Who Knew?

Knees, apparently, are essential in life. When knees refuse to perform their function all of a sudden the things you took for granted are gone. *Poof* vanished.

Walking becomes a major issue, climbing stairs an impossibility, gardening a dream from the past.

My knees have decided, very suddenly, to do this. We had been diving into the jungle we call our garden (though on 3 acres on the top of an extremely fertile mountain it is a little bigger and more overgrown than most), slashing, pulling and poisoning. My asthma was not happy at the lantana dancing, my body was creaking and moaning at the unexpected exertion.

Then one morning my left knee decided not to co-operate. My LEFT knee. Not my *twenty years of pain and problems but totally ignored because I am a tough bitch push on through the pain sorta wench* RIGHT knee. My good *hey let me take on the extra we'll be fine just let's get on with it* LEFT KNEE.

Which meant both knees were fucked.

So, off to my local, very tolerant GP me and my knees trotted (with dibber-dobber Big Boy shadowing closely). Like me, she suspected cartilage *time to do some basic clean-up work* damage, inconvenient but not too bad. Off to x-ray I go.

Results came back quickly.

Moderate osteo-arthritis in both, right worse than left, bone-on-bone you need TWO knee replacements within the next couple of years if we can pain manage and string it out that long result from hell.

The usual lose weight and exercise plan forcefully suggested (did you know that for each kilo you lose, four to five kilos of pressure is removed from your knees? I didn't), appointments with dietician, exercise physiologist and orthopedic surgeon put in place.

Rest for left knee to recover demanded.

I listened, for once. Well, sort of listened and capitulated to a degree.

Until Saturday all seemed to be getting better. We had a family playdate planned for that night, so being keen I kept my feet up most of the day.

And disaster struck. For some insane reason, when I went to arise to leave my RIGHT knee decided that twenty years and it was done. Could not put foot to floor without tears of agony. Honestly, it takes a lot to make me cry from physical pain, I have a truly high pain threshold (emotional stuff, well, Telstra ads can set me off) but this was off the richter scale.

So now the situation is as follows. Appointments are not until mid-October, the surgeon is mid-November. My GP is away for this week.

I cannot walk. Seriously.

Am taking my x-rays off to the physio this morning, if I can manage to hobble there.

I had no idea my 14 year old is so strong, and can nearly balance his mother with one hand. I did not dream that my 13 year old's shoulder was exactly the right height to allow him to be a human crutch. I did know that they love their Madmother very much and will do anything to help.

Both knees. Fucked.

Not happy Jan.

Bloody derby drops... something tells me they had more than a little to do with this. Who says exercise is healthy?

FYBF - The Early Hours

I have no idea what the theme will be for today's FYBF. I have no inkling of what I should be writing of. It is 4.30 in the morning and I am up insolently insomniacing again.




I do not suffer from this as frequently as I once did, or maybe it is a lull in my slackening sleep cycle... a minute respite in the big scheme of my life? But it does not matter, for here and now I am awake once more.

I am not here often nowadays. The driven need for the written word has left me; well, that and the fact that I am quite aware of the poisonous eyes who peruse these pages, yearning for a tainted titbit, a morsel of information they can take and twist, a last minute grasp of evil to be used before we leave the school by which we are connected.
 *Waves* Grins* Laughs at how powerless and small these amoeba women are*

My life and the joy in it must seriously frustrate the fuck out of those two.

Life moves on.

It is 4.30am.

My younger son, for all the turmoil of this year and the actions of those who should know better, aced his Year 7 NAPLAN. Seriously ACED. My older son is blossoming more and more, thriving in the hothouse nature of his small private high school, the nurturing, student-focused, positive atmosphere suiting him to a tee. And he has a lead role in the local drama group's play. My son with ASD has a LEAD ROLE IN A PROFESSIONAL PRODUCTION.

I still miss my mum.

Oh, and my body is aging faster than my paper years. Which is why I wrote this:

*Madmother Ode*

I went off to me doctor

To get me bits all right

She prodded and she poked

Those bits all outa sight

Made me go have pictures

Of inside and of out

Drained me of my blood stuff

(All Twilight fans be proud)

Then she sat me down hard

Solemn and so glum

Told me I was broken

And need to stop me fun

Revealed my knees are dodgy

Some new ones needed soon

And no more derby dancing…

Well, that threw me into gloom

She hauled me off my grog too

Many, many months ago

But whilst my liver smiles more

There’s still a way to go

But I ain’t some little fairy

Not delicate and such

Not gonna go so quietly

It’s time to make a fuss

So, knees just suck it up loves

And liver, you’ll be fine

And if the pain is too much

I’ll just increase the wine!

~Copyright Madmother~

Apologies to those who already read it on FB.

Enough of the drivel. It is now nearly 5am and I am waiting for the sun to rise. We need to order water. We need to go to work. We need to ready the boys for the last day of the second last term of the year.

That is all folks. Toodles!

A Rehash: Rose-Coloured Glasses in the ASD World.

Many, many moons back (even more moons than months due to the blue moon last night) I entered a competition on another blog. You may remember from my reference to it in this post.

Since then I have been asked by a number of people to post my actual entry on here. It was a limit of 250 words, and the requirement was to tell your story of rose-coloured glasses... do you or don't you wear them?

This was my tale:

I have a pair of rose-coloured glasses. When they said “your son has autism, he will never socialise or have friends, you need to consider the options” I put on my rose-coloured glasses and told them “Pfft, what do you know?” As he made friends and proved them wrong, my glasses turned a deeper hue of blushing pink. When the educational professionals stated, “You are an obsessive mother who cannot accept your son’s shortcomings and thus will unduly scar him” I grabbed my hot pink glasses and enrolled him in a mainstream class. I knew in my heart of hearts he did NOT have an intellectual impairment and my glasses tinted the darkness of their words into softer hues of manageable pain. When he excelled at school and grew into this unique, confident, happy young man, open and proud of being on the autism spectrum… the glasses glowed in magenta-tinted splendiferous pride. I am going to wear them right to the end of my pessimistic life. Did I not mention the pessimism bit before? Well I am a glass half-empty sort of person, but my rose-coloured glasses thrust me blushingly into an optimistic world. A world called motherhood.

I won.

And my glasses continue to shine brightly with the reflected magnificence of my incredible son.