mine).
6. I accidentally maim or kill the child (or, less scary, something or someone else accidentally maims or kills them).
7. Colic. CJ was, and my niece was too (but she was treatable). I’m not a huge fan of screaming – and I hate the thought of my baby being in pain for months on end.
8. Kid is rude/rotten/mean/in pain/grows to hate me. Bound to happen. All I can do is my best, and choose to accept that they’re an individual in their own right. They’re my responsibility (less so as they grow older), but not an extension of me. I am not just a mother – I am also a wife, writer, friend, and human being.
9. Mini-Me is mentally ill – like me, my mum, and her mum. (I think I’m the worst – but hopefully that’s because my biodad was somewhat useless, and left when I was tiny. Which is enormously encouraging, because CJ is brilliant – very much the same type of man as my second Dad, who did a fine job raising me.) There are some things we can do to ameliorate mental illness and/or reduce the chance of passing it on. I can teach resilience by modelling, by letting my child fall and learn to stand up, and by valuing contentment over being unusual/special/hyper-meaningful (in my opinion, writing/art/dancing/etc is very bad for mental health). Whatever happens, I made the choice long ago that if they ended up like me, they were still a worthwhile individual who deserved to exist.
10. Kid has ADD – like his father and grandfather. It’s not a big fear, and we can help it by not letting them near a TV or computer screen for the first two years. (Or at least, we can try.)
That WAS my list. You’ll notice nausea didn’t even make the top ten. So much for that.
Today I’m at 8 weeks, which means I’ve dealt with two weeks of nausea and I probably have four to go. Next week I’ll be halfway.
I’m sleeping about twelve hours a day, which certainly helps. Thanks to Maxolon, I’m able to eat or drink something three times a day.
In unrelated unpleasant news, our younger cat Ana has been missing since Saturday. I don’t have high hopes for her.
If you are in the Woden area or Northern Tuggeranong, please keep an eye out. She is tortoiseshell and white, semi-longhaired, with two large bells on a collar around her neck.
Sandcastle
From my not-so-secret vault of spare awesomeness:
This type of sandcastle requires a meeting of sand, water and something solid. You make it by scooping up very wet sand and drizzling it onto a solid surface. My mum taught me how.
The beach is Bar Beach (I think) at Merimbula in January this year.
Felicity Banks 