Sunday, February 26, 2017

Disaffected and Disenfranchised

With the rise of fascism – and that's exactly what Trump, Hanson, Brexit and Le Pen is – there's a couple of words that are really being trotted out: disaffected and disenfranchised. The second can be dismissed as an absurd exaggeration; no one is being told they can't vote. The only recent time this happened in a Western democracy was when thousands of African Americans in Florida were blocked – by deliberate road blocks – from getting to the polling booths, thus giving George W Bush another term.

But people still claim disenfranchisement, as if the term's meaning has some connection with being left out of decision-making because of colour and class, the inference being that lower middle class white people are more left out than other groups, including blacks, South Americans, Muslims and Asians. While we know this is simply untrue, it's also important to stick to the meaning of 'disenfranchise': (OED) 'To deprive of civil or electoral privileges'.

One of the greatest weapons of fascism and totalitarianism is language, in particular the twisting and morphing of meanings of words. Some of the great totalitarian regimes had this down to a T, to the point where names were invented that sounded the exact opposite of what they were: During the French reign of terror The Office Of Public Safety was a department that arranged the arrest and execution of suspects without trial. In the USSR the term mokre dela or wet affairs referred to the process of killing and torturing suspects. Idi Amin borrowed from the French with his Public Safety Unit, in truth a torture gang in Uganda in the mid-seventies.

This outrageous twisting of meaning is almost a kind of psycho-social magic in that we are deceived precisely at the point where we think we aren't. This is a common trick of magicians. When a magician says, “I don't know what your card is” that is most likely the time they will take a peek at your card as it sits on the top, bottom or marked point of the deck. We're fooled by this because we're not trained to deal with that much audacity.

When US Democratic politician Richard Blumenthal lied to the public in 2010 about serving in Vietnam and being captain of the Harvard swimming team (He was a Marine Home guard and wasn't even ON the Harvard swim team) he said, “Sorry, I misspoke”. Some people laughed and a few journalists wrote about it, but this didn't stop Blumenthal from being elected as a senator in 2011. How the public forgot about this, and how they seemingly accepted his use of such absurdly twisted language is of great concern, but understandable given my point about magicians. It's almost as if the public and the press get too tired to keep checking the veracity of things, and thus just allow it all to slip. In his book Thinking Fast and Slow, psychologist Daniel Kannerman calls this 'cognitive bias', based on his theory that we have a limited capacity to really analyse things deeply (what Kannerman calls 'slow thinking').

To think of the word 'disenfranchised' as anything other than to do with voting is an example of this cognitive bias. We're allowing speech writers to get away with the misappropriation of language because we have a limited ability to be intellectually vigilant. Somehow we've allowed 'disenfranchised' to mean uneducated, lowly paid, not treated kindly, ignored. While these things are negative attributes of Capitalism and class (and also things in dire need of attention in many Western nations) they have nothing to do with enfranchisement.

The other word – disaffected – is being used in an even more elastic fashion. The OED has 'disaffected' as: 1. Evilly affected; estranged in affection or allegiance, unfriendly, hostile; almost always spec. Unfriendly to the Government. 2. Disliked, regarded with aversion.

When pundits from the Right talk and write about Trump and Pauline Hanson voters, they refer to their disaffection as though it's entirely one way, ie happening to the disaffected. There is no sense of them having anything to do with it; they are passive receivers of disaffection. The second meaning above is much more appropriate to this. So, are we simply throwing away the first meaning, which to some is just as valid but far implies active responsibility on behalf of the disaffected. The same double meaning occurs with the word 'Affected'; a person who is affected is sometimes one who is acted upon by another force, but also, and more commonly used, is the active definition whereby the subject has chosen to be a certain way.

The Right wing commentators would have us believe that little choice is involved in Trump and Hanson voters process of disaffection. The implication here is that they've been ignored, left to fend for themselves, and 'regarded with aversion'. How much truth is in the assertion that lower middle class Americans and Australians have been treated thus while the other socio-ethnic groupings have been somehow given better treatment?

That is a question I leave up to anyone with better economic and socio-political credentials than I. I'm simply interested in the way we use and abuse language. Perhaps we could see the reintroduction of a very old (1664) meaning of the word 'disaffected': (OED) Affected with disease, disordered.







Monday, August 8, 2016

Wait, there's a Leak in my Truth

When cartoonists and comedians get angry, and it becomes clear they're angry, they lose their power. It's a bit like the fool who turns on his master and challenges him physically without cleverness or humour; then he is no longer the fool but an up-coming master. Recent pieces in The Australian by cartoonist Bill Leak - where he complains about the "sanctimonious Tweety Birds having a tantrum" - are an example of the fool showing he's taken a hit, he's having to be serious.

Leak's anger is in regard to people reacting to a series of cartoons he has done about aboriginal poverty and social dysfunction, in particular a cartoon where a policeman hands an aboriginal child to an older aboriginal man, with the caption: Policeman, “You'll have to sit down and talk to your son about personal responsibility.” Father, “Yeah righto, what's his name then?”



This cartoon has been criticised as encouraging racial stereotypes and adding nothing new to the debate. (It's also been criticised for not being funny, but that, while very relevant, is a whole other matter).

The Australian has defended Leak. "Bill Leak's confronting and insightful cartoons force people to examine the core issues in a way that sometimes reporting and analysis can fail to do." How they actually force us to examine core issues is simply not explained; all Leak's cartoons are really doing is amplifying the fact that some aboriginal people are living in squalor and don't know what their own children are up to. The very important word here is 'SOME'. It's actually a very small 'some'.

Along with Leak's angry statements, there is also a current trend, an avalanche even, of comedians and social commentators who are arguing their right to be rude, nasty and abusive.

Consequently, any criticism of people who use cruel language about others (nigger, poofter, Paki, ape etc) is being interpreted as an infringement on freedom of speech. 'The good old days' is so often referred to as a better time when we were able to talk about others by using derisive stereotypical terms. 'Political correctness', once a term that referred to absurd euphemism – down-sizing instead of firing, overweight instead of fat, diminutive or vertically challenged instead of small – has been overtaken by people who feel robbed of their chance to be cruel or 'incorrect'. In a similar vein, 'political correctness' was used by John Howard as a way of damning anyone who didn't like his politics on reconciliation and his refusal to say 'sorry' to aboriginal people.

Context is important though, as any comedian will tell you. There's no such thing as a word or term that can never be expressed. I've just written four in parenthesis above, and I doubt anyone would accuse me of bigotry or insensitivity. Also I believe there's a way of expressing our dislike or 'upsetness' if you will, without telling people off or implying they are somehow monstrous because of their use of certain words.

I used to have neighbours who occasionally referred to aboriginal people as 'coons'. These people don't hate aboriginal people; in fact they had affection and care for aboriginal children who visited as friends of their own children. And I have to say that these neighbours are possibly the most generous folk I've met; they would stand up for anyone in need or any person mistreated by others. Nor were they scared, which most racist people are. So, when I first heard them call blacks 'coons', I was shocked, but I didn't get angry and walk out, nor did I say “you shouldn't” or “you can't”. What I did say was, 'Wow, I didn't realise we were in the deep south of America in the 1950s!” (or words to that effect). I also laughed as I said it. They responded well, not by saying sorry (and I wasn't expecting that); instead they acknowledged that I didn't appreciate the language and said they wouldn't use that word around me.

So why didn't I get angry? Why not show my disgust? Because I had to live with these folk, and I'd seen a side to them that I really respected. And I knew that the 'c' word rolled off their tongues as the other 'c' word also pops out amongst some Australian men who, it seems, don't have too many other ways of showing love and affection to other men. Yes, it might seem strange that a man has to say “Hey ya cunt” in order to be friendly, but it's not going to be changed through sanctimony or approbation.

At the same time it's important to accept that language affects the way we think; in fact most of the time we think through words. Yes, tone, volume and facial expression are all linguistic forms that affect emotion, but words are what the arguments are all about when the old 'PC' accusations pop up. And I believe there's a need to question the motives of those who complain about not being able to use cruel and nasty language. When they trot out the old line about how 'the PC police are out to get me' I cringe inside, knowing that the fight against political correctness, in its original form, was really about trying to make language clear, less deceptive; it had nothing to do with allowing people to be abusive.

But, when it comes down to challenging abusive behaviour and abusive language, it's the HOW that's so crucial. When aboriginal Australian footballer Adam Goodes paused mid-game to point out a person who called him a 'big ape' he was simply expressing the fact that terms like that hurt. It's unlikely he knew it was a teenage girl who said it – he was fairly busy at the time! - and he really didn't have time to sit down and formulate some 'I' statement as the psychologists recommend. No, he ran to the fence and pointed angrily. Now, I believe that should have been the end of it. It would have become clear why he stopped and pointed; the various commentators would have found out what happened and Goodes would have been able to explain his actions when he was calm and less worked up. But unfortunately the authorities had to get involved, so the girl was removed from the game. That was a mistake.

Another mistake occurred in Canada when a comedian called Mike Ward was fined $42,000 by Quebec Human Rights Tribunal for joke about a young man who suffered from Treacher Collins syndrome — a condition that affects the development of bones and tissues in the face. The child is also a competent singer, and once sang for the pope. Now for the context. Ward had been under the impression the kid was terminally ill, and was being granted a dying wish by a children's foundation. Ward's joke was in reference to the fact that the child was still alive five years after his condition became news. Here's the offending routine: "But five years later, he wasn't dead, he's not dying. The little bastard, he's just not dying!"

The upshot of this comedy routine is that news organisations and social media jumped on it, and the child was not only bullied at school but became so upset he attempted suicide. Ward's defence that there was a "clear difference between harassment against a person and an artistic work being produced before a willing audience” was dismissed by the tribunal. Ward's lawyers are appealing the decision.

Now, given the bare information about the offending joke, it probably doesn't sound that funny. But once again, there's important context to consider. When commercial media get hold of the stories of children with disabilities, deformities or serious illness, they lead their audience down a path of emotional seduction that seems genuine, and in some cases is, but there's something within us (certainly within me) that feels like we're being conned. Our emotions are being tugged at with the claws of a monetised, ubiquitous monster that just seems to be getting bigger every day. It's a monster that feigns compassion – seems, in fact, to have compassion dripping form every pore – but really just wants the bucks: TV, magazines, commercial radio, social media and bill boards all over town. We can try to avoid these messages, but really you'd have to be Amish or a cave dweller to not to be somehow affected by the emotional manipulation of the media machine.

And it's the charity events where the emotion gushes to the point of a flood.

Eventually we're going to feel we've had enough of the sickly sweet, all too often patronising, outpouring of 'goodness', and it's then that we react. And here lies the function of sick humour: it's an 'up-yours' to the media machine's attempts to make us feel deeply about someone we don't even know. All sick jokes are based on this kind of principle. Princess Diana jokes, astronaut jokes, dead celebrity jokes, dead baby jokes. All ways for us to act like Punch – the naughty puppet – and push briefly against a tide of moral compunction, knowing full well we AREN'T Punch, and we aren't really lacking compassion or feeling, we're just sick of being psychologically pushed around.

Mike Ward's joke is funny because his audience have felt this same reaction, and here is a guy standing on a stage who has the guts to express it. Like the joke or hate it, it pressed a button and got a reaction.

Now, I don't know what Ward said after this joke; had he then launched into an attack on the billionaires and media managers behind these stories – in the manner of a George Carlin routine – then his nasty line about a deformed child might have a social and political point. It would have turned the blackness, the sickness around and shone a light on the hideous sickness of media power and the political abuse of that power. But not all comedians are George Carlins, Lennie Bruces or Bill Hicks's. It's far too much to expect, and it'd be boring if they were.

To fine people for what they say or write is something I deplore. It simply goes against the grain, in the same way I hate it when a security guard hassles a heckler at a comedy show. It should be up to the people who are supposed to be controlling the room – the comedians – to deal with that. Once authority gets involved the emotional and intellectual atmosphere changes, it becomes dark and people tend to form groups who more often than not oppose each other. But sometimes the abuse, the behaviour, the words, are so harsh and so affective, if you will, that we can't simply leave it up to the comedians, the public or, the media or Facebook and Twitter to deal with.

And yes, there are situations where language should be challenged and regulated. If I decided to start throwing the 'C' and 'F' words around at a football match in front of children and their parents, I would expect complaint in some form. And not all parents feel confident enough to challenge the swearer; they might not want their children to see them involved in physical scuffle. So, in that situation, I would expect someone, either a member of the public or an official to give me a warning.

But when artists – comedians, writers, painters, cartoonists and musicians – are officially sanctioned or fined for their work, it's a very different story. It's not something that should happen, and in Australia their rights, which some claim are compromised in 18 C of the Racial Discrimination Act, are actually protected in by sub-section 18 D


Section18C does not render unlawful anything said or done reasonably and in good faith:


(a) in the performance, exhibition or distribution of an artistic work; or
(b) in the course of any statement, publication, discussion or debate made or held for any genuine academic, artistic or scientific purpose or any other genuine purpose in the public interest; or
(c) in making or publishing:
(I) a fair and accurate report of any event or matter of public interest; or
(ii) a fair comment on any event or matter of public interest if the comment is an expression of a genuine belief held by the person making the comment

So, getting back to Bill Leak. He hasn't been fined (as Mike Ward has in Canada), and no one has checked him or held him back. All that's happened is a growing number of people have criticised him on social media, and some in various letters to editors (although Leak's own Australian newspaper has chosen to publish mainly letters defending him). Commentators on television and radio have also discussed the issue of his indigenous cartoons.

Leak has responded with more cartoons, in particular one where HE is the kid being handed over, but he's being handed over to a bearded, bespectacled bloke in a Twitter T shirt and carrying a noose and bludgeon.



The sad thing about this is that a cartoonist is crying 'victim' in the same way some comedians are crying 'Orwell' by referring to the 'thought police' when they're criticised for making abusive and unfunny jokes about race, rape and disability. Leak is saying he's being socially lynched by a mob of people who all have the same thought: “Stop this artist now!” And yes, there might be some who want to stop him, but I'd say most of Leak's critics, like me, simply want to point out the flaws in his work, particularly given the fact that his cartoons are appearing in a newspaper owned by one of the richest and most powerful men in the world. In this sense, Leak the fool, is inflating the King's ego (or at least the paradigm of the 'King's' conservative newspaper) not prodding or pricking the King as we expect all fools to do.

Up until nowadays I've always loved Leak's work. The series of dog-fucking cartoons he did about the Malaysian prime minister – as an answer to Malaysian accusations towards Australian politicians along the same lines  – were terrific. And his cartoon with two women wearing burqas and one asking, “Does my bomb look big in this?' is a work of genius. Mainly because it's funny, not just because it's confronting.

But the defence of “I'm just telling the truth” is, paradoxically, as disingenuous as you can get. It's similar to the pathetic bleat by journalists that all they're doing is reflecting public opinion. No, they're influencing public opinion and so is Leak.

Sunday, December 8, 2013

Mandela the Fool.

There's quite a lot of commentary about the hypocrisy of some conservative and right wing politicians who are singing the praises of Nelson Mandela now he's dead. Many of them have previously accused him of being a left wing apologist and even a terrorist. According to a lawyer colleague of mine, there are also many South African ex-pat lawyers living in Australia who have claimed for many years to be Mandela supporters, even though they aren't prepared to stay in the country he has ruled and supposedly transformed for the better.

The contradictory nature of their seemingly sudden about face isn't all that surprising. The idea that a politician or political commentator should follow some kind of pure linear philosophical trajectory is naïve to say the least. They've been chopping and changing, back-flipping and re-evaluating their positions for years. Political affiliations are complicated things. Just ask Malcolm Fraser, or, were it possible, the late Christopher Hitchens, who both travelled in opposite directions right across the left/right political divide, and no one seemed all that surprised by it.

And no doubt Mandela himself changed positions and opinions on any number of political subjects. It's almost impossible to be a president of a country, or of any political organisation, without either compromising or contradicting oneself.

The universal attraction of Mandela is precisely that: he's attractive. And by this I mean you just can't not like the guy. And I suggest that it was his sense of humour that was a vital part of that attraction. Yes he was humble, saintly, tolerant and forgiving, but the fact that he laughed and joked in the face of so much political tumult, and in the company of so many exalted and self-important leaders, meant that he had the untouchable status of the fool.

And yes, he was left wing. He gave explicit support to Castro, opposed Israeli occupation of areas taken from Palestine, and opposed the invasion of Iraq. The ANC began as a pro-communist organisation. There's no question that socialism was embedded in his general philosophical outlook.

He reminds me of the Italian Marxist comedian and playwright Dario Fo. For years Fo has performed with his wife Franka Rame to packed playhouses and theatres throughout Italy. In 1997 he was awarded the Nobel prize for literature. I saw him perform in Parma in 1998 to at least two thousand people. There is no possibility that a majority, or even a significant minority, of that audience were of the political left. While those northern Italian towns were pro-communist sixty years ago, the general population of Parma would nowadays be middle class and anticommunist. But the public come out to see this radical leftist raconteur, laugh at his jokes and give him standing ovations. As a performer Fo has an almost Papal significance.

Why? Because he makes them laugh. But also because he does so without hubris; he maintains the status of the fool – the comedian, the clown. One vital role of a comedian is to be honest. And Mandela was honest; he held his positions on Palestine, Iraq and Cuba without compromise. Like the Dalai Lama and Fo he refused to give up his support for the underdog, the disenfranchised, and he did it with charm and humour.

Wednesday, October 9, 2013

Me and My Mouth

I've spent a lot of my life saying things that I probably shouldn't have. You know that feeling when you start saying something and half way through the sentence you're going 'No, this is going to sound wrong!' But if you stop mid sentence it's going to sound worse.

When I first met the mother of a girl friend, I was keen to get on and make a good impression straight away. So, when we drove around to her house and got out of the car I noticed that there were vincas growing out a crack in the pavement. I'd heard her mother was into gardening, so when she came out to meet us, I began the conversation with, “I see you've got vincas growing out of your crack.” Fortunately she had a sense of humour.

Another time I was driving along the West Coast highway, and I had my little dog sitting on my lap. He's a Jack Russell cross and fairly small, so if he sits on my lap he can see out the window. I didn't see the police car go past me until it was too late. They put on the alarm and flashing lights and pulled over in front of me. One young copper got out and came to the window of my car. By that stage my dog was sitting on the passenger seat and I just sat there as the copper leaned into the window.

The copper started with “What do think you're doing driving with the dog on your lap?”

I paused, thought about his question, then answered with, “He's kind of handy 'cause I don't have an air bag.” It was a line I'd thought about previously, and yes, it was an attempt to be funny. But I'd said it with such a straight face, the copper just looked at me like I'd told him I was from outer space. He then asked for my licence and went back to join his mate in the squad car. This time I was lucky too because I could see them in their car laughing and shaking their heads. After checking my details on the computer, the copper came back and gave me a warning.

But the one really significant time I said something weird, or stupid (and I'm kind of embarrassed about it) was in 1997 just after I'd had open heart surgery. The surgery was to fix up a deformed aortic valve. A congenitally deformed valve. This was one of the disadvantages of coming from old colonial West Australian family. In the mid nineteenth century there wasn't a huge choice in the gene pool. I sometimes tell people that parts of my family tree look more like a vine than a tree.

The surgery went very well, and after spending a few hours in intensive care, they took me up to the ward and let me sleep. Then, early in the morning, the doctors came around for their ward visit. I'd been awake earlier but gone back to sleep. The three doctors all stood at the end of my bed: The heart surgeon from Sri Lanka, called Dr Tillekeratne, (the only one I really knew), a male registrar from Pakistan and a pretty female medical student from Vietnam. I'm not sure how long they'd stood there but the nurse woke me up by tapping my shoulder. And what I saw were three doctors, from various different ethnic backgrounds, standing at the end of bed where the television normally was. They all stood there quietly smiling. And I don't know if it was the morphine or the disorientation or just a stupid quirk of my nature, but I started the conversation with, “Wow! who switched over to SBS?” (SBS being the ethnic broadcasting service).

This, of course, was a situation where they didn't find what I said funny. Overseas doctors no doubt receive a lot of racist reactions. I can only imagine the bigoted remarks they have to deal with. So they all just shuffled nervously at my bed and asked how I felt. The nurse, one hand held over her mouth, had to leave the room. I could tell she was ready to explode with laughter.

Anyway, over the next few days it must have become clear to them that I was more of a silly wag than a racist. We all got on very well, and we were able to share a few jokes, and even a bit of friendly banter about cricket. Then Dr Tillekeratne got me back a beauty! It was my seventh day at the hospital, and I was pretty well ready to go home. In fact, like most people, I was itching to get out of there. But they wouldn't let me go until my resting heart rate was below 80 beats a minute. After that much trauma it takes a heart some time to come back to its normal pace.

So that morning, as I sat there slow breathing, meditating and just hoping my heart rate would stay low enough, the two doctors and the medical student all came in to see me. I politely greeted them and they smiled and asked if I was ready to go home. I of course replied that I was one hundred percent etc. Then Dr Tilerkeratena said, “Well, we'd better check your heart.” I sat there confused, thinking 'what do you mean? You know everything about my heart, and besides, you can see it on the monitor, beating just bellow 80.' Then he suggested that the pretty young female medical student – and she really was pretty – should listen to my heart manually, “Just to be sure”. So she came over to me, smiled, and in the most voluptuous manner, undid my pyjama top and place her stethoscope onto my chest. And all I could do was look at the male doctors, as my heart flew up into the early 90s, and shake my head, thinking, 'Damn, you bastards!'. Dr Tillekeratne then smiled, wobbled his head politely, and said, “Sorry Mr Smith, maybe tomorrow.”

Tuesday, September 24, 2013

My left Foot # 2

Down the hallway of the orthopaedics ward some woman is calling out, “Mary” every minute, maybe two minutes. “MARY”. It's not that loud but it's insistent with a cow-like drone. “Mary!” Maybe someone who should be on the psych ward is up here for some orthopaedic treatment. The nurses don't seem to care but I truly wish Mary would arrive and put a stop to it.

I'm back in again with my broken foot. Smashed the top of my foot against a door frame in a drunken stupor on August 4th. I have what's called a Lys Franc injury, named after a French surgeon in the eighteenth century who kept having to deal with injuries where canon balls were dropped on soldiers and sailors' feet. It's also known as 'the jockey's injury', I assume because jockies get their feet stamped on by horses and they don't have work boots.

Anyway, after waiting two weeks for the swelling to go down, they operated on me and put plates and wires in my foot, then made me wait another few weeks before I could leave, as the wound took some time to heal. I stayed with my sister Kate and brother-in-law Peter, two of the loveliest people you'll meet. A few weeks ago I came back to the surgeon Mr Lim's rooms for assessment of the wound. He took one look at it and said, “You need to be back in again with a penicillin drip.” So back I went for five days while the wound healed a bit more.

Then just a few days ago I came back again, after ten days out of hospital, and Mr Lim looked at the wound and said, “It's declared itself” like it was a living, thinking part of me that can make declarations. What they mean by this is that the wound simply won't close without further surgery. Part of the reason for this is that my blood is always thin, due to a bionic heart valve that was put in me in 1997 (if my blood was normal thickness my body would form a clot on the valve which would move up into my brain – not a great outcome). So they put me in again last Friday ready to operate on Sunday.

On Saturday morning I was visited by a surgical registrar with a strange middle eastern accent, a large guy in his thirties whose name I can't remember. This guy explained how the surgeons and anaesthetists do a kind of balancing act with my blood levels just before surgery. Basically they allow my blood thinness to lessen and lessen until it's just a bit thinner than normal blood, then they operate. But the way this big lump of a registrar put it was, “Otherwise you could bleed to death on the table.” This was about the third or forth time a surgeon has said something entirely inappropriate to me, so I just had to tell him, “Please don't say things like that. I'm nervous enough as it is!” And he responded very well, saying it was the wrong way to put it and, “Yes, you are right, I must watch this talk”.

Since spending time in hospital and talking to medical friends, plus my sister who's a psychologist, I've since learnt that surgeons are famous for shocking bedside manners. I met a Silver Chain nurse, a guy called Sam, whose 8 year old son had a heart valve problem that needed a surgical adjustment. Apparently the surgeon kept wandering in and saying, “You could die from this”. Sam became upset and told the surgeon his son was aware of the gravity of it all. I know Doctors have to be honest, and it's probably a legal responsibility to ensure people know of all known possibilities. (And, to be fair, I'm the last person to condone euphemism), but really, someone's got to teach these guys to stop scaring people. I can't help wondering if these guys (and yes, they are almost entirely male) become surgeons because a) they're extraordinarily bright and b) they have this particular ability to focus, and keep focus, in situations of great stress without distraction. Without succumbing to stress or emotion. And what kind of people can do this? Psychopaths, that's who. But don't get me wrong, I'm not saying all surgeons are nut cases; it's just that they're not known for their people skills. It'd probably make a good thesis.

So, on the Sunday morning they operated again. I had to wait in a the brightest, cleanest room with a hair net on as two anaesthetists wandered in, also in hair nets, and carefully told me what they'd do before placing that rubber mask on my face. Ahh, the feeling of going under. Some hate it but I love it, even if I might wake up with half a brain from a blood clot! And for the rest of that Sunday I slept and woke and slept and woke, rang my sister and my parents, and rang them again only to have them laugh and say, “You've already rung us”.

The next day Mr Lim and the surgical team came round and checked it all out, then told me they'd cleaned up the wound and taken out the wires. This was good news to me as I figured that once the wires were out I should be able to bear weight on the foot and soon get back my work as an actor, comedian, clown, story-teller and musician. So I said, “Great, so you won't be taking the plates out then?” To which Mr Lim said, “No, they'll come out in five to six months.” Of course, my immediate response was, “But I can put weight on the foot before then?” And once again Mr Lim, the small, gritty Chinese Australian in his early forties, looked at me and said, “No, I told you this the night you came in...(the night I was smashed to the eyeballs with whisky and really didn't remember a lot at all)...it's six months of non weight bearing, five to six months after the surgery.”
“So I'm gunna be on crutches 'til February?” I asked, exasperated. “Yeah”, said Dr Lim, getting impatient, “I told you before, this is a life changing injury. You're going to be out for a while. Anyway, we have to be on our way. All the best.” Then he shook my hand and they all shuffled off to the next patient.

February! Wow! I'm really going to be in this friggin moon boot and crutches until then! Hmnnn, I suppose footballers with cruciate ligament injuries have to do the same, and they're not all A graders earning mega bucks.

The woman yelling “Mary” has stopped. Maybe Mary arrived or maybe not. It's a wet and windy day, which I like because I don't miss being amongst it all. I have novels and this laptop and lots of friends dropping in. The nurses are all gorgeous, and I mean that in a platonic way; they really are angels, and this being Joondalup, most are from the UK and Ireland. I particularly like one called Sharron, a big brunette who says, “Yes my darling” in her lilting Irish accent whenever I ask her something.

Anyway, back to my book.


Saturday, August 24, 2013

My Left Foot

Ok, here I am, ten days into a hospital stay after smashing my left foot into a door frame in a drunken stupor at home. My darling neighbour Trish brought me to the hospital after her hubby Rob found me at home, sitting round denying anything was really wrong. “That's broken!” she insisted. So here I am in a bed with a weird vinyl structure in my bed called a 'James Pillow' designed to keep my left foot raised. It's like a ramp you might see kids run up and launch themselves in the air, it's about a metre long, half a meter wide and it's in my bed! Sleep is sporadic and broken by the usual noises of an orthopaedic ward: loud beeps, bells, chatting doctors and nurses waking me for 'obs'.

My room mate in this public ward is a lovely policeman called Terry who's hurt his back by falling backwards off a balcony. He can hardly move, he's a big guy, and when he does it's with help as the nurses do the old “One two three roll” and Terry cries with pain. But he's improving now. We talk a lot, and for a few days all we knew were each other's voices. It's a strangely comforting intimacy to chat into the night and hear each other piss in bottles, fart and groan with every movement.

My prognosis is rotten: three smashed bones in my foot that have to be operated on, followed by many weeks on crutches, then another operation to remove the metal pins, followed by months on crutches. This is a big blow as the next four months are my big earning time, as I work as an actor, clown, comedian, stilt walker, uni-cycle rider, MC and casual bus driver. At this stage it's looking like all that work's going down the gurgler and I'll be on sickness benefits of $490 a fortnight! Last time I was that frugal was at a meditation camp in Sri Lanka. Here in boomtown Perth it'll be a friggin pittance. How do unemployed folk do it! Lucky I like minestrone soup. It's what a mate of mine calls dolefood: soups, spaghetti sauces and stews that last a week.

The latest on the operation is that my foot still has red marks and swelling, so they're reluctant to cut in case of infection. Fair enough but the way they've gone about it today has been bizarre: prepped last night for an operation today, starved all night then given a pre-wash, then a surgeon called Dr Lim came in, looked at the foot and said 'No, too swollen', so it was all off. An hour later the orthopaedic registrar said 'No, that's fine”, so it was back on. Then they all got together another hour later, with me lying there in the surgical stockings, texta arrow on my knee pointing to the correct foot, ready to go under, and they decided to call it off! Doctor Lim casually said, “That's OK, give it a few more days” and they swanned off to the next room. A few more days! Shit.
I attempt to console myself by thinking about folk who spend months in bed (and in the old days a whole year in things like kidney machines) or men wounded in wars or disasters. And I do the old 'it could've been worse, might have fallen and smashed my head' routine, but that kind of thinking simply brings up frightening and demented imagery that consoles nothing.

Suggestions by relatives and dear friends on Facebook all seem to follow the line of “Now this is your chance to write and create something interesting....new material for comedy etc”, and maybe they're right, it's just at he moment all I feel is despondent, depressed and furious at myself for causing the accident in the first place.

But the cricket's on the TV, I have two Murikami novels, many editions of the New Yorker, games on the computer, a free local phone, and my friend Ross has loaded a pile of TV on the laptop. And tomorrow I look forward to many hours of Mozart or Brahms while I wait on the Centrelink sickness benefits line.



Okay, it's now three weeks in hospital! That's right. The operation 'went very well' – what else is the a surgeon to going say? (and I'm surprised I didn't pick up the irony of my orthopaedic surgeon being called Dr Lim!!) But the wound (wounds) haven't healed properly. They are actually three cuts, two of them about 10 centimetres long, like two large caterpillars going up and down my foot, the other a smaller cut at the base of the foot. The doctors and nurses keep changing the bandage, looking at the wound and saying 'No, he can't go home with that'. Now, ten days after the operation, and the wound just isn't healing. Two days ago they put on what's called a PICO bandage. This is a large square bandage with a suction tube in the middle and a pump about half he size of a mobile phone that sits in my pocket. So far the PICO bandage hasn't worked, in that it hasn't really formed a proper seal. This evidenced by the orange light on the pump which means 'not sealing' or leaking. Various nurses have come by, looked at it and attempted to seal it by putting more and more tape on different parts of the foot which now looks like it's ready to post in the mail!

So, after three weeks in one bed and movement limited to going to the shower and toilet with crutches, I lie here, foot still in the air on the James pillow (if ever I meet you James...!!). It's become a strange sensation, a little like a really really really long aeroplane flight but the hostesses give you drugs and prod and poke you with needles. Yesterday my pulse was down to 55. That's lower than I've ever recorded it. The nurse who took it decided to do it again manually because even she was shocked. Sleeping isn't so bad because I'm on some fairly heavy pain killers, but these are being reduced so I'm withdrawing a little.

I've found that I've developed a kind of mental hibernation; time goes by quickly even though I'm NOT having fun. Breaks between meals seem to race along as I read, play bridge online, watch movies, check my emails and Facebook, eat, sleep and take long showers involving plastic bags for the foot and a chair for me. My sister suggested that perhaps I should call this my long service leave – long service for a self employed clown, comedian, actor. And yeah, I suppose it will be that, but the $490 a fortnight sickness benefits is a little less than half pay, and the resort I'm in is pretty boring, although the workers are good people.

So, tomorrow being Monday, the doctors will decide once again if I stay or not. I've had moments when I've thought 'bugger this' but what can you do? Run out of here and end up with a mangled, unusable foot? No, this is a big lesson in patience and time-killing. Strange, the idea of killing time like it's the enemy, it's more a case of just sitting in a big bath of time and letting it just move around me and down a drain made of mindfulness, meditation and meandering thoughts.

Monday, August 12, 2013

My Left Foot

Ok, here I am, ten days into a hospital stay after smashing my left foot into a door frame in a drunken stupor at home. My darling neighbour Trish brought me to the hospital after her hubby Rob found me at home, sitting round denying anything was really wrong. “That's broken!” she insisted. So here I am in a bed with a weird vinyl structure in my bed called a 'James Pillow' designed to keep my left foot raised. It's like a ramp you might see kids run up and launch themselves in the air, it's about a metre long, half a meter wide and it's in my bed! Sleep is sporadic and broken by the usual noises of an orthopaedic ward: loud beeps, bells, chatting doctors and nurses waking me for 'obs'.

My room mate in this public ward is a lovely policeman called Terry (not his real name) who's hurt his back by falling backwards off a balcony. He can hardly move, he's a big guy, and when he does it's with help as the nurses do the old “One two three roll” and Terry cries with pain. But he's improving now. We talk a lot, and for a few days all we knew were each other's voices. It's a strangely comforting intimacy to chat into the night and hear each other piss in bottles, fart and groan with every movement.

My prognosis is rotten: three smashed bones in my foot that have to be operated on, followed by many weeks on crutches, then another operation to remove the metal pins, followed by months on crutches. This is a big blow because the next four months are my big earning time, as I work as an actor, clown, comedian, stilt walker, uni-cycle rider, MC and casual bus driver. At this stage it's looking like all that work's going down the gurgler and I'll be on sickness benefits of $490 a fortnight! Last time I was that frugal was at a meditation camp in Sri Lanka. Here in boomtown Perth it'll be a friggin pittance. How do unemployed folk do it! Lucky I like minestrone soup. It's what a mate of mine calls dolefood: soups, spaghetti sauces and stews that last a week.

The latest on the operation is that my foot still has red marks and swelling, so they're reluctant to cut in case of infection. Fair enough but the way they've gone about it today has been bizarre: prepped last night for an operation today, starved all night then given a pre-wash, then a surgeon called Dr Lim came in, looked at the foot and said 'No, too swollen', so it was all off. An hour later the orthopaedic registrar said 'No, that's fine”, so it was back on. Then they all got together another hour later, with me lying there in the surgical stockings, texta arrow on my knee pointing to the correct foot, ready to go under, and they decided to call it off! Doctor Lim casually said, “That's OK, give it a few more days” and they swanned off to the next room. A few more days! Shit.
I attempt to console myself by thinking about folk who spend months in bed (and in the old days a whole year in things like kidney machines) or men wounded in wars or disasters. And I do the old 'it could've been worse, might have fallen and smashed my head' routine, but that kind of thinking simply brings up frightening and demented imagery that consoles nothing.

Suggestions by relatives and dear friends on Facebook all seem to follow the line of “Now this is your chance to write and create something interesting....new material for comedy etc”, and maybe they're right, it's just at he moment all I feel is despondent, depressed and furious at myself for causing the accident in the first place.

But the cricket's on the TV, I have two Murikami novels, many editions of the New Yorker, games on the computer, a free local phone, and my friend Ross has loaded a pile of TV on the laptop. And tomorrow I look forward to many hours of Mozart or Brahms while I wait on the Centrelink sickness benefits phone line.