The View from Elsewhere

A Room of One's Own with a View

This is the real estate post… yesterday I reached settlement on a townhouse in Alice. As you might remember, I’d been doing some research on the weekends for a while, thinking of buying into the local market as (1) I was about to be turfed off the Titanic and out of my government housing, and (2) the only real estate I ever thought I’d be able to afford in Sydney was a plot in Macquarie Park (from memory, it’s about $2,000 for a single).

I know that everything’s plunging down real estate-wise in Sydney and Melbourne, especially apartments, but as real estate is ‘land-locked’ in Alice for various reasons, it tends to plateau rather than drop. That’s my justification for buying into the market, anyway; really, I’m sick of moving (3 times in the last 18 months) and it would be nice to have a place to call one’s own.

My hive of frenzied real estate activity (actually, hive of frenzied activity, full stop) climaxed when I saw a townhouse advertised in the Friday paper before the Finke Desert race and long weekend. Thinking I was being very smart, I rang the agent on Fri afternoon and requested an inspection that day. I went round and yes, it was even better than a place on the Eastside on which I’d previously made an unsuccessful offer (and the asking price was $40 k cheaper). Altho not as modern as some of the Eastside townhouses (i.e. the groovy and definitely most expensive part of town), this Southside abode has a view of the ranges from the balcony and directly overlooks the Todd, is relatively sound and has a nice kitchen (as well as being only 5 mins from the CBD). It’s also close to the hospital and the resorts, so I figured it was unlikely to depreciate and that there would never be any shortage of potential rentees, should I leave town (and rental returns were at least 2 % more than the Eastside unit).

I organised to meet the agent on Sunday to make an offer (before anyone else had a chance). She asked me to think very carefully about it, and blabbed on about how the bidding on places had been crazy and well above the asking price during the summer... Well, the market looked like it had quietened down but I wondered if there was another message in her words, apart from ‘give us as much money as possible’. I asked if it was a deceased estate, and she said ‘yes’ so I thought, uh-huh, if I make an offer round the asking price, the public trustee will probably let it go straight through to save himself too much bother. I did just that and was successful in getting the place – and when it was valued by the bank, it turned out that the asking price was the valuer’s price, so that was a relief.

This was all a big relief as settlement could be worked to coincide with when I suspected the final sinking of the Titanic would occur. All this was done by the seat of my pants, skin of my teeth etc, (especially the bit where I gave the bank a defunct work contract, not being totally sure that I was going to get the job for which I’d just been interviewed.) There’s been much agonising along the way, too, but in the end, you just have to bite the bullet and run with it (cliches abounding). There has also been every possible administrative hiccup, but I’ll only regale you with the highlights.

Not being able to see inside the place for 30 days to reassure oneself that it was an ok deal and a livable habitat, I began to forget what it looked like tho I did remember the carpets were particularly disgusting, despite having been steam-cleaned. A lot of floors out here are covered in tiles (chilly in the winter); at the other extreme, people take pride in kitting out their places (especially when they’re back on the market) with slightly booffy pale coloured carpets: not a good look with orange dirt. In the case of my new abode, it was a veritable orgy of pale green: not just the carpets, but the walls, the vertical blinds and general trim. Very 70s, but just as well it’s not pale pink like next door.

So made plans to get carpets ripped out and replaced with wooden surface of some kind. I have a bit of a wood fetish and was particularly taken with a parquetry floor I once had in Balmain (I remember See Kam telling me I’d been born in the year of the Wood Snake – better watch out for borers – and that my name phonetically translated to ‘Lotus Roots’ in Cantonese.) All this took ages of negotiating with tradesman who seemed to be a bit of an NVB. High point was when he got the keys from the agent to measure the place up, and somehow managed to open the flat next door with the key … and measured up their place instead. I knew something was wrong when he commented about the tiles I’d already ripped out and the furniture I had there already. Rang up the agent who was horrified, mortified, etc and seemed to envision former tenant squatting there and pulling out carpets. So we all went round, and, as I suspected, he had somehow managed to let himself into next doors. As a consequence, I’ve changed all the locks … who might turn up in my place otherwise.

Tradesman is now only just starting the floor today…supposed to finish on Monday am so I can move in on Tuesday…cutting it fine once again (I’m also meant to have moved out by tomorrow – but suspect Death Star will be too consumed by other activities to notice). Parquetry was too expensive and too time-consuming so it’s ‘redi-floor’, a relation of the floating timber floor which does seem to involve some wood. They’ve done one floor and it looks good – certainly an improvement on the biliousness of pale green interspersed with large smudges of orange.

Other highly freaky moment – I went round to Ruth’s for dinner a few weeks back and met her flatmate ‘Tom’, a charming, tres sympathetique gayboy who looks a bit like a ravaged Meg Ryan. Made conversation by telling them I’d just made a successful offer on a townhouse nearby. They asked me which number and asked knowing glances when I told them. Turned out that my new place was Tom’s former abode as it previously belonged to his ex … who’d walked off a local landmark earlier in the year. I’d heard the story of Tom’s ex, (how it looked like suicide but wasn’t totally clear) but had never heard his name. The agent told me that the former owner hadn’t died in the house and I’d presumed that since his name sounded like an older person’s that he was a septuagenarian who’d died in hospital. Must say there were some puzzling aspects of the townhouse that didn’t quite go with a septuagenarian sensibility, like the niceness of the kitchen, a ‘distressed’ wood coffee table left on the balcony, a small Aboriginal painting on one wall and the fairy lights in the back courtyard … so, all was explained (not wanting to get into stereotypes or anything).

I was fairly freaked out (especially by some of the resonances with my brother’s end) … Tom made nice in a big way, asking me what I thought of the place, etc, but it put a shade on things for me for a while. I’d been thinking that Tom would be another nice addition for the Elsewhere Collection, and how nice to have neighbours, etc, but: would they want to come round at all, given the circumstances? Since then, Ruth has been saying that we’ll contribute to the gentrification of the Southside – traditionally a down-at-heel, ‘Aboriginal’ area, tho it has many charms, such as its proximity to the Gap and the Todd, not to mention the pub where salsa-dancing nights are held. But … seems I can’t escape from death and gay men. Suspect that bringing my own stuff into the townhouse (not to mention ripping out the carpet) will help expurgate the spirits for me (tho people have been making ‘gay ghost’ jokes e.g. I’ll hear a voice behind me saying ‘oh, I wouldn’t wear that out tonight!’) I guess this ‘coincidence’ is an effect of the small country town thing, too.

Tom v amusing on the lesbian predominance in Alice: said that Alice is known to gay men as ‘Lickerland’; local Aboriginal people speak of ‘Them lick-lick mob’.

So, yesterday settlement was passed in Alice, and I leapt into the property market. Such an Australian obsession, I know, but somehow very comforting to have a mortage at last. Real estate agent, in a sudden maternal flourish, gave me a bottle of champagne with two glasses (featuring golden wattle, of course) covered with cellophane and encrusted with lollies (tho they give this to everyone). Inside the cellophane there was a hand-written card: I was somewhat bemused to find the words ‘happiness’ and ‘investment potential’ co-existing in a sentence directed at moi. Champagne bottle chained into an awesome phallic mini- black plastic canon: truly repulsive and totally redolent of the suburban glory to which Alice aspires. Can’t help thinking the champagne-canon looks like a rather tasteless ad for penile piercing (perhaps the gay ghost will appreciate this).

Woman in the cubicle near me at work is a postgrad living in an old camel wagon in someone’s backyard. There’s no lighting or heating. I don’t know how she does it (she’s 40 odd). The things one does for academia!

Saw former boss outside the local IGA tonight – I’d heard she was out bush, painting, which sounded like a good plan. (I met other former Titanic employees who told me they were still waiting for instructions from the Death Star about what they were meant to be doing). She now has hardly any entitlements left. Seemed chipper but it’s very demoralising. I made a joke several weeks back that she could set up a tent on the lawn and wallpaper it with some left-over ‘Self-determination is ours’ placards. Seems she took me seriously and looked into the matter: it’s $75 per week council fees for a tent on the Council lawns. But even that’d blow her budget now.

Two years exactly today (16 July) since the clot was busted. Can’t believe I’m now running round carrying boxes to move into my first property. Remember Laura (English barrister friend) ringing me in hospital from London and saying ‘So what are you going to do now? Go and sit on a pole in the desert and mediate?’ Well, I don’t have the pole but I do now have real estate in the middle of the desert…

My brilliant downshifting goes bung

Today it's exactly two years since I woke up with a deep vein thrombosis after sleeping awkwardly with a cat in my left armpit (or so I thought). It also marks the beginning of my descent into the inferno otherwise known as the NSW Health system. Feel like I should do something to celebrate, tho I don't know that 'celebrate' is the right word. Perhaps I could chuck out the old heparin needles I've still got in the fridge (in case of a rainy day). People in the thrombosis chatroom spoke of throwing their old warfarin on bonfires and dancing round them, but that might be a bit dangerous with syringes. Only another 3 years (acc to one study) or 6 years (acc to another) and I can claim victory over the medical profession, due to unlikeliness of re-thrombosis after those intervals.

Chose the title for this post because I liked the sound of it. Not totally reflective of current state of affairs, as today I found out I got the 4-day a week job (researching substance abuse frameworks) and they want to pay me at the highest increment. So that is good news. Now that I have two research positions, feel like I might be on the path now to becoming a consultant and thus being able to avoid working in close proximity with dickheads -- yay! Also, finally an email back from Powers That Be saying it's ok to stay in my current abode for another two weeks (but just as well I paid them before the system closed down last week).

Only two more days on the Titanic now -- quel relief!

Strange goings-on in the garden overnight -- the leaves of the tomato bushes are dark and shrivelled. Don't think it's my fault this time, as I watered them abundantly on the weekend. So now the cucumbers, the pumpkin and the tomatoes are dying or dead. Tempting to read this as an omen, but best not to, I guess. Think there may have been one of the black frosts people warned me about; it was minus 1 when I left for work this morning. Yes, it's cold in the desert, tho it often looks deceptively sunny because of clear skies, a bit like my memories of holidays in Tasmania where things looks ok through the window but once you step outside you freeze.

Watched Dear Alain last night with half an eye while organising old photos. The pattern that seems to be emerging is that there are always a few weird moments and one, overwhelming Uber-Weird moment. Last week it was Alain hugging American Pentecostals. This week it was his lingering over the production of 400 'sanitary towels' (as he calls them) a minute at a factory in Wigan as an example of the meritocratic society. He kept on coming back to this clip. He's a distinctly odd man. Feeling that the program says more about Alain's psyche than it does about western civilisation.

Return to the Scottish Dr

Returned to the Scottish Dr for more anti-wart action (these ones on my little finger are particularly pernicious). Dr almost came bounding into reception with excitement when she saw me... Nice to be remembered, I guess. Feel that there has been some value in an excuse to change drs (not that the last one wasn't any good), but rather that my sentence has been commuted from that of the Mad Dangerous Patient to the Novel Patient. Source of excitement was that she had received the results of my last ultrasound study which were (if you'll remember from the previous entry below) outstanding -- i.e. no recurrence of thrombosis, continuing venous patency, no observable extrinsic compression, no abnormal venous compression, etc. I was less than excited because I already knew what the results were -- and I'd expected them, anyway, since no probs with arm and I believe I got the thrombosis from sleeping with cat in unusual position.

Scottish Dr showed me the report on the ultrasound, and I was interested to see that the vasc spesh had signed off to it. Tempted to keep going back for ultrasound on a yearly basis so that vasc spesh will have to keep on signing off on report and will see that venous patency continues in the absence of surgery (which he proposed in order to correct non-existent anatomical anomaly).

Told Scotttish Dr more of the hospital saga (she said "you should write something about this!" ha!) and more of the Titanic saga, thus embedding my status as the Novel Patient.

So ...everyone should come to Centralia, where even Drs are friendly, and get away from Sydney, where everyone's too busy or pretentious to be nice...

Standing on my head for science

Went to vascular lab today, having arranged appointment from Alice largely out of curiosity to see if vein was still intact, especially after returning to yoga, and furthermore, if vein was compressed by yoga positions.

Not too much sure how much detail to go into on this one, and if I'll bore everyone to death who's already heard about this a million times before, but in June 2002 I had a rare deep vein thrombosis known as a subclavian-axillary vein thrombosis. I believed that I got this clot from sleeping (probably or at least 5-6 hours) in an unusual position with my left arm at 90 deg angle, cat in armpit draped across shoulder and head turned in an extreme angle to the right. (It should also be noted that the cat habitually slept in roughly this position in cooler months.) However, when I got to hospital, I was told that I must have 'thoracic outlet syndrome' as only people suffering from that syndrome got this particular clot. I was diagnosed with this syndrome before any tests were run or before they even made inquiries as to whether I had done anything to contribute to the clot, such repeatedly or strenuously raising my arms above my head in a sporting or occupational activity. The theory is that the vein, artery and/or nerves that run between the first rib and the clavicle can become compressed or are impinged in this position, leading to clotting in the case of vascular vessels. I was meant to agree to having my first rib removed (through an invasive piece of surgery via armpit) even tho they were unable to show me any evidence of thoracic outlet syndrome or significant compression leading to clotting. In fact, they ultimately couldn't tell me why the clot had happened at all.

The syndrome is more commonly experienced by athletes such as iron men and manual labourers such as construction site workers who do a lot of strenuous or repetitive overhead arm manuevers. The Drs were unwilling to accept the cat theory (which seems to me most likely). What they seemed most happy with as a rationale was that I'd gotten the clot from standing on my head at yoga, because it was a physical activity in which I put my arms above my head.

I've still always nurtured a faint hope that one day I might be able to have an ultrasound standing on my head to see what happens (I'm the kind of person who yearns to be part of some bizarre scientific or medical experiment). But no, ultrasound technician was sure that this was not necessary as other positions demonstrating compression would rule out need to go this far (i.e. it would be a foregone conclusion that compression would be found). So I sat on bench instead with arms outstretched at 90 deg in yoga position in which I'd seen veins on left shoulder bulging.

Technician was very excited because they have 'the new machine'. 'But you always have a new machine every time I come here!' I say (it's true: they always say 'just as well you came now that the new machine has arrived'). But this machine is very special: you can train it to respond to your voice and it will come on and go off when you say 'Vox'. 'It's like mobile phones, you're always upgrading them,' says the technician. Still, shame about the dilapidated old building in which machine is housed and never seems to be replaced. (And -- the Site of Desolation -- i.e. my old ward is still there and being used, tho they said to me now almost two years ago, 'Shame you didn't come in three months time when this building is going to be pulled down!')

While I was having the ultrasound, sitting there with top off, arms outstretched in yoga position and slathered in ectoplasm, vascular specialist of some description comes strolling in, blithely announcing: 'Ah, Deb, I see the new machine's arrived!' Admittedly, the lighting was dimmed, but it's an interesting old world they seem to inhabit over there.

So, results of ultrasound study were that vein was still wonderful -- looks like normal vein, behaves like normal vein and has maintained its elasticity. However, when I turn my head to right in yoga position with arms outstretched (like the position in which I was sleeping with the cat), the vein is momentarily occluded, tho blood flow comes straight back in as soon as I turn my head back. Nevertheless, apparently these are all normal findings. In most of the population, there is some degree of compression and even obstruction when you raise your arms above 90 deg. Technician said: 'When I give a lecture, I can pull someone out of the audience and demonstrate this phenomenon on virtually anyone.' From memory, she's said in the past that I had less compression than the average member of the population. I remarked that I'd seen people at the gym with pronounced veins in the shoulder area, often with one side more pronounced than the other. She said that it was from increased blood flow, and that there would be people walking around with an obstruction or even a clot in their shoulder they didn't know about because the area collateralises so well (i.e. other veins take over the blood flow).

I asked her why she'd said before that I didn't have thoracic outlet syndrome if my veins were compressing completely when my head turned to the right. She said she'd been talking about arterial rather than venous compression and that 'thoracic outlet syndrome' only truly referred to arterial compression. This is despite the fact that they gave me an information booklet titled thoracic outlet syndrome of which arterial, venous and nerve compression are listed as subsets (and for which surgery was recommended). I know I'm a hypercritical pedant, but how confusing is all that!

Anyway, she didn't think there was a problem with me continuing to do some yoga, so long as I didn't hold the positions for prolonged periods of time or lowered my arms if they were tingling or felt heavy (which hasn't happened so far). The problem with the whole yoga theory (and I think she could see this) is how much is too much, esp since I only stood on my head for 2 x 3 mins a week at best and there were probably other people doing as much yoga as me or more who have higher levels of obstruction or compression in their veins and are not developing blood clots. I ran the cat theory past her again and she said 'Well, you know we sometimes get people in here who've fallen asleep with their arm over the back of a chair when they're drunk.' There was even some guy whose legs they had to amputate because he cut off his circulation from sleeping in a strange position when drunk (drunk to comatose levels, they suspected). So...I rest my case. I still think it was the cat (esp since I was in a similar position to where occlusion occurs on the ultrasound). I think the problem is quite simply a generic one: the cat story didn't fit within the typical biffo activities they associate with the syndrome, so they discarded it.

And, if I think about it, I'm quite frankly appalled and astounded that they would have gone ahead with surgery without (or regardless of) evidence to support their diagnosis. It was only because I kicked up a stink that they had to review my situation and to look at other options. It seems quite self-evident to me now that surgery was unnecessary, given that both my arm and my vein are normal and healthy. It also seems clear to me that they would have happily gone ahead with a piece of surgery described in the medical journals as 'a complicated procedure with moderate morbidity' and felt utterly justified in doing so, regardless of the potential for a good result by non-aggressive means. I can see where their judgement call was coming from in terms of it being an unusual syndrome with inconclusive evidence about the best approach to treatment (and perhaps also 'hospital efficiencies.') But all the same, you'd think they could have waited three months to see if it healed thru other means (as originally recommended by Machleder, who pioneered this aggressive treatment approach). Fools rush in where angels fear to tread, and all that.

I still suspect that there was some scenario at the heart of things like that whippersnapper-surgeon-with-training-wheels was given carte blanche with me because older surgeons were away on conference, and he got all excited and jumped the gun, thinking that he was going to get to operate on rare syndrome all by himself or something. In fact, many of my problems seem to be related to the overreliance on junior doctors at level of diagnosis and also communication about treatment. Presumably they'd be fine with run-of-the-mill diseases and conditions but should they be allowed to deal with all scenarios? In retrospect, much of the attending doctors' behaviour towards me seemed unnecessarily coercive and intimidatory (and I certainly felt as tho I left hospital under a cloud for refusing surgery). And I'm not buying the theory that I was so sick my perceptions were distorted, either. Rather, I was so poorly communicated with, I was unnecessarily traumatised.

And another petty gripe about hospitals -- in my experience, you're always being passed around between doctors like a piece of baggage with letters and reports passing that you never get to see... It would be nice to receive a written statement about your condition and also letters reporting the diagnosis and action to be taken (like: 'inconclusive ultrasound; report back to hospital in a week for repeat ultrasound, if symptoms persist'). But then, my GP didn't even get a letter as articulate as that...so why am I complaining!

So NSW hospitals...beware! You're taking your life in your hands if you become a patient in one. There's this feeling when you enter them: 'Aha! Now we've got you in our clutches, we can do/say whatever we like to you!' (I know that's a slight exaggeration.) And as a patient, you lie there looking at all these young-doctors-at-the-frontline running around and think: I know they have to practice some time, but does it have to be on me?

And as for the cat -- well, she's sleeping in a cubbyhole in the walk-in wardrobe these days, which has to be a Good Thing, given her previous obsession with sleeping in bodily cavities...

P.S. Re: earlier post 'What I really learned at the Drs' -- I found a copy of Vogue dated August 1990 at the Vascular Lab -- surely this kind of material should be archived!

Subclavian watch

Finally decided to see a Dr for the first time in about 6 months, because I wanted (a) a persistent wart burnt off and (b) an ultrasound referral (for an annual State of the Vein report). I've endured the ineffectualness of WartKill for months rather than meet a new member of the medical profession. I'm sure they'll think I'm absolutely insane for (a) managing to have a subclavian vein thrombosis in the first place, (b) Defying the Decrees of the Learned Profs, and (c) making a complaint to the HCCC. Not that I'll have to say all this, but even the words 'subclavian vein thrombosis' might be enough. I reckon I probably have 'Danger Patient' (siren noises offstage) emblazoned on my forehead in fluorescent letters that are visible only to members of the medical profession. Had an odd experience with an AS dentist whom I somehow managed to engage immediately in a discussion of the causes of gingivitis. She looked worried and asked, 'Are you an investigative journalist?' I said, no, that I wasn't, and she replied that she'd once been the victim of a visiting journalist who was doing an article comparing the standards of dentistry across the country -- on the sly.

Clearly, someone who refuses the very kind offer of highly invasive surgery and who wants to debate the causes of gingivitis with dentists is barking mad, and absolutely the kind of person who would be working on the ATSIC-Titanic as it goes down.

The masseur (sorry, massage therapist) at the Health and Recreation Centre told me that the Scottish Doctor at the Bath St Medical Centre was ok because she ‘will listen to what you say and tell you the side effects of any drugs.’ Personally, I wondered if this (modestly) glowing report might be due to a case of the Wee Accent Factor (cf. Norman S of ABC Radio National’s Health Report).

But no, the Scottish Doctor was good. Good rapport, steady eye contact, seemingly quick on reading facial expressions, pleasantly no nonsense. Even some humour.

When I introduced the fatal subject of the Subclavian Vein, she paused slightly in her note-taking and said: ‘Now, that’s really interesting. How on earth did you get that?’

I was then able to tell her the highlights of the saga (being careful not to bag out the medical profession too much on first meeting). She said, ‘Well, it seems you have a wide-ranging knowledge of your disease.’ And also ‘That’s a very interesting story.’

I felt I had made her day by being an Interesting Patient Who Had Suffered a Rare Complaint. (And, yes, she did have a go at the wart.)

I told her I was working for ATSIC and probably about to lose my job. She said, ‘Will you go back to Sydney?’ I said I didn’t know, but I didn’t want to leave Alice so soon.

‘Yes,’ she said, ‘It sucks you in, doesn’t it?’

So, it turned out not to be too bad. Contra the edicts of CBT, there is great value in ‘catastrophising’, as things are rarely as bad as you think they’ll be so you feel a greater relief afterwards. And I thoroughly recommend the Scottish Doctor – an experience definitely worth having. (Probably it was just better that I went to see a woman Dr abut my own age, as much as anything else. You don’t want to strike some pompous callow youth male GP by default.) But the problems never really seemed to be at the GP level in my experience (and you can always go to another one if they are). GPs usually seem to be more ‘people’ person types and they have more time to communicate with you etc too.

It would seem a shame to leave Alice now that I have found a Scottish Doctor (not to mention a dentist, a gym, a yoga teacher and all the other trappings of ensconcement.)

The price for a standard consult was pretty amazing tho -- $55. I think it was $35 in Balmain. Just goes to show the differences for rural and remote areas, I suppose (tho I think my old GP was pretty good about trying to keep his prices down.) Too bad if you’re an Aboriginal family of 12 or something (tho I guess the AMS does a better price? They probably all go to A&E.)