Two arenas

My husband and I cannot agree on where the arena should go.  You see, our land is undulating.  Steep in some places.  And the main hub of activity, the house, the shed and the driveway is up on top of the ridge.

Initially we planned for the arena to go on top of the ridge too, next to the driveway.  Opposite the shed.

Then we lived at the farm for a while, and we realised that we live in a really windy place.  The wind really howls on top of the ridge.  In fact, just where the arena was supposed to go, there is a bit of a saddle, and the wind is just merciless through there.

On one cold, windy day I headed down into the amphetheatre paddock - so called because it has steep sides, that surround a flatish area at the bottom.  Up on the ridge it was winter.  Down in the amphetheatre it was summer - balmy warm with a mild breeze.

So it was decided, that maybe, the amphetheatre was a better place for the arena.  We had the area dug out and flattened.  Then it was left to rest and settle.  It cost us a small fortune.

 

Then, my daughter started riding, and I got thinking.  How could I possibly be riding down in the amphetheatre arena, while my daughter was fiddling with her ponies up near the shed?  Or, how could I possibly let her ride alone in the arena (down in the amphetheatre)?  Then of course, should I ever teach people at my place, how could I have them arrive, while I was teaching a lesson in the amphetheatre?  And even if I didn't teach anyone, but I had another child, how could I ever walk a pram and a horse down to the arena?

It became quite obvious to me that the arena needed to be on the ridge, next to the driveway, opposite the shed.  By this stage I had got over the wind.  It turned out that the "top" arena (as it started being called) was better for riding in the early mornings (as it got the sun earlier).

My husband, on the other hand, is still gazing at the small fortune we have spent on flattening the area in the amphetheatre, convinced that the "bottom" arena is the "right" spot.

So on the one hand, it appears that we cannot agree where to put the arena.  (Just like we cannot agree whether to cook with gas or electricity).  On the other hand, one could say that we have two arenas.  Unfenced and unfinished, but two arenas nevertheless.

Chipped tooth

I have chipped a tooth.  About a quarter of one of my molars has come off.  It's a big chunk.  As big as one of my daughter's milk teeth.

There is no doubt that chemo has been a major contributor to this occurrence.  I feel totally depressed.  Not "tears" kind of depressed.  Just depressed.  For a while I feel like I'm in a bubble, removed from the outside world.  The sounds have gone dull, and life is moving in slow motion.

I tell my daughter about the chipped tooth.  She looks in my mouth and exclaims "oh mama!"  I don't even have to point her to the tooth in question.  It's that big.

"Mama, do you have the chipped bit?", she asks.

"Yes."  I show her the chip, and she examines it with great interest and care.

"Well mama, you can put the chip next to your bed, and the tooth fairy will come and take it, and give you a dollar for it."

I give her a doubtful look.

"The dentist bill to get this fixed is going to be much more than a dollar", I whinge.

"Mama, but that's always a dollar more", says Sabina with enthusiasm.  "A dollar, is always a dollar."

Tooth fairy runs out of time

I went up to my daughter's bedroom to wake her up.  I opened the door, and slowly crept in.  The sight of the slightly bloody tissue made my stomach sink.  Oh no!  My daughter had obviously lost a tooth last night, after we had bid her goodnight.  And of course ... the tooth was still there, waiting for the tooth fairy that never came.  We (as parents) were about to be in big trouble.

I quickly averted my gaze, as my daughter stirred awake.  Immediately, she looked at her bedside table.  She saw the tooth still lying there.

"Mama!  Look!", she screamed with disappointment.

"Oh sweetness, what's that?  Did you lose a tooth last night?"

She nodded.

"Mama!  But the tooth fairy didn't come!  I stayed awake waiting for her to take the tooth, and she never came.  And then I got bored and fell asleep.  I really wanted to see the tooth fairy!  Oh mama!"

(Oh dear!)

"Well, you know, I'm thinking, maybe the tooth fairy ran out of time.  I suppose she's got a lot of teeth to pick up, and because you lost your tooth so late in the evening, she just couldn't fit you in any more.  I think you should leave the tooth just there, and maybe the tooth fairy will come tonight", I responded, hoping it will be good enough.

Part of me wanted to scream "there is no tooth fairy, get over it kid!  You're seven now.  Reality check!  Hello!"  But I just smiled, holding that thought to myself.

"Mama, I really wanted to see the tooth fairy", the little girl said sadly as she got out of bed and headed down for breakfast.

xxx

That night, after my daughter fell asleep, the tooth fairy picked up the tooth and left a dollar.  The little girl was all smiles again the next morning, still believing in the tooth fairy.

Still showering

I would just like post an update - I am still showering in the garden of the Gods.  Yep, come around at the right time, and you'll see me starkers under the outside shower.  (This almost happened to one workman!  He should be so lucky ...)

The thing is, I keep trying to find weather situations that will make me hate the outdoor shower for ever.  But I can't.  So far I have showered in rain, wind, cold weather and warm weather, and I've always walked away feeling fantastic, and loving the experience.  Which might just say something about how indulgent the simple shower really is.

I have actually found that showering on a warm, but windy, day to be the worst.  Cold and windy was fine.  But warm and windy ... I don't know.  Not my cup of tea I guess.

Famous Five

When I was young, about 10 or 11, I read the Famous Five series by Enid Blyton.  I loved it.  I loved the books so much, that I spent my own hard earned pocket money on the books.  Then I kept the books, hoping one day to read them to my children.  That time has arrived!

After reading two of the Harry Potter books to Sabina, I decided she was a bit too young to continue with the rest, and we needed to veer off at a tangent.  I reached for the first Famous Five book, and coaxed Sabina through the first chapter.  "Mama, it's boring!".

I must admit, after Harry Potter, the first chapter of the series left a lot to be desired.  In fact the first entire book was littered with the overuse of certain words, as well as some strange sentence grammar.  Not incorrect, per se.  We just don't seem to "talk" or write like that these days.

By the second chapter she was hooked.

We finished the first book, and there were squeals of delight when Sabina discovered that we also own the second book in the series.

By the end of the second book, she had managed to defiantly hide her cousin in a "secret passage" to stop her from going home.  She was hoping that the grandparents and other cousin would happily leave without the hidden girl, and they would be able to continue playing together.

New pergola

And ... did I say "pergola"? (see last entry)  Oh, my goodness, I have totally forgotten to write that we have finally torn down the old eye sore of a pergola,

and put up a new one.  Outdoor entertaining, here we come!

Garden tidy up

For 2 years I pretty much haven't touched the garden.  Before I found out I had cancer, a lot of things already weren't right, and I just didn't have the energy to jump in with the shearers and clippers.

Then last year I was all chemo.  Then this year has been all recovery from chemo.  And in the meantime we've had two bumper seasons of rain.  The garden grew, and grew and grew.

Today I finally decided to curb this growth.  To control it.  To bend it my way.  I jumped in among the shrubs with the shearers and went mad.  Wheelbarrow after wheelbarrow, full of clippings, departed the garden.

Finally, I straightened up and surveyed my work.  The wild jungle of shrubs now showed some semblance of order and manicure.  The pom pom trees were no longer submerged in shrubs.  There was a visible path between the bamboo shrubs and the ground covers.  The rock garden was no longer encroaching on the rose garden.

Neatness reigned again.  I put down my tools, took off my gloves, sat under the pergola, watched and appreciated.

The last treatment

Finally the day of the last treatment has arrived.  I rock up to Day Oncology armed with the usual survival kit - mobile phone and book.  In addition, I also carry a thank you card.  A thank you card for all the nurses and other staff who have looked after me, and treated me like royalty for over a year.  In a funny kind of way I know I will miss them.

The nurse asks her usual set of questions, then proceeds to find the vein.  I feel the little sting, and I know she's got it.  But then, she loses it.  Nope.  Second try.  All good this time.  Just a sufficient reminder why I don't want to come back.

Other than that, the treatment is as uneventful as ever.  Towards the end I get a funny feeling, as though my body has just had enough of the drug.  Before I know it, the drip has finished, and I'm checking out ... for good.  Yay!

I wish I could jump up, click my heels and depart in a whirlwind of celebration.  But I can't.  I feel tired and hungry.  I just want to go back to my mum's house, eat a nice lunch, and then flop into bed and fall asleep.

The celebrations will just have to wait till I have recovered from treatment.

In the meantime, I would just like to extend a huge thank you to my parents, my parents in-law, my husband, my daughter, and all my friends who have been extremely supportive, understanding, and helpful throughout this time.  You've all made the journey truly worthwhile.

The shower, the man on the moon, and me

As I have previously mentioned due to current bathroom rennovations, we are using a temporary outdoor shower.  The shower possesses a light, and tonight was my very first nighttime shower experience.

My expectations of this shower are now so high, that when I saw the slugs on the shower base I almost ran the other way.  Nothing a quick brush with a shoe can't fix.

So, I turned on the shower after all, and jumped under the hot water.  Remember?  The hotter the better.  Then I slowly looked around.

The garden of the Gods was consumed by darkness, and the shower light cast a strange, yellow glow.  The hot water, turned into steam, which rose mystically around me.  My gazed followed it up.  That's when I spotted the moon.  Half of it.  Pale.  Cold.  Gazing at me without a single blink.

I brought my gaze back down to earth, staring at the steam making strange shapes in the darkness.  It was a very peaceful, healing experience, full of meditation and contemplation.  Who knows, maybe a thousand creatures were watching me, but as far as I was concerned it was just the shower, the man on the moon, and me.

Go West ... ern

Our pony club declared that they were having a "Western Day".  The kids were going to experience everything Western - Western riding, videos of Western horses, etc.  Of course, we were encouraged to dress up too.

I have no idea what possessed me.  A Western shirt and a bandana would have done just fine.  But no.  For some reason, I, not my lovely daughter attending Pony Club, but I ... I got all carried away and decided that I had to make some chaps for Sabina.  Initially I had visions of brown leathery chaps, but imagination very quickly took me towards pink chaps with tassles.  (I LOVE tassles.)  For two days I was like a whirlwind possessed (or should that be tornado possessed?).

Two days - that's how long it took to buy the material (and tassles), surf the internet only to find that free patterns for chaps are hard to come by (but x-rated sites are not!  sheesh!), create a pattern out of paper ("Mama, I'm not going to wear those, they will rip"), cut the material (oh, do be careful, there's no going back), and then stitch it all together (they fit, yay!).

The final product was a hit, but it took me a week to recover from my whirlwind effort.

Showering in the garden of the Gods

This entry was supposed to read something like this:

"Husband has organised bathroom rennovations, which means that all showers in the house have been decomissioned. So he fixed a temporary shower outside. Then, as the weather got colder and wetter, he organised a business trip to Canberra, where he can sit in a hotel shower to his heart's content, leaving us to tremble in the elements."

That's how it was supposed to sound. However, before I had time to air my honest views, I have managed to shower under the above mentioned outdoor shower three times. Twice was enough to change my view forever.

You stand, at the back of the house, under the spray of hot water. Make it as hot as you like. The hotter the better. Right in front of you is the veggie garden, getting soaked in the grey water. At your eye level is the blooming rose garden - lucious green, with splashes of colour. Beyond the rose garden, there is more rich greenery. And if you're really lucky, the face of a cow or a horse peers at you across the fence.

The key is to make the shower as hot as you can possibly stand it, just towards the end. Get your body really, really hot. Then turn the water off. Your body is so hot, that even a light drizzle at 12 deg C feels pleasant, and you can afford to slowly amble towards your towel.

Some might call it "toughing it". I call it "showering in the garden of the Gods".

One more point. So far, I have only showered during the day. But, my husband has installed a light in the outdoor shower. (As you do.) I am yet to try the night time experience.

V/Line

A strange set of events led to me catching the train from Warragul back into town.

My husband dropped me off at the station in Warragul, which was crowded with school kids. They were obviously catching the country train on their way home from school.

The train was quite long, and so most of the carriages were close to empty. I settled into a couple of adjacent seats. But I could have quite easily occupied 8! The rowdy school kids must have gone another carriage, because it was quiet in ours.

The train hooted along, flashing past green paddocks with grazing fresians, and stopping at all the country stations along the way. As we got closer to the city, the paddocks became smaller, and the cows were replaced by horses, the barbed wire by post and rail. Part of me wondered why we couldn't have bought a nice horse property here, part of me knew. The state forest.

When we joined with the suburban train track, the train really started zooming along. I sat in my seat, reading my (Harry Potter) book, glancing out the window occasionally. Just in time to spot the down boom gates, and long queues of cars waiting for my royal carriage to pass. The train driver hooted the horn regularly just to let everyone know, that this train was coming through.

I found my journey "rejuvenating".

I disembarked at a suburban station, and caught the bus home. The bus trip was not "rejuvenating" per se ... "entertaining" is probably more appropriate. There was some lout at the back giving non-stop commentary ... on everything. Everything that caught his attention, be it the ad for zero coke, or the driver that didn't give way, or the sign on the local primary school. And of course, as we drove via the University he got stuck into the uni students as well. But with good humour, and he knew when to stop.

It wasn't a short trip, but I arrived home extremely refreshed, and with a smile on my face. Now to the best part. How much did I pay for all this pleasure?

$3.80.

Harry Potter and the Family Wizards

My reading of the Harry Potter books to my daughter, has not only started a trend. It has started a cult-like following. It all started when my daughter arrived at the table one lunchtime and announced "Mama, I hope I will be in Griffindor".

We are not ones to gape for long, and I replied "I'm sure you will be. After all, I was in Griffindor".

Sabina took my response in her stride, as though it was obvious that I had gone to wizarding school, and turned to Papa.

"Papa, what house where you in, when you went to Hogwarts?"

"Ravenclaw", replied Papa.

Jokes aside though, when you start digging deeper, how do you explain the picture of my mum with a black cat sitting on her shoulder? And why do we have wizard's robes and hats hanging in the upstairs bedroom?

It also doesn't help that we have a guinea pig named Ginny, and a horse name Lilly.

Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

So, I have successfully read "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone" to Sabina. But, where did I get the book from? Well, I borrowed it from a trusted friend. Of course, she happened to have the whole set of books in a box, so she lent me the entire box.

Having enjoyed the first book, I quickly moved onto the second book. I ... moved onto the second book - not the entire family. I didn't want to start a trend, so I read the second book in secret. But, of course, inadvertently, at some point, I left it visible. Well, eyes started sparking, and mouths started watering, when the remainder of the family saw the second book lying around, my bookmark clearly somewhat through the book.

One pleading look from Sabina, and I was roped into reading the second book out aloud. We've had an absolutely brilliant time reading the second book as a family. There has been much discussion about every chapter, what happened yesterday, what clues have Harry, Ron and Hermione missed. We also have a good laugh at George and Fred's antics. (Sabina runs down the corridor screaming "Watch out! Heir of Slytherin coming through".)

My favourite moment was when Sabina actually worked out some of the clues, before they were given away in the story.

So ... it appears ... that I have started a trend after all.

Home stretch

It's another treatment day today.

I waltz into my doctor's office thinking that I have three more treatments to go after today. But not so. It turns out that, after today, I only have a mere two treatments left.

I am on the home stretch. In fact a lot further down the home stretch than I thought.

If I was waltzing going into my doctor's office, then I must have been doing a polka on my way out.

Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone

An innocent post on my own blog about Harry Potter has led to a series of chain events, which have culminated in me reading the book to my 6 year old daughter. While reading the book, I especially focussed on the quality of reading, rather than getting through an entire chapter in one sitting. Having watched the movies, I imitated the voices of all the various characters - getting pretty close with most of them, except for Hagrid.

Sabina loved the book from the first sentence. She was totally mesmerised by the story, and plagued me to read not just in the evening, but during our afternoon siesta as well! Towards the end of the book, when Harry, Ron and Hermoine go down the trapdoor guarded by the three headed dog, Sabina was on the edge of the bed, screaming at me "No mama! They can't go down there!", and "Oh mama, what are they doing?", and "No stop! Don't go down there! Oh mama." I could hardly get a word in edgewise.

I would also like to note, that my husband was an avid listener as well. Whenever he missed an official reading session, he would catchup in his own time. (An unusual activity for him, as he is mainly an avid map-reader.)

We all thoroughly enjoyed the book, and found it a fantastic family activity.

Roast Chicken

"Remember Aussie Sundays, when the chook was worth the wait ..."

Yes, that's right, I've taken to roasting chicken. It's become our regular Saturday night dinner. Why is it that when you cook the different bits of chook separately they come out average? But when you roast the whole bird it comes out juicy, tasty and with crispy skin? Finger licking delicious! We fight over every bit - the wings, the drumsticks, the thighs, the breasts and the wishing bone.

It's also a fantastic family meal, as we argue over the different bits, and trade with crispy skin. The interaction is fantastic, and the kids just put it away.

I pulled a very simple recipe off the internet one day. It goes something like this.

Ingredients
1 chook
1 lemon
salt
oil

Method

1. Preheat oven to 250 deg C.
2. Wash chicken and pat dry with a paper towel.
3. Cut lemon in half, and squeeze some of the juice over the chicken, and some inside the chicken.
4. Sprinkle salt inside the chicken.
5. Put the lemon back together again, and stuff the chicken with the lemon. Tie the legs to hold lemon in place.
6. Sprinkle salt on the chicken.
7. Pour oil on chicken.
8. Rub salt and oil into the chicken.
9. Place chicken in deep, ovenproof dish, uncovered. Chest up. Use bottom shelf in oven.
10. Roast at 250 deg C for 30 minutes.
11. Reduce oven to 180 deg C and roast (uncovered). Roasting time depends on weight of chicken - allow 1 hour of total roasting time for each 1kg of chicken. So if your chicken weighs 1.5kg then you would roast 30 minutes on 250 deg C, and then a further 1 hour on 180 deg C, for a total roasting time of 1.5 hours.

Timing
The best part about roasting chicken is the timing. Here is how it works.

• Sabina and I go for a horse ride, and return tired.
• I leave the little girl with the ponies (she is now old enough for this) and I rush back to the house, preheat the oven, get the chook sorted, and put it in the oven.
• I then rush back to Sabina, crackers and dip in hand.
• Sabina snacks while I unsaddle the ponies.
• I zip back, turn down the oven.
• Then, together, we put the ponies away.
• Then we head back to the house.  I now have one happy child, who has now regained enough energy to play, or help set the table, while I get some veggies ready.

Caveats
Almost forgot. And then we got the electricity bill.

Irritable

Chemo affects your brain function. You experience different problems such as forgetfulness, mind dullness/fogginess, and so on. One of my biggest "brain" issues is irritability.

When I was in the middle of chemo, I was very very irritable for at least two days. I used to bark commands left, right and centre. People around me, usually my closest family, thought their head was about to be bitten off all of a sudden. The irritability came and went, but it was worst just before mealtimes. (No surprises there - mealtimes delivered much needed nutrients. The irritability is just a sign that the brain is low on something).

Now, months after chemo, I still get bouts of irritability. They come at me out of nowhere, make me feel like a very irritated sabre toothed tiger, and I never really know how long they will last. 5 minutes? Half an hour? An hour?

It's really very hard to describe just how irritable I feel, but it's nothing like I've ever felt before I had chemo. Normally when you feel irritated, you feel irritated by something - and if you can remove the source then your irritability goes away. Sometimes you cannot remove the source, but you can remove yourself from the situation. Once again, problem solved.

My chemo irritability is nothing like that. It's not caused by anything. There is no reason for it. I can be in the most peaceful setting, and all of a sudden I just feel very ... very ... very irritated.

At times like these, I usually try and sit in a nice quiet spot, and just think to myself that it's not going to last forever. Sometimes, I have a snack too. But most of the time I feel too irritated to be able to organise a snack. I feel too irritated to be able to ask someone for a snack.

Virus!

So far, throughout my chemo and beyond I have been lucky and haven't picked up any viruses or infections. However, finally, the germs have caught up with me.

My daughter got really sick - running a temperature of 39 deg C - and I, being the dedicated mother that I am (really?), refused help from the grandmothers, and took care of her. And the virus got me too.

At first it wasn't too bad. As I felt unwell, I eased off on my responsibilities (didn't feed the horses), dosed myself up on virus drops, and went early to bed. The next day I still felt unwell. So we sat in my bed with my daughter and watched Black Beauty. It was like one of those emotional tissue ads - but all that sobbing made me feel better.

Then it just went downhill from there. By day three I was running a fever of 39 deg C (that's unheard of in my case!), and at one point almost fainted when I got out of bed. The scary part was that I was no longer able to keep up with drinking enough water - I can now see how people like me just end up in hospital on a drip. In fact, if someone had offered a drip, I would have gladly accepted.

After about 3 days in bed I finally resurfaced. But the virus left me weak, and set me back about 4 weeks in my chemo recovery. Symptoms, such as cracked skin in my nose (ouch!!), which I thought were history, were suddenly back with a vengence. The naturopath increased my dose of vitamin supplements - without these the situation would be even worse.

It's now one week since I have ventured out of bed, following my virus, and I am still struggling. I feel weak and fatigued. I need about two naps per day, the sore throat recurs, and I never know whether the virus is coming or going.

I know that it won't last forever, but it has surprised me how weak I still am, seven months after finishing chemotherapy.

Take a number

Sabina has been really sick yesterday.  She is better today, but still sitting in bed.  And drawing.  And she needs a sharpener for her pencil.  Well, we've just arrived at the farm and I am busy busy busy.  Busy lighting fire, busy unpacking the car, busy putting food in the fridge.  Busy.

"Mama, I need a sharpener", she pleads.

"Oh Sabina, take a number", I say jokingly.  She thinks about this for a moment, then says "so, what number am I?"

For a split second, I am stumped.

"Number 2", I recover.

But wait, it gets better.  A few minutes later, she needs something else.

"Mama, you need to colour in the spider.  What number am I this time?", she asks.

"Number 4", I respond.

"Ok, and who is number 3?", she quizzes.

"My coffee!"

At this point, I'm laughing, and add "Sabina, that's going straight to the blog".

"To where?", she looks at me puzzled.

"To the blog", I straighten up.

"Oh, is that where the santonym went?"

Gone paddling

Last night Sabina and I drove up to the farm. Peter arrived some time later, and by that time, Sabina was asleep. This morning, she woke up all excited and asked "where is Papa?". Gone. Gone paddling.

The little girl was undisturbed by this, and went off, merrily to play with her toys. Half an hour later she emerged with her soft toys stuffed into the guinea pig tunnel. "Look Mama", she said, "they're paddling".

Yell for Cadel

 Cadel Evans has won the Tour the France.  Did we watch the Tour every night?  Yes we did.  (Ok, I watched it not every night, and only till 11pm at best, when I would do the classical nod forward.)  Were we sitting on tenderhooks?  Yes we were.  Did we get really excited every time Cadel looked like he had a good chance?  Yes we did.  Did my husband sit up at night at the farm, scanning Tour updates with his phone and then gave me updates when he finally crawled into bed?  Yes he did.

So, when they announced that Cadel will do a celebratory ride to Federation Square, I announced that I am attending.  (I have a really serious aversion to crowds).  The crowd on either side of the designated track was already lined three people deep when I got there.  By the time Cadel rode by, it was about eight deep.

But I did see Cadel ride by.  I saw his yellow jersey, I saw his bike, and I saw his genuine smile.  The crowds were huge, but it was worth it.

Real farmers

Ok, it's official.  We are now "real" farmers.  Six cows - I mean steers (farmer speak) - have arrived at our farm.  They spent the first 3 days sulking at the gate, but now they have discovered grass, the dam, and that special treats come in yellow buckets.

Secret women's business

Oh my wordie lordie yes! My period is back! This is, I think, the best news I have had since finishing chemo.

Before I started chemo, my husband and I went through an agonising few weeks thinking about chemo and it's implications. We had always wanted more than one child, so our family was, (in medical terms) incomplete. The doctors were strongly recommending chemo, but of course they couldn't force me to have it. Ultimately it was my choice.

If you have chemotherapy at my age, there is a 40% chance that you will end up infertile afterwards. 40%. That's really high. If you have Zoladex injections (which I did have), then this is lowered to about 25%. That's still very high.

Ever since I finished chemo, the fertility topic has become "taboo". My husband and I tried not to talk about it, not to think about it, the mothers didn't ask. Fathers stayed positively oblivious. I was left to stew about it by myself. Of course, I know the power of positive thinking. So, I tried not to stew. I tried to think positive. I tried to imagine that this day would come. But still, you have moments when you stew.

So, now that I am staring at ... well, never mind what I am staring at. Now that my period is back, I am absolutely over the moon. I am starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel. I feel I am on the home stretch. Green fields of fertility are stretching out lazily in front of me. Life pumps in my veins.

Whether we actually expand the family, or not, is irrelevant. That was always just half of the story. It's about avoiding osteoporosis (as a horse rider, that's quite important), it's about feeling good, it's about feeling young. It's about having the choice.

Pin cushion

It's treatment day. Yes, that's right. I still have these. Just the targetted drug, herceptin.

Well the nurse tries to find my vein, and she finds it, but the needle won't dislodge. She takes it out, puts a little round band aid on it, then she tries again. She finds another vein, all is looking good, but ... the needle won't dislodge again. Another band aid later, and she's still staring at my hand and arm, marvelling at the finely chiselled veins.

She shakes her head. "Well, two is my limit. I will have to get another nurse to have a go."

She comes back with a helper. The other nurse examines my veins. There's a lot of patting and stroking involved. Finally she finds a vein she's happy with. She asks nurse 1 to hold my skin tight, and in she dives with the needle. I'm starting to feel a bit like a pin cushion, but we're good. She gets the vein, the needle dislodges and we're in business.

The Nimbus 4000

(We've been reading "Harry Potter and the Philosopher's Stone" to Sabina, so broomsticks and especially the Nimbus 2000 are fresh on her mind.)

This morning we're having a lazy family breakfast (at the ripe time of 11am!). Papa takes this opportunity to bring in my birthday present - which looks like a giant toblerone.

Between bites of egg, bacon and bread, we try to guess what could be hidden in such an odd shaped pakage. "Maybe it really is a giant toblerone?", I muse. "It's not a pair of riding boots, that's for sure." "Can't be a horse rug." "Doesn't exactly look like a book either." "Mama! I know! I know!", butts in Sabina. "It's a broom stick!" Given how much time I spend riding horses, it wouldn't at all surprise me if my husband was trying to divert my attention to riding something else. You know, to diversify. Broaden my horisons a bit.

"Mama! It's probably the Nimbus 2000!", exclaims Sabina.

"But Sabina, I'm not turning 20, or 200 or 2000", I comment.

"Ok then. It's a Nimbus 4000 then", the little girl can barely sit on the edge of her seat.

Having agreed that it's the Nimbus 4000, we open the mysterious package. We were close.

It turns out that the Nimbus 4000 is actually a portable horse yard (Retract-a-Fence), that you attach to your float, or to some other stationary device, such as a fence post.  Then you extend the remainder as far as you want to, creating either a yard, or a temporary fence (for example across your drive way, or in front of your shed).

Full moon rising

It's school holidays. Sabina and I are here, full time at the farm. We have just weathered five days of storm. Howling winds, rain, and hail. It has been so bad, that even horse mad me refused to ride in some of this weather. So bad, that the guinea pigs got brought into the laundry at night.

Finally today, the wind has abated. The clouds even managed to part, and we basked in brief sunshine in the afternoon.

Now at dusk, as the sun sets, I wander outside to feed the horses. As I push the wheelbarrow from the house to the big shed, I am overwhelmed by the calmness. Over the last few days I have been so used to the force of the wind, that now I am surprised by the ease of movement, the effortlessness of pushing the wheelbarrow, the simplicity of walking.

There are so many new sounds too. The gentle crunch of my feet on the gravel driveway. The rustle of my clothes. And the noises of various evening creatures, rejoicing in life. Down by the dam the frogs are ribbit-ing along cheerfully.

As I walk merrily, a sight catches my eye. The clouds in the east are glowing a pale, lonely, cold glow. I stop and put down the handles of my wheelbarrow, and stare. The clouds move along very slowly changing their shape. The source of the light is also moving very, very slowly. Finally, the pale face surfaces from behind the cotton wool clouds. The sight of the full moon. Rising.

Synonyms

"... and that makes them a bit rattled", I said.

"Mama is that a cinnamon to angry?", responded Sabina.

"A what?", I asked, paying attention.

"A ... a ... well you know, a cinnamon", she repeated.

"Well, you're on the right track, but it's not 'cinamon'", I laughed.

"A sen ... a sentiment?", she a asked.

I gazed.

"A san ... a sant..."

"No!  It's not a santa either!  How about a 'synonym'?", I asked.  The little girl's eyes sparkled.

"Yes Mama!  A cinnamon!"

Palomino

Ever since Sabina read the "Silver Brumby" she has, first of all noticed, and secondly fallen in love with, palomino horses.  The palomino has a golden body, with a silver mane and tail.  They are beautiful horses.

Now, palomino reverberates in her play, and in her life.  When we drive in the car along country roads, she spots palomino horses in paddocks miles away.  The other day, she saw a labrador being walked through town - "oh Mama, look!  A palomino dog!".  Cissy is her favourite guinea pig, because part of her coat is gold and white, and that makes her edge towards a palomino.

Finally, one day Sabina ran into the bathroom, then ran out again, smiling.  She looked at me, then said "Mama, I'm also a palomino!".

Kids and puddles

There is something about puddles that makes them absolutely irresistible to kids.  Even if it's just wading through them in your gumboots to see how deep they are.

 But even better if you can take your schleich horses along for a bit of a wade!

Thowra and the foal were also lucky enough to snack on an apple.

While Boon Boon chose to go for a drink.

Good thinking

Now, remember that brand new schleich horse Sabina was playing with in the man made creek yesterday? Well she's got a couple of others, but, it's not enough!! So she's been begging me for more schleich horses. I'm a tough mum, and said "no".

Today, I was away for the entire morning at Adult Riding Club. When I returned, Sabina's play room was spotlessly clean. I marvelled at the cleanliness, realising that either Sabina or Papa are behind this, and in either case praise is a good idea.

"Mama", Sabina spoke up first. "I cleaned the playroom!", she said excited. "Papa helped", she added, realising that Papa was listening in the kitchen. "But", she continued, "he didn't want to help at first. It was too hard for me to clean it all up. So I told him he must help me, and he did. And now it's beautiful." She danced across the room.

I gazed over at Papa. He nodded.

"Well Sabina, I am very impressed", I said. "You realised the problem was too big for you to handle, you asked for help, and when you were refused help, you didn't give up. Well done. That, my dear, is called thinking."

The little girl was beaming.

"I think you can have a reward for that - a schleich horse", I smiled.

The hands went up in the air. "Yay!", cheered Sabina, jumping up and down on the spot.

"Do you know why you're getting the horse?", I asked. I've got to be sure the right message is sinking in.

"Because the job was too big, and I asked for help, and when Papa said no, I didn't give up", she re-iterated perfectly.

"That's right", I said, triumphant that the right lesson had sunken in.

"Mama", Sabina gazed at me, "it's such a big achievement, that perhaps I deserve two horses?"

"No! Don't push your luck!", I laughed. "But, Sabina, I love the way you think!"

The BBQ

We had to do some shopping this morning, so we zipped down to Warragul.  These sort of trips are always troublesome for us, because by the time we've had our sleep in and we've arrived in Warragul it's almost time for lunch.  But, with Sabina being allergic to wheat, finding the "right" lunch, at the "right" price is not so easy.

So I came up with the brilliant idea that we'll have a barbeque in Warragul.

We arrived in the park.  Sabina quickly ran off to the man made creek with her brand new schleich horse, while Pete and I surveyed the barbeque.  It was spotlessly clean.

"Why?  It's brand new!", exclaimed Pete.  "We can't use that!"

What?!!  Hello?  When a barbeque is dirty, he complains about it, when it's clean we can't use it?  Make up your mind!

We used the barbeque, and it was fantastic.  Our onions and sausages were perfect, the weather was perfect, and we had the perfect family lunch in the park.  Priceless.

Expecting Harry

While on chemo, and recovering from it, I have been forcing myself to rest by watching videos. Amongst these, a friend lent me two of the Harry Potter DVDs.

My daughter came home from school, and noticed the DVDs lying on the coffee table. "Mama, what are these?", she asked immediately.

"Oh that?", I peered at her over the rim of my glasses, in a manner similar to that of Dumbledorf. "That's Harry Potter."

A twinkle lit up in Sabina's eyes. "Mama, I've ... I've heard about him at school", Sabina stumbled over her words. But she may as well have said "Mama, I've been expecting him".

Taming Thowra

Once upon a time, when I was young, I was sent on a horse camp and fell in love with horses. My pleadings for a pony fell on deaf ears, but my parents were more than happy to drive me to the local library. There, I found "The Silver Brumby" books (see also here) and immersed myself in them. In my imagination I gallopped breathlessly with Thowra and Storm up the Ramshead range, and together with them I jumped down rocky outcrops.

So last year, when I spotted "The Silver Brumby" in a second hand bookshop, I bought it for my daughter, thinking that when she's about 10, she too might enjoy reading it. Well, that timeframe was shortened when a friend lent us the first series of "The Silver Brumby" cartoon. Sabina immediately fell in love with Thowra and Storm and watched the cartoon over and over again.

Then we watched the movie together, and then Papa read her the book. Sabina fell further in love with Thowra, with Bel Bel and with Golden. She would run around the playground, holding her arms out pretending that she was Thowra, rearing and striking out. Sometimes she would gallop around on Golden, and when we loaded the ponies into the float, her pretend Golden would always go on first.

In her playroom she added new horses, and they all jumped across "the ravine".

And finally, whenever we went out for a walk, Sabina would pretend we were brumby hunting. One time, I actually rode out with her, and we had to get off our ponies to herd the pretend brumbies, into the pretend corral. Of course, her brumby hunts were never fruitless. At the very least, she would come back with two brumbies. Then we had to spend time taming them, lunging them, getting them used to the saddle. Remember, we're talking pretend brumbies here.

In her brumby hunts, Sabina caught all sorts of brumbies, Bel Bel herself included. But for a long, long time Thowra eluded her. Although we did catch glimpses of him every now and then. Eventually, she gave in to temptation, and achieved a fete that no stockman in the book could. Finally, Sabina caught Thowra. And ... yes ... she tamed him, and rode him.

In the process, she became fascinated with the palomino colour. So when we started discussing a new pony, she desperately wanted a palomino. Luckily, when she met her new pony, a chestnut with a flaxen mane, she felt happy enough, as long as she could call her "Bel Bel".

The emergency

It's Sunday evening and we're getting ready to leave. This is never an easy time of the weekend - not because we have to leave this beautiful place and return to work. No. Simply because getting Pete and Sabina to come in for dinner is like herding cats. And after dinner I still have to clean up, pack the esky, the rubbish, the recyclables, and so on. My priority is to get on the road sooner rather than later, while Pete and Sabina appear to be hell bent on having a leisurely bath.

So I'm in the kitchen, starting to get frustrated, when Sabina runs in "Mama! We have an emergency!". Oh for goodness sake! These, so called, "emergencies" happen far too often for my liking. But, on the surface, I remain calm. I put down the tea towel, and follow her outside.

Well, it turns out that when Pete adjusted Fort Cavy this morning, he accidentally put one of the corners on a rock. However, the rock was surrounded by tall grass, so he didn't see his mistake. The guinea pigs ate the grass, and found a way out of Fort Cavy, and into the big world beyond. Yep, you could tell from the way the grass was eaten down, that they had ventured out of their little enclosure.

Very, very carefully, we slightly lifted a tunnel inside Fort Cavy. Just enough to reveal a couple of white paws. Cissy. Then we lifted a bit of bark. Just enough to reveal a brown backside. Ginny. Yay! The emergency was over, both GPs were sitting in the Fort, and I could happily return to being frustrated in the kitchen.

Long Tunnel Extended Gold Mine

Walhalla used to have a gold mine.  A few of them, actually.  We go on a tour of the Long Tunnel Extended Gold mine, which was the biggest, and most profitable.  Incidentally, it's the only mine that offers tours.  Entrances to all the other mines are closed off with heavily padlocked doors.

Just walking down the tunnel itself (actually, up the tunnel) is an amazing experience - seeing the light at the end of the tunnel (behind us) get smaller and smaller.  Eventually the tunnel forks, and we gaze up the left fork, the smaller fork - it just begs to be investigated.  We continue up the right fork into a huge double chamber - the size of a small house.

Here, our guide, Sheriff, explains to us how water continually seeps into the mine, and had to be pumped out. They had serious boilers in this chamber to provide the energy to pump this water out, and they had chimneys going directly from this chamber up 130m to the surface to get rid of all the smoke. Well they had all sorts of problems with debris dropping down said chimney, due to the heat of the smoke. So they lined it with bricks. Can you imagine? Working inside a chimney, 130m tall, merely 4 feet wide, lining it with bricks?

Sheriff shows us a map of all the tunnels, and where the gold was found. My jaw drops, because I realise that we are in the very top, very first tunnel. We're at the tunnel's end, where a shaft drops down 923m! That's almost a kilometre! Straight down, towards the centre of the earth. And this was dug out in the late 1800's, with relatively primitive tools! But the even more amazing thing is that there are tens of tunnels extending horizontally left and right off this shaft! Think about it. Kilometres and kilometres of tunnels, deep down under the earth. No light at the end of those tunnels. And that's where the gold was dug out from. All 13.7 tonnes of it.

I move away from the group, and find the shaft in a corner of the chamber. It's been sealed off, and made into a bit of a display. Behind the glass, on the right I can see a miner on a ladder. Blue uniform, a miner's lamp. Next to him, there is a trolley full of ore. The trolley is sitting in a cage - this is the real shaft, the big 1km hole in the ground. The trolley has wheels. I gaze down at the ground - I am standing on a pair of rails. Like train tracks. I gaze back down the tunnel - the train tracks run all the way to the end of that tunnel.

My mind comes alive. I can see trolleys being hauled up, being released from the cage and pushed down the tunnel, towards the light. They rattle as they roll. Men toil hard, feeding wood into the boilers, and getting trolleys out of the cage, their faces beading with sweat. I entertain visions from one of the Indiana Jones movies. A sneaky smile creeps onto my face.

Sabina, curious, comes over. She sees the miner behind the glass. "Mama, is he alive?", her eyes widen with childlish disbelief. I am so, so tempted to say "yes", but I resist. She is so innocent in her concern for the poor miner behind the glass.

"So, 20m below us is the water table", Sheriff's voice bellows over our thoughts. "And 300m below us are the stables." Sabina pricks up her ears. "Just before they closed the mine, they sent all the school kids in here, disassembled as much as they could and brought it up to the surface. Then they shot the ponies, got everyone out, and turned everything off. The entire mine flooded, and now we can only get 20m down the shaft." If you thought Sabina's eyes were big when she saw the miner, you should see them now. "But why did they shoot the pony?", she asks.

"We spoke to one of the women who, as a schoolgirl was sent into the mine to help disassemble equipment", Sheriff continues. "She said that there were trolleys loaded with ore. There is no evidence that those trolleys ever made it up to the surface. So we know there is gold down there." Everyone gets a little twinkle in their eye. Gold talks in mysterious ways. Sabina, tugs at my sleeve. "But Mama, why did they shoot they pony?".

Finally we turn back down the passage. There is light at the end of the tunnel. Sabina leads us out of the mine. The tour is over, but the question "why did they shoot the pony?" haunts us for the remainder of the day.

Walhalla Railway

We are spending the weekend in Walhalla, an old gold mining town. Sabina has already told all her school friends on Friday that she is off to "Walhalla-halla" for the weekend. Very cute.

Our first attraction is the Walhalla Railway.

When we arrive at the station, the train is already waiting.  Sabina gets all excited, jumping up and down, while I purchase tickets.  The train has two carriages pulled by a diesel engine.  The carriages have windows, which have all been dropped down, so the air in the train, is as fresh as outside the train.

The station master goes ahead with the full protocol of whistle, "All aboard!", wave the green flag, and we're off.  Sabina is jumping up and down with joy, sticking her neck out of the window, and grinning from ear to ear.

The train moves off slowly, and the red carriages creak and groan.  I poke my head out of the window too, and admire the creek below us.  We're in a deep gorge, with the road cutting a straight line somewhere up above us.  "There's brumbies up there", comments Sabina.

The valley is green and lush with ferns.  The train track is cut into the side of the hill.  As I look ahead, I can only see the rocky mountainside, that seems to suddenly disappear.  It looks like the train might just continue straight, and run off the edge.  But, it doesn't.  At the last moment, I see the green engine turn left, hugging the side of the mountain.

Another time, it looks like we might well scrape a rocky ledge.  It passes within hand's reach.  It's better than a Disneyland ride. 

We pass a tiny station called "Happy Valley", and eventually we cross the Thomson river, and end up at Thomson.  Here we have a chance to jump off and explore for a few minutes.  Visions of Menzies Creek station and their devine devonshire teas come whafting to me from the past.  The whistle of the train, now turned for home, brings me back to the present.  We board, and re-live the journey back to Walhalla.  Sabina's enthusiasm is unabating.

Finger tips

My finger tips have gone numb. It's yet another taxotere side effect. It didn't just happen now. It happened somewhere around chemo 5. But the side effect is still with me. Charming.

Not only are they numb, but they are very dry as well. And sensitive too.

So far it has cost me one jar, one glass and one dish. Yes, slipped out of my fingers, hit the floor and crash. And all along I could have sworn that I was holding onto it tight.

It also makes typing a little bit difficult. Pressing the keypad on the phone is quite a challenge - mainly due to the sensitivity. One week I use one hand, then it gets too sensitive, and I have to work the phone with the other hand.

Doing up buttons? Now this is a real joke. Because I can't feel what I am doing, I have to be watching. So I cannot do up buttons around my neck without the help of a mirror. And even when I am watching it's a very slow process. Doing up buttons on shirt cuffs is simply impossible - someone else has to help me.

My other finger tip issue is plastic container lids. The sensitivity makes it a real struggle to open plastic lids - as in, it really hurts. So I have to do it slowly, and with patience. And preferably not too many per day.

Naturopath's verdict

Before I started chemo I was 39 years old, and my naturopath did an AMSAT test on me. The report showed that I am about 37 years old.

Now, having finished chemo I am still 39, but AMSAT now says that I am 50! (And I feel it too!)

I cried for two days after getting that news.

Naturopath to the rescue

When I last saw my oncologist I complained about the ongoing numbness in my finger tips, and pins and needles in my hands and arms. The numbness in my finger tips is expected, and otherwise he gave me a blank look.

I took the pins and needles problem to my naturopath. Within a second he grabbed my arm, and squeezed it just below the elbow.

"Does that hurt?", he asked as he squeezed the muscle of my forearm.

"Yes!"

"What about the pins and needles?", he continued.

"They're gone."

Then he squeezed the side of my neck - the pins and needles left my arm.

"Just give those areas a good massage, and keep eating all that protein, so those muscles can recover." That was the final word on that topic. Then he got onto fixing other things.

Eating in recovery

I haven't been writing too much recently (last couple of posts excepted). There are a few good reasons for this. Firstly I have returned to work - just two days per week. Two days is plenty! Most of the rest of the time is spent eating, preparing food, and resting. Okay, okay ... I do find time to ride horses. But honestly, I've become a bottomless pit. At least where food is concerned. So when I am not eating, I am busy shopping for, and preparing, the next meal.

A typical day can consist of - two egg omlette for breakfast, two pieces of fish for morning tea, double serve of bolognese sauce (with veggies, no pasta) for lunch, chicken shnitzel (about 250g) and veggies for dinner, salad, and apple crumble for dessert. Add to that three protein shakes, and a magnesium drink, plus a variety of other supplements.

When I only ate fish on Good Friday, I suffered so much from lack of protein, that it took me two days to recover. When we were on holiday in Merimbula, I ate fancy desserts for three days in a row and felt totally sick for two days afterwards.

So what does it mean when I don't feel well? I feel dizzy and nauseaus for starters. I feel confused, and I cannot focus. I feel tired - my muscles are throbbing like they've done a 100km bike ride. Sometimes, I can't sleep, but I don't feel rested. I feel wrung out and anxious instead. I get pins and needles in my arms and hands. And ... the best one of the lot ... I feel irritated. Very, very irritated. Irrationally irritated.

Add a solid serve of protein and veggies for a couple of days (at least) and these symptoms subside. Phew!

Hair update

The good news is, the hair is coming back. Pretty much everywhere. Including my fingers (between knuckle and first joint). What?!

I am not sure whether the hair on my fingers fell out or not. It wasn't really an area of hair I paid much attention to. But I gazed down the other day, and there is all this black fuzz on my fingers. It looks positively ... well ... (and I don't mean to be racist here) ... Greek! If my fingers are so meditteranean, then what about my chin? I rushed off to the mirror. Yep, just as I had suspected. Long black hairs all over my chin. Out came the tweezers.

While I was at the mirror I checked out my mane. All good here. A few more greys than I thought I had, but otherwise it's growing back thick and dark. Despite reports from people, that hair after chemo grows back thick and quick, my hair is not growing back quick. How can it? My body is so deprived of vitamins and minerals, that growing hair at all is an added bonus. I estimate that I am about two months away from sporting a "hair style". In the meantime, I've kissed the wig goodbye.

Eyelashes - gorgous. No complaints. Thick, even, beautiful. But eyebrows? What's going on here? They are growing back in two rows! It looks like I have a set of train tracks above each eye. Actually, let me correct that. I have a set of train tracks above the right eye. But above the left eye, the train tracks sort of start half way across the eye. Weird.

Typical day at the farm

I've been reading Bill Bryson's "At home" recently, and was awed by how little we really know about how people used to live on a day to day basis. It also occurred to me that, while I write a whole lot of interesting (or otherwise) things in my blog, no one knows what a typical day at the farm is really like. So, here goes. A description of a typical day at the farm ... from my perspective. (And just to be clear - this is a typical day now, post chemo. Before the whole cancer thing, life was a whole different kettle of fish.)

I wake up. Must be day, because there is daylight coming in through the ensuite window - one of the few windows where we don't draw the shutter at night. For exactly this purpose - so that when you wake up you can tell whether it's day or night. I jump out of bed, get a drink, take my homeopathic remedies, and jump back into bed. It's 7:30am. I lie in bed, thinking that maybe I still need more rest, but after 20 minutes I decide I am wrong.

I get up, get dressed and have breakfast. Very quietly of course, because the rest of the household, that is husband and Sabina, is asleep. If luck has it, they are still asleep at 9am, when I finally sneak out to ride my horse. I am back in the house (having ridden said horse), at 11am. By this stage, husband has had enough time playing with Sabina, and is absolutely busting to be set free. So off he goes, outside, engaging in farm maintenance and innovation tasks.

Sabina and I have a snack, and then I survey the situation I have been left with. Sometimes the guinea pigs need to be taken out, other times I might engage in a few small tasks such as throwing out a dead mouse and resetting the rat zapper, or cleaning a shelf in the pantry (yes, from mouse droppings).

At 12:30pm I start preparing lunch, which is usually ready at 1pm or so. Lately, husband has become pretty good with his timing, and is usually milling around the house by this time. On a good day he even comes in and sets the table. On a bad day, I have to get out the front door and ring the big fire bell.

By 2pm lunch is eaten. Sabina and I go for a 20 minute lie down, and husband cleans up after lunch. Then husband heads back to his farm tasks. When the alarm bell rings that our 20 minutes is up, Sabina and I usually have giggle and tickle time. Then we head out to ride Sabina's pony. Hopefully, I get to ride my pony at the same time. After riding, we feed the horses.

By this stage it's about 4:30pm at best. I gaze longingly at the garden, and see it screaming at me. I grab the required tools and dig in. Or slice in. Or saw in. At 5pm I realise that I should be heading inside to make dinner. Oh, but maybe I will just trim a little bit more. At 5:30pm I must finish. But of course I can't leave a mess in the garden, so I quickly clean up and put away my tools. By 6pm I rush inside. Dinner is now officially late, and I haven't even started yet.

I create a tornado in the kitchen, making salad, providing Sabina with a snack, slicing meat and preparing dessert simultaneously. We eat at around 7pm, then blissfully relax around dessert. Husband and Sabina head off to the bathroom while I clean up. At 9:30pm I dash off to the bathroom for my own shower, hoping that I can be in bed by 10pm. Quite often, however, I get caught up in some conversation with my husband, or some blog writing, and I end up in bed at 11pm.

I read a book for about half an hour, before turning the lights off.

Easter walk

It is our family tradition to do an Easter Walk on Easter Sunday, with the whole idea being that children find Easter eggs along the way.

Us adults? Well, we take our chocolate dark, melted and mixed with pure spirits (95% proof, yes). We drink it together with brunch, which is the first meal of the day, after an obligatory visit to church. Usually, we start our brunch with a solid swig of the said chocolate vodka, then proceed onto other delicacies such as hard boiled eggs, cold meats and salads. The brunch is finished off with a traditional Polish Easter cake called "Mazurek". (Think thin layer of short bread, covered with creamed caramel, mixed fruit and nuts. Rich.) After such a serving of food and alcohol every adult falls in a heap on a bed, any bed, and is rendered helpless, and often asleep, for about an hour. Maybe two.

When the adults finally stir, we go for an Easter walk. At last the kids get a chance to get their dose of chocolate. (Don't get me wrong. The kids do get a dose of chocolate at brunch. But this is very modest by modern standards.)

We head out on our walk with pockets full of chocolate eggs, while Sabina sports an empty backpack. At the very entrance to the walk, on a fence post, she finds a golden chocolate egg. With huge excitement, she puts it into the backpack, and slows the entire walk down to a crawl as she scans the ground for more eggs.

We walk along patiently behind her, and as I am last, I drop an egg here and there. Fingers crossed that they will still be here on our way back.

The walk takes us into a rain forest with tall trees, and shady ferns. As Papa points out the trees to Sabina, a couple of eggs roll onto the footpath. Sabina squeals with joy, and adds them to her collection. Deer tracks, ferns, and the creek provide another useful distraction. Sometimes we just throw the eggs while walking along behind her. Every egg is greeted with unparalleled excitement, and a commanding "stop! Everyone stop!".

There is an added level of difficulty when throwing eggs at random. The track we are following has been recently visited by a couple of horses. So it's important that the eggs don't land in a pile of reasonably fresh horse droppings.

Eventually we turn back and while the egg hunt is now officially over, we still manage to find a few eggs. We even manage to find a chocolate bunny. Amazing.

Baw Baw Classic

So, my husband has decided to do the Baw Baw Classic, cycling race, for the third time in a row.

Last year we actively supported him, and drove to the top of Mt Baw Baw amid falling snow. It was very exciting, but the journey is long and winding. So this year, we piked. Well, we half piked. We asked for permission to not be at the finish line, and permission we got.

This morning we drove my husband to Warragul for the start of the race. Of course, as luck would have it, the week was full of sunny autumn weather, but last night it poured with rain, and turned nasty cold. So we braced in our coats and waved him good luck at the start.

The race went well and he managed to climb to the top of the mountain and finish. He even got a medal. Just like last year, it snowed.

Then he caught the bus back down. But the bus doesn't come past our place. They dropped him off in Neerim Junction, and he rode the rest of the way home. That's right. As though cycling 100km from Warragul to Mt Baw Baw, doing the toughest climb in Australia (correct me if I am wrong) wasn't enough. He then got out of the warm bus, into the freezing cold, and with his spare clothes bag waltzing like a matilda off his bike, he rode the 11km home in the dusk. The last 2km being on a gravel road. And it's not flat.

He deserves his medal.

Nails

It's now over 2 months since my last chemo, and some of the side effects are still with me.

Every time you have chemo, it leaves a mark on your nails.  So my nails are striped and indented (and in a couple of cases bruised), each stripe showing the depletion of vitamins and minerals.  Some people lose a nail or two during chemo.

I haven't lost a nail, and the stripes are now progressively growing out.  The nails are weak and brittle and need attention.  They need attention every hour!  Sound rediculous?  It is!  I can't touch fine fabrics because these endlessly braking nails are just so full of sharp edges that I would quickly ruin any fine fabric.  I'm in danger of ruining my more sturdy fabrics - that's how bad the problem is.

Now, you would think that if a nail broke off at 8am, and then again at 9am, that by 10am there really wouldn't be any more nail to break off.  Oh, but there is!  Heaps to break off.  Apparently.  And even if there is no more to break off, the nails still break off and splinter and split.  And sometimes I have to put a band aid on because the nail has broken off too much and the finger underneath is bleeding.

They are not pretty to look at, either.

Nethercote Falls

Having already hit the wall once this morning (on the bike), I must have been so exhausted that foolishly I agreed to go for a walk to Nethercote Falls.

The walk wasn't far, nor was it hard.  We didn't have to bush bash.

But 10 metres from the picnic table my leg muscles gave out.  That was it, couldn't make another step.  Felt like the whole show was just going to buckle.  I could still "shuffle", which I did to the picnic table.  Then I ate

and rested,

and enjoyed the view.