One of the difficulties with moving to a new country/state/city/neighborhood (if in SF) is not knowing how to read the weather. Each morning, I look out the window and try to guess what the day will bring. Thick heavy clouds and wind should equal cold and raining. Brilliant blue sky and breeze should equal warm. But it's Melbourne where the weather is, as they say, changeable. Adding to my weather confusion is the fact that at work I sit by wonderfully large windows, which offer fabulous views of trees and sky, and under the less-than-wonderful air conditioning vent. It can be downright cold at my desk - chilling, sneezing cold.
Yesterday, I watched as the trees outside the window threatened to join me at my desk, invited in by a viscious wind. The heavy grey clouds lit the middle of day as if it was dusk. Imagine my shock when I stepped outside at 5pm into a sauna. The air seemed to have taken on a personality - that of a sulky, brooding, tempestuous child. It was thick and tropical. The wind rushed in ferocious bursts blowing dust into my eyes. And then it began to rain a little - or more correctly, occasional drops of water hurtled from the sky. The result felt like pins and needles as cold droplets hit very warm skin.
When we got home around 11pm, the thermometer on the Abruzzo club's sign said it was 27C. And today? It's been beautifully sunny and breezy - and cool; this morning it was 16C. I may just have to concede this match: Melbourne weather 2, Bartlebee 0.
November 22, 2006
November 19, 2006
Where you from?
My job has reduced me to once-a-week blogging. The company has all the bells and whistles to prevent me from doing anything other than work while at work - with the exception of Troublonia and Sassyass, I can read no blogs nor gmail nor any other fun sites. And last week I discovered that emails containing profanity are also blocked - Z tried to send me an email about the American election, an email that contained the words, Fuck Yeah. As Si says, we'll have to start spelling it phuck instead. Remind me to never work for a company that mistrusts its employees so overtly (temping doesn't count).
There's a man that sits near me with a North American accent. I found out the other day that he's from Canada - thank god I didn't just say, Where in the States are you from? I hear Canadians will turn you into a bear skin rug if you do that. I find his accent comforting and familiar. My ears are now primed to hear North American while I'm walking through the Melbourne streets - just like my ears pick up any Kiwi/Aussie accents while I'm in San Francisco. It's another reminder of how I'm neither one nor the other, but somewhere inbetween. Ameralian? Australican?
Z and I were discussing citizenship the other night and decided that what makes someone a certain nationality is when the actions of that country are embarrassing - when you feel vaguely responsible for the stupid things you read about on the news. I know that I've always felt that way about Australia - the Whites Only immigration policy, kowtowing to Bush's agenda, etc. - though it has faded in the last few years. But when Bush does something idiotic, I don't feel a sense of personal responsibility or shame. Despite what my passports might say, I am perhaps not yet truly American.
I am American enough to host Thanksgiving though. No way am I passing up on that holiday! We have to hold it on Saturday so that I have enough time to cook - I think the plan is to start on Wednesday night. Also on Saturday I get - no, have to vote. This will be a first for me - I have never in all my thirty years cast a vote in a political election. Will I feel more connected to this place afterwards? More ready to feel shame? Maybe. But I'm sure it's nothing a few pieces of pumpkin pie won't cure.
There's a man that sits near me with a North American accent. I found out the other day that he's from Canada - thank god I didn't just say, Where in the States are you from? I hear Canadians will turn you into a bear skin rug if you do that. I find his accent comforting and familiar. My ears are now primed to hear North American while I'm walking through the Melbourne streets - just like my ears pick up any Kiwi/Aussie accents while I'm in San Francisco. It's another reminder of how I'm neither one nor the other, but somewhere inbetween. Ameralian? Australican?
Z and I were discussing citizenship the other night and decided that what makes someone a certain nationality is when the actions of that country are embarrassing - when you feel vaguely responsible for the stupid things you read about on the news. I know that I've always felt that way about Australia - the Whites Only immigration policy, kowtowing to Bush's agenda, etc. - though it has faded in the last few years. But when Bush does something idiotic, I don't feel a sense of personal responsibility or shame. Despite what my passports might say, I am perhaps not yet truly American.
I am American enough to host Thanksgiving though. No way am I passing up on that holiday! We have to hold it on Saturday so that I have enough time to cook - I think the plan is to start on Wednesday night. Also on Saturday I get - no, have to vote. This will be a first for me - I have never in all my thirty years cast a vote in a political election. Will I feel more connected to this place afterwards? More ready to feel shame? Maybe. But I'm sure it's nothing a few pieces of pumpkin pie won't cure.
November 10, 2006
Be still my beating heart
Today I feel vaguely human. This may not sound like the vast improvement that it is. Yesterday was an out-of-body experience. And Tuesday and Wednesday were so completely full of fear that I could barely think or feel or breathe. Today, I managed to make at least one joke and then giggle about it. I've struggled over whether or not to blog about this, but considering it's a pretty major thing, I've decided to write it out.
On Monday night I got home late after spending an hour and a half talking with the professor at Melbourne Uni with whom I hope to work. After wolfing down half a roast chicken from the shop around the corner, Z and I sat relaxing on the couch. He had had a particularly shitty day and I was trying to cheer him up. Suddenly, my heart did a strange little hiccup thing, the thing it's done every couple of months for many years - but this was the first time it happened while I was sitting up, not lying on my back. It's a lurching gurgle that feels like a pooling in my chest, but it's usually over so fast that I barely have time to register panic before I'm fine. This time was different: it kept going. I put my hand on my neck to feel my pulse in an effort to figure out what was going on. I could feel it steadily beating until it wasn't beating - then it would pick up again - and then stop - and then start - and stop. It kept on going like this and my breath started to catch, so I took a few deep breaths mainly to see if I could. Z and I were continuing to chat, though he stopped and asked me if I was taking my pulse. I said yes - and then, "My heart's doing this... thing." It kept on doing that thing for a couple of minutes but then settled back to it's normal rhythm. And then I felt completely fine. Z, however, was aghast, mainly because I had never mentioned this to anyone particularly someone with a medical degree. I really have never thought much of it; figured that lots of people have funny things like that happen to their hearts. It had been getting more frequent, though, and had firmly made it onto my mental mention-when-I-next-see-a-doctor list.
Z asked what we should do. I had no idea. I was sitting there on the couch in my pyjamas feeling perfectly fine. I was joking about the incident, down-playing it. It was late, after 9:30, on a night before a state holiday. I didn't know who to call, so I tried my mum (out of town, mobile off), my step-mom (mobile not working) and my dad (I sent him a text). Then I noticed a deep and subtle ache in my chest. It was at that moment that I truly understood the gravity of what had happened - truly got that my heart had just acted very strangely. My heart: that vital organ that pumps that vital fluid to the rest of my vital body. This, I decided, was not something to be messed with. Knee pangs can and should be ignored; heart hiccups are not in the same category.
So I got dressed and threw some things (large sudoku, book) into a bag and told Z that I thought we better go to a hospital. He suggested I call first. I pulled open the phone book (look what dial-up will reduce a person to!) and tried the Royal Women's Hospital but the number was no longer in service. So, I tried another number and after an age it was answered by a woman at the Royal Melbourne Hospital. She gave the number of an advice nurse. After ten minutes a very calming and friendly nurse came on the line. He asked me a bunch of questions in a soothing tone and then put me on hold. He came back on the line less than a minute later and uttered the very ominous words, "Now, I don't want you to panic". He proceeded to tell me that he was calling an ambulance. I panicked. Completely. My hands started shaking, my jaw locked, I grinned (like lots of other animals, I smile when I'm scared), I stopped thinking. I do remember asking if that was completely necessary - couldn't I just drive myself in? "Noooo," he replied. "We don't want to peel you off from around a tree."
Z jumped into gear, packing a bag with toothbrush, books. He opened the front door and turned on the porch light; I sat on the couch trying to get a grip on myself. Not too long later, the paramedics arrived at the house. I walked to the door to let them in, still shaking with anxiety. I had been able to tell myself that nothing bad was happening right up until the word "ambulance" had joined the evening. Since then, I had been literally a nervous wreck.
The paramedics were very nice, also equipped with calming voices. I remember them walking in and saying, "Madhavi?" I think one of the first questions they asked was how old I was - it was a nice question that I knew the answer to. They stuck some electrodes to my chest and asked what had happened. I explained as best I could. My hands continued to shake and I kept thinking about how stress causes heart problems, that I needed to calm down, but even the words "heart problem" wound me up.
They took my pulse. The EKG read-out came back fine. They explained that this happens to a fair number of people, and went on to chat about several people they work with who have arrhythmias. They tried to blame it on caffeine - but I'd had my normal three cups of tea during the day, the last one around 3:30pm (it was now after 10pm). They suggested chocolate, alcohol and smoking none of which I had used that day. They even tried for jet lag but we explained that we'd flown in from NZ and that a two-hour time change simply cannot last three weeks! At this point, I was starting to calm down; I think I'd lost some of the big-eyed panic that I've been told about in every SCUBA class I've ever taken.
Eventually they left, telling me to see my GP soon - not Tuesday because it was a holiday; Wednesday would be fine. Z has brought up this point several times since in an effort to reassure me: they did not take me to hospital then and there, they did not even insist I see someone as soon as possible. Just soon.
I've been so attuned to my chest ever since - I feel everything, analyze everything. As instructed, I went to see a doctor on Wednesday who sent me off for a bunch of blood tests. I will wear a shoulder halter EKG for 24 hours in December (the earliest one is available). I only hope that I will get some answers, though I'm not at all sure that I will. I guess ruling out major things will be fine, too.
The panicky fear is still present, but I don't feel it all the time. I'm remembering that a cup of tea or a piece of chocolate does not mean that I will immediately drop dead. And the worst exhaustion from the shock of it all appears to have passed - that was yesterday when I had to fast before getting my blood taken. Me and fasting don't get along at the best of times, and this has certainly not been the best of times.
So, there's no need to panic. Seriously. Lots of people really do have heart arrhythmias. And if I can not panic, so can you.
On Monday night I got home late after spending an hour and a half talking with the professor at Melbourne Uni with whom I hope to work. After wolfing down half a roast chicken from the shop around the corner, Z and I sat relaxing on the couch. He had had a particularly shitty day and I was trying to cheer him up. Suddenly, my heart did a strange little hiccup thing, the thing it's done every couple of months for many years - but this was the first time it happened while I was sitting up, not lying on my back. It's a lurching gurgle that feels like a pooling in my chest, but it's usually over so fast that I barely have time to register panic before I'm fine. This time was different: it kept going. I put my hand on my neck to feel my pulse in an effort to figure out what was going on. I could feel it steadily beating until it wasn't beating - then it would pick up again - and then stop - and then start - and stop. It kept on going like this and my breath started to catch, so I took a few deep breaths mainly to see if I could. Z and I were continuing to chat, though he stopped and asked me if I was taking my pulse. I said yes - and then, "My heart's doing this... thing." It kept on doing that thing for a couple of minutes but then settled back to it's normal rhythm. And then I felt completely fine. Z, however, was aghast, mainly because I had never mentioned this to anyone particularly someone with a medical degree. I really have never thought much of it; figured that lots of people have funny things like that happen to their hearts. It had been getting more frequent, though, and had firmly made it onto my mental mention-when-I-next-see-a-doctor list.
Z asked what we should do. I had no idea. I was sitting there on the couch in my pyjamas feeling perfectly fine. I was joking about the incident, down-playing it. It was late, after 9:30, on a night before a state holiday. I didn't know who to call, so I tried my mum (out of town, mobile off), my step-mom (mobile not working) and my dad (I sent him a text). Then I noticed a deep and subtle ache in my chest. It was at that moment that I truly understood the gravity of what had happened - truly got that my heart had just acted very strangely. My heart: that vital organ that pumps that vital fluid to the rest of my vital body. This, I decided, was not something to be messed with. Knee pangs can and should be ignored; heart hiccups are not in the same category.
So I got dressed and threw some things (large sudoku, book) into a bag and told Z that I thought we better go to a hospital. He suggested I call first. I pulled open the phone book (look what dial-up will reduce a person to!) and tried the Royal Women's Hospital but the number was no longer in service. So, I tried another number and after an age it was answered by a woman at the Royal Melbourne Hospital. She gave the number of an advice nurse. After ten minutes a very calming and friendly nurse came on the line. He asked me a bunch of questions in a soothing tone and then put me on hold. He came back on the line less than a minute later and uttered the very ominous words, "Now, I don't want you to panic". He proceeded to tell me that he was calling an ambulance. I panicked. Completely. My hands started shaking, my jaw locked, I grinned (like lots of other animals, I smile when I'm scared), I stopped thinking. I do remember asking if that was completely necessary - couldn't I just drive myself in? "Noooo," he replied. "We don't want to peel you off from around a tree."
Z jumped into gear, packing a bag with toothbrush, books. He opened the front door and turned on the porch light; I sat on the couch trying to get a grip on myself. Not too long later, the paramedics arrived at the house. I walked to the door to let them in, still shaking with anxiety. I had been able to tell myself that nothing bad was happening right up until the word "ambulance" had joined the evening. Since then, I had been literally a nervous wreck.
The paramedics were very nice, also equipped with calming voices. I remember them walking in and saying, "Madhavi?" I think one of the first questions they asked was how old I was - it was a nice question that I knew the answer to. They stuck some electrodes to my chest and asked what had happened. I explained as best I could. My hands continued to shake and I kept thinking about how stress causes heart problems, that I needed to calm down, but even the words "heart problem" wound me up.
They took my pulse. The EKG read-out came back fine. They explained that this happens to a fair number of people, and went on to chat about several people they work with who have arrhythmias. They tried to blame it on caffeine - but I'd had my normal three cups of tea during the day, the last one around 3:30pm (it was now after 10pm). They suggested chocolate, alcohol and smoking none of which I had used that day. They even tried for jet lag but we explained that we'd flown in from NZ and that a two-hour time change simply cannot last three weeks! At this point, I was starting to calm down; I think I'd lost some of the big-eyed panic that I've been told about in every SCUBA class I've ever taken.
Eventually they left, telling me to see my GP soon - not Tuesday because it was a holiday; Wednesday would be fine. Z has brought up this point several times since in an effort to reassure me: they did not take me to hospital then and there, they did not even insist I see someone as soon as possible. Just soon.
I've been so attuned to my chest ever since - I feel everything, analyze everything. As instructed, I went to see a doctor on Wednesday who sent me off for a bunch of blood tests. I will wear a shoulder halter EKG for 24 hours in December (the earliest one is available). I only hope that I will get some answers, though I'm not at all sure that I will. I guess ruling out major things will be fine, too.
The panicky fear is still present, but I don't feel it all the time. I'm remembering that a cup of tea or a piece of chocolate does not mean that I will immediately drop dead. And the worst exhaustion from the shock of it all appears to have passed - that was yesterday when I had to fast before getting my blood taken. Me and fasting don't get along at the best of times, and this has certainly not been the best of times.
So, there's no need to panic. Seriously. Lots of people really do have heart arrhythmias. And if I can not panic, so can you.
November 08, 2006
Engaged
On the tram on the way home from work the other day, I looked out the window into the gardens and saw a statue of a man who looks like he's in the middle of a wind-up to throwing the hammer: his knees are bent at right angles and he's leaning back as if against a great weight, almost into a sitting position. The only point anchoring the figure to the ground are his toes, but the weight is all on one side in a way that defies gravity. I remember that statue from way back when I used to live in Melbourne and I'm pretty sure I've even described it to various people in the States. And there it is again, out the window on my way home from work.
And that perfectly sums up what it's like to return to a city you used to live in once long, long ago - a place where they almost speak a different language: vaguely familiar things keep appearing. On Friday night, I walked into the women's restroom at the bar behind some girls who were chatting about the fact that last time they came in, all the stalls were engaged. It took my beer-heavy head a while to remember that engaged = occupied. And chockah means full and a dunny is a toilet and a pot is a half-pint (though I have no idea how to order a pint!) and one doesn't call someone back, one rings them back. And Uni and school are not the same thing; school is for children. It's hard keeping all of this straight and I grew up here.
And that perfectly sums up what it's like to return to a city you used to live in once long, long ago - a place where they almost speak a different language: vaguely familiar things keep appearing. On Friday night, I walked into the women's restroom at the bar behind some girls who were chatting about the fact that last time they came in, all the stalls were engaged. It took my beer-heavy head a while to remember that engaged = occupied. And chockah means full and a dunny is a toilet and a pot is a half-pint (though I have no idea how to order a pint!) and one doesn't call someone back, one rings them back. And Uni and school are not the same thing; school is for children. It's hard keeping all of this straight and I grew up here.
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