Ptop Ptips for dealing with a Pterygium

First things first - a pterygium* is a growth on the eye. (*Warning: do not click on that link if you are in any way squeamish, especially about eye related things. Also FYI it's pronounced ter-ridge-eeum...) Science-y types are not completely certain what causes them, but they are associated with excessive exposure to sand, wind and sunlight. They are apparently pretty common in Australia, a country known for its abundant UV rays. 

I had no idea they existed, until I visited an optometrist a few years back and was told I had one in my right eye. The optometrist said to monitor it, and to consider getting it removed at some point - if they encroach on your pupil they can impact vision. Since then, my pterygium has been going from strength to strength so recently I had to have it removed. Yay. 

Now, most eye surgery - especially laser surgery - is apparently a breeze, a Summer's stroll in the park, a warm evening watching the sunset on a deserted beach. But removing pterygiums? Apparently that's a bitch. Every, single person you encounter along the fun path to pterygium removal surgery will, with a grimace, tell you how painful the recovery is. They'll tell you that you'll feel like you've got grit in your eye for a month; that there's a darn good reason *they* still have their own pterygiums intact; that you should take a week off work (ha!). 

I had my surgery last Tuesday, and whilst it's not the most fun, it's definitely not the worst either. In case you're facing your own eye growth removal, here's a few more thoughts: 

1) Waiting for the thing is most definitely worse than the thing. Just the thought of having someone touch my eye, heck no! And then surgery and anaesthetic, most definitely heck no! (I'm very lucky that I've had pretty limited dealings with hospitals and medical procedures. I always wonder about the people who have to deal with this s**t day in, day out. How tough and strong and just getting-it-done they must be.) 

In the days leading up to the surgery I tried not to think about it, but when I did it'd set off a mild panic. But then it happened and it was okay. Surreal, but okay. Everyone was lovely and clearly knew what they were doing. The anaesthesiologist knocked me out efficiently and effectively - it was the best five minute nap of my life - and then while I was under numbed my right eyeball and half my face. During the operation you're awake but you can't really see what's going on; one eye is covered by a blue sheet, the other one has been knocked out so whilst you can kind of see shapes and light and dark you're not getting a visual of the scalpel, needle or thread. Thank goodness. 

2) Give yourself a day doing nothing afterwards. Anaesthetic really knocks you about, even a little of it. And your eye will be all puffy and swollen and exhausting to open. I basically spent the day after lying in bed, with my eyes closed, which is not something I ever normally do. But it was necessary. Also I can highly recommend a loyal dachshund if you're looking for a daytime snoozing pal. 

3) Have a pain killer ready for about twelve hours post-op when the local anaesthetic really wears off. And make it a strong one.

4) Get your hands on one of those gel ice packs, so good for the swelling and pain in the first few days. Highly recommended.

5) Buy a big bottle of saline solution (you know the stuff people use to clean contact lenses?). Then when your eye is gummed up with gunk you can squirt some on a tissue, clean it all off and feel vaguely human again.

6) If you're like me you'll draft yourself an overly ambitious to do list of all the things you'll get done while you're not at work. Awesome. Just don't have reading your way through your book pile or binge watching Netflix on there. Not until day three anyway. You just had eye surgery, remember? 

7) Get someone to send you flowers, even if that's you. My Mum sent me some little flowers, so sweet! 

8) Tell the world and get as much sympathy as you can. I'm not sick very often, at all, so I kind of had to milk it. Plus someone took a scalpel to my eye, I deserve a little sympathy! (I should clarify - I want sympathy from afar. If you're sharing a house with me then get the feck away with your sympathy and  questions and just leave me alone as much as possible, are we clear?) 

9) It's not nearly as bad as everyone kept telling me it was going to be. It's only early days but I've hardly touched the painkillers. My eye looks a little red and gooey and gross, and it is fairly irritating, but I'm not writhing around in pain. Maybe all those people telling me to expect the worst was a good thing, because the reality can't be nearly as bad as the expectation? A bit like watching Finding Dory?

Long story short - I'd definitely prefer not to be managing three different types of eye drops or wearing sunglasses to dinner so as not to shock my fellow diners right now. So, protect your eyes people! Whether your biking, hiking or skiing, wear sunglasses, wear goggles! Whatever you do look after those eye balls, and then hopefully you'll never have to learn to how to spell pterygium...

Looking nervous pre-surgery.
(Note giant arrow so anaesthesiologist sticks
giant needle into the correct eye.)

Looking relieved post surgery.

On A Year And A Bit of Saying Sure, Why Not?

When we first moved back to Australia eighteen or so months ago I was feeling a bit lost. It was partly the standard dislocation and general weirdness that is a normal part of the repatriation process. But is was also partly something more.

Living in Seoul I legally wasn't allowed to work. So I dabbled in things here and there. I explored on foot and took lots of photos and wrote lots of words. I read and embroidered and did loads of paper craft. I always had projects on the go; I was never bored. And there was never any pressure to get a job, to go to work. My spouse visa wouldn't let me, but more than that people just accepted that as an expat wife my role was focussed on supporting the family and that was as it should be. But then we moved back home and suddenly everyone was always asking - sometimes tentatively, sometimes expectantly - Are you going back to work? 

Let's rewind a little. Before we moved overseas, I worked. Since my first 'proper' job in a bookstore at 16-ish I've worked. I've always wanted independence, I've always wanted to be self sufficient, I've always wanted to do well. Then we moved overseas and I stopped working and at first it was a bit scary, but after a year or so I adjusted and it was ace. It was fun to devote my time to my husband and step-sons, and to the house and the dogs. It was fun to have spare time for crafting and reading and blogging. And I appreciated it for the luxury it was.

But then we moved back home and it felt different. It felt like I should do something more with my time, with my life - and not just because people were telling me I should. I felt it too. I just didn't know what that something was. I knew what I didn't want to do - return to full time corporate work - but I didn't have a clear idea of what I did want to do. I was a bit confused about it all.

Within a few months of landing back in Australia, while all this was just starting to swirl about in my head, I found myself at ProBlogger. It was wonderful and fun and I met so many ace people. It was exciting and motivating, and completely utterly terrifying. I kept having these ridiculous circular conversations with myself that followed one of two themes:

Theme one: There's some things I think I'm pretty good at and I should totally dive in and just do those things, but - what if in reality I completely and utterly suck at those things? Let's face it, I have no f**king idea what I'm doing... 

Theme two: There's some things I think I'm pretty good at, but I'm in the ridiculously lucky position of not needing to make money so why should I feel the need to enter the marketplace, with all the pressure and stress and potential corruption of ideals that it may entail? Why can't I just enjoy life and employ my skills in non money making ways? Isn't ambition just thinly veiled vanity? A desperate need for outside approval? 

As you can imagine, neither were productive lines of thought.

And then Voices of 2014 happened. Some lovely person (I know who you are and I'm so very grateful!) nominated my little blog, and somehow I made it through to the top forty in the personal category. And because of that a few emails came my way - invitations to PR events and sponsor challenges. And I still had no idea what I wanted to do, and those circular arguments were still swirling about in my head, but I just started saying yes. I figured I'd see where things went, see what felt right. I figured I'd cross the river by feeling the stones beneath my feet (thanks for that one, Deng Xiaoping).

So I said yes to some fantastic freebies and to some things I put cold hard cash behind. I said yes to blogger brunches and photography workshops. I finally said yes to a Photoshop class, and a pretty intensive weekend learning all about freelance writing (both worth every penny). I said yes to Facebook groups and Instagram and real life meet-ups.

I thought that maybe saying yes would help me figure out what I wanted to do. And it has. After a year and a bit of saying sure, why not? I'm definitely more certain about a few things.

Firstly, I'm clearer about why I want to make some money. I know that in the grand scheme of things I'll never contribute to the family finances in a meaningful way (I contribute much more in other ways). But I want to have enough cash to pay for a camera lens, or a magazine subscription, or to buy that dress that I really don't need, or to cover the cost of upgrading my flight to Europe (that's what I'm working towards right now!). It might all sound frivolous and silly, but it gives me a strange peace of mind. It means something, to me.

Secondly I'm much clearer about how I want to make money. And it's not through my blog, at least not directly anyway. It's through freelance writing, and photography, and collaboration, and through saying yes to very select opportunities that do come my way thanks to Good Things*.

And I've realised just how much doing things leads to doing other things. I've realised how little actions that may not feel like much at the time can lead to opportunities down the track. Sometimes way down the track.

And all of this has lead to where I'm currently at. I'm writing six posts a month on this blog which was my intention at the start of the year (yay me!); I've been nominated for Voices of 2015 (thank you, whoever you are!); I'm writing for the Threadless blog (I'm working on a post or three for them this weekend, actually); I've hit 24 sales in my Etsy store; and I've just submitted a 4000-ish word article - with photos - for one of my favourite magazines (my first properly paid commission, and the editor loves it! Yippee!). I've also recently submitted a paid-in-kind interview with one of my favourite illustrators for a fabulous little magazine; plus I'm in the midst of organising a trial run as a contributing photographer (yes, a paid position!) for a website I've long enjoyed (really hope I can pull that one off...). Oh, and I'm a finalist in the mobile category at the Head On Photo Festival.

I know that not all of these things will work out (and yes part of me is scared to publish this post in case it all goes to s**t). I know that next month may not be quite as awesome and opportunity filled as this one. I know that I'll have to work hard and stay focussed and keep thinking and planning and pitching if I want to continue writing. But right now it feels like there are some pretty ace things afoot, some pretty ace things indeed!

I still don't really know what the f**k I'm doing (does anyone?), but I reckon I'll keep saying yes for a little while longer.

My...Morning Routine

The post is a bit tricky for me to write, because the honest truth is I don't have a morning routine. I, we, don't have a routine at all. There's no alarm set at the same time every morning, because every morning is different. 

Some mornings we have a full house, some mornings it's just me and the dogs. Some mornings everyone is up before ungodly o'clock because of school and tennis and international conference calls. Some mornings are slow, with newspapers in bed in the soft morning light and maybe, a little later, a giant family fry up with eggs and bacon and beans. Some mornings are not quite so calm, with I don't have any school pants and oops I forgot to print my homework and who is knocking on the door and making the dogs bark like crazy at this hour and dear lord I'm tired, is the week over yet. 

This chopping and changing might sound like your worst nightmare. I'm pretty sure it goes against every bit of parenting advice ever, but it works for us. The benefits of the life we lead are huge - my husband works crazy, long hours and he travels, a lot. But when he's home he's really home. He's there with his boys in the mornings, and when they come home from school too. 

And then, when I'm home alone, I get to do all the fun stuff I tend to postpone in the midst of family life. Things like blog writing and Instagram faffing, photo walks and late night yoga. Which in turn means that when the husband and step-sons are home I can really be home too. 

Having a flexible, adaptable routine helps makes all that possible. Although - and here's one to twist your brain a bit - I reckon you need to be a bit of a control freak to go routine free. People often comment on how clean and organised our house is, but that's because it needs to be. When you don't have a routine, when everything is changing and fluid and day-by-day, you need to have a bit of order amongst the chaos. Or is that just me?

There are three other touchstones that keep me sane amongst the constant changes; three things that happen every single morning regardless of whatever else is going on who whoever else is around. First up, there's a cup of green tea in one of my vintage Pyrex mugs. On the busy mornings I normally make it two or three times before I actually drink it. But it always gets drunk, eventually. 

Next is a shower. It doesn't need to be long, it just needs to happen. If you shower at night and not in the morning I can't possibly comprehend you. How on earth do you wake up and face the day without a shower? 

And my third touchstone? Walking the dogs, of course. Partly because Elfi barks at me nonstop if she thinks I've forgotten (which is exactly as relaxing as it sounds) and partly because - even if it's just a fifteen minute stroll - there is something about starting the day with a walk that helps settle your mind. I highly recommend it, especially if you have some dachshunds in tow.

************* 

The My... posts are a way to get me writing more throughout 2015. There'll be one a month, each with a different My... prompt. You can play along as well, whenever and wherever you want. This month's prompt (March) is My Morning Routine. Next month's prompt (April) is My Sport. Interpret each prompt however you like - a story or a jumble of thoughts, fact or fiction, personal or not. Don't feel too constrained by the months either, if you like a prompt then have a go. And make sure to let me know if you do join in!

My First…Rebellion

I'm playing along with the hilariously talented Kerri Sackville today. She's started a new blogging challenge about firsts, and today's theme is 'My First Rebellion'. She's written about her's here. But read mine first so you don't make unfair comparisons. Okay, good, thanks…

Well technically this isn't quite my first act of rebellion. Although I was a pretty well behaved kid there had been little things before this. The odd bit of port pinched from the parents stash. Sneaking out at night for a moonlit walk*. That final week of year twelve when we staged daily events to protest the banning of 'muck-up day'.

But that all just seemed like harmless fun, and it was done as a group. It's easy to rebel when you're part of a pack; when you feel that truth, beauty and your god given right to throw eggs on the final day of high school is on your side. 

No, my first real rebellion was a solitary act. In a strange way it was kind of the first tangible sign that I had my own thoughts about the world and the way it worked. That I'd considered all the very worthy, very important stuff my parents taught me growing up and had reached a slightly** different conclusion. 

My first real rebellion was getting a job at McDonald's. 

When I was little, my Mum and Step-Dad were what you might call hippies. Middle class sure, but a very-left-leaning, grow-your-own, build-your-own, change-the-world kind of middle class.

We're talking an early childhood of communes, marijuana plants in the backyard, and friends who built mud huts in Warrandyte way before the word 'sustainable' was part of everyday PR speak. On weekends we made banners and marched for peace or workers rights or both. On school holidays we drove to Nimbin and fought off leeches and hungry baby goats (aggressive little critters). Or we got dragged to festivals in the middle of the Victorian bush, where there were teepees and nudity and mud. And drumming circles. (I still have nightmares). 

You can probably gather from all this that McDonald's was a very dirty word in our household. It was a sign of all that was wrong with the world - greedy capitalism, factory farming, American cultural imperialism, wastefulness, and just plain bad food. We did not eat there, ever.

(Side note - on the other hand, my Dad took us to Red Rooster every other Friday night and I ate pineapple fritters and drank coke! Coke! It was so great!) 

So I was 18 and studying at Swinburne Uni, and I wanted some extra cash, and I heard that McDonald's Hawthorn was hiring. How convenient, I thought. So I applied and I got the job.*** Cue general ridicule and mirth from the family. They laughed at the uniform, the terminology, the 'training'. 

But I was earning a decent hourly rate and kind of having fun. And I turned out to be pretty awesome at the whole fast food thing. I got little promotions and I won some awards. One year, I won 'Drive Thru Crew Member of the Year'. Go me. And I remember xmas day, my Mum and her best friend rolling about laughing, literally in tears of laughter about this award. And it pissed me off. Because by that stage I'd realised that my silly casual job at Maccas was turning out to be something more. 

As a shy introvert, working at McDonald's gave me confidence. That job taught me how to make small talk, how to deal with all kinds of people and situations I'd never encountered before. It showed me I could be witty, funny even (who would have thought!); and that working in a team didn't always suck. 

As I continued with my studies I continued to work for them, and slowly, slowly I showed my folks that McDonald's maybe wasn't as evil as they thought. As a manager I helped give training and a career to kids who may have slipped through the cracks otherwise. Later, McDonald's gave me my first 'real' job in the area I'd studied to work in. And it's been thanks to McDonald's that we've enjoyed the past six amazing years of overseas adventures.

And, best of all, it's this first act of rebellion many many years ago that eventually led me to my husband, my best friend, my partner in crime. Kind of awesome, the twists and turns of life. 

*************

*Seriously. I was such a nerd / good girl that my friend and I used to sneak out at night just to go for a stroll in the moonlight. We'd sit in the park and eat Aero bars, dipping them in yogurt. Party on. 

**Note the slightly. I am still left-leaning. I still believe in equality, fairness and human rights. I believe in public services and the power of education. But I also believe in personal choice and the free market, and that some times for some problems government regulation isn't actually the best solution.

*** Yes, I was hired, by McDonald's, at the age of eighteen. 

A Little Note About Life Right Now...

You may have noticed things have been a little quiet over here lately, quieter than usual. It's not because I don't have anything to blog about. There's fifteen draft posts sitting here waiting to be finished, asking to be written. 

I want to tell you about the things I've learnt from living overseas, and the things I'm loving about being back in Australia and the things I miss about Korea. And I want to tell you about the ups and downs of being a step mum. And I also really want to give you an update on The Big Project; to show you the progress and let you know how awesome our architect has been through the whole process. 

But, as much as I really want to do all that, it just hasn't been a priority for me right now. And I need to accept that - to acknowledge that that's the choice I'm making, rather than feel frustrated that I haven't hit publish on those draft posts. I'll get to them one day, it's just not today. 

Because today I'm focussed on spending time with the husband before he heads off on another long-ish overseas trip. On setting up the house for the step-sons so it feels like a comfortable place for them, and so that it's easy for them to transition from their Mum's house to ours and back again. I'm focussed on enjoying the sunshine, the unseasonable warmth, and on being active with tennis games and gym visits and trips to the beach. And - let's be honest - I'm also focussed on eating all the things in Sydney. 

I'm also focussed on less fun things like sorting out the gas and water and electricity and wifi and car insurance. And pointlessly fretting over our cash flow. Oh, and the ironing. The endless, mind numbing ironing. 

But it's actually pretty great, this keeping busy with good and mundane real world tasks. Because, to be honest, if I don't keep busy in the real world right now there's a high chance I'll fall into a bit of a hole...

Awhile ago I was chatting to someone who'd done the whole repatriation thing. She'd lived and worked in Europe for a few years. Had a great job, had a great life. And then she moved back home. And she was fine, until one day she found herself sobbing uncontrollably in the supermarket, thinking 'a few months ago I was spending my weekends in France and now I'm stuck in the suburbs of Brisbane figuring out which brand of butter to buy'. (I may be paraphrasing a little, but you get the gist). 

When I'm not busy I'm dislocated. I'm a bit lost (especially without my dogs). I don't know my routine yet, my direction. People keep asking me if I'm working, what I'm doing. And - long term - I'm not really sure how to answer that. So I'm going to keep soaking up the sunshine and hitting the gym and hanging out with the husband and step-sons. I'm going to keep focussing on what's happening in front of me, right now, for a little while longer. Bear with me.