On the first day of Christmas.

My transplant gave to me.....

Hot Summer Nights...

No not filled with Olivia and Johnny, wella wella wella. Tell me more. Tell me more.

Indeedy. I've been spending some much needed "family time" over the Christmas holidays, in the Coromandel; Auckland's backyard water playground.

Of course it is now well into Summer in the "other" hemisphere, and we are replete with sun lotions, bug repellents, shorts a plenty and of course enough pills to stock a small regional health facility. (bloghoppers will remember the 'pill forgetting' fiasco of last year.

Everything has been packed, checked and rechecked and the long hot summer days are consequently stress free and enjoyable........albeit a tad warm.

The 94% humidity is a bit too much for a wee Brit sweltering in the colonies...made much worse by my Prednisone tablets. Essential to prevent organ rejection, they have the undesired effect of raising body temperature. Any sign of rejection presumably would be boiled away!!!

So here we are on holiday; bowling in the arcade, drinking lemonade, splashing around....

With all this extra heat these traditional Kiwi holiday activities just sound like a drag.....

 

We built this city...

Proclaimed Starship (ex Jefferson Starship) in the lovely summer of 1985, a huge hit the world over. Indeed it made such an impression that it has been regularly voted the worst hit of all time by MTV viewers. Ahhh.....altogether now....

"Someone always playing corporation games
Who cares they're always changing corporation names"

Became the mantra of the era, as companies merged and were swallowed up in aggesive takeovers. I remember when the beastly Burtons made a successful bid for poor little old Debenhams in 1985. The "Hands off Debenhams" badge I wore was the closest I came to the shoulder padded corporate takeover world...

With this came the the age of the corporate art, where "approved" work was displayed for the benefit of  staff and customers alike. Baaahhh what a pretty picture....Baaaaahh

One such example still in existence in 2012 can be found at the Labtests blood collection centres across this fair city of Auckland:

I know it is their "corporate choice" for I have visited several clinics, and it is there on every wall..

I find it odd that Labtests went for a depiction of  Tibetan families, a scattering of assorted Asian/Oriental  abodes, a man in a green parker, a MOD scooter, a container space ship house,  and several wabbits.
Perhaps it represents the wealth of cultures that we have in our fair burg, or the many different conditions that they test for, or just their corporate art consultant had eaten yak burgers the day before.

Every time I go for my blood harvesting I am drawn deeper into the mural, so much that I shall soon require a passport to visit it. It has become quite a favourite of mine, better than the offerings on display in several global chains the world over.
I particularly enjoy the architecture involved.

We built this city? Especially if the city may be Lhasa or Ulan Bator

Like Jesus to a Child....

A suitably melancholic rendition by George Michael  from  1996 as he climbed back atop the UK chart once more. The proceeds of this record sale (when we used to have records) went to charity, and the song was dedicated to the memory of George’s erstwhile lover who passed away quietly.

Which sets the tone this week...

My  outlook is generally upbeat  in nature but this week I am left felling a bit sad.

One of the blogs I regularly follow and which gave me  the creative muse for starting my own self penned weblog  is called Amaorican….

It details the experiences of a girl in New Zealand, married to an American, Larry.. He is on haemo-dialysis, having problems with immigration, adjusting to life in a new country, getting to experience new foods, new healthcare, new family… a very similar story to my life down under.

Except that 7 days ago he died.

 From a dialysis related problem:

 Unfortunately Larry became heavily overloaded with fluid and his organs were struggling to cope. 15 hours of dialysis was urgently prescribed to alleviate the pressure on his heart, but he passed away during the marathon session..

Rather bravely his partner, Camilla continues with her blog which is at times uncomfortable to read, but is a real tribute to her love and respect for her partner.

Amaorican.....

I cast my mind back to the many occasions during my two years on dialysis, remembering those times I was overloaded with fluid and considerably above my target weight.  This can be caused be drinking too much fluid, forgetting to take certain types of medicine, or it can be a sign of  something more serious.

Thankfully the 4 hour sessions of dialysis brought it down again, and this became routine.

So often we just laugh off the precautionary tales from the doctors as mere anecdotes, or indulge  in “that won’t happen to me” syndrome.  Alas this approach does not always play out well, and I am mindful of the sacrifices that have been made by so many people to help end my dependence on the dialysis regime, which although crucial in keeping some renal patients alive can be as damaging to long term prospects.

So Camilla ,I will miss your witty updates about Larry and your on-going sagas of life on dialysis in a far flung land, and dealing with the unknown, but hopefully you will continue to write and allow other people to see what some people have to endure without a word of complaint.

What's a gralefrit?

Asked a hapless customer in Fawlty Towers one morning at breakfast;

“grapefruit”, was Polly’s retort, clearly used to Basil’s typing of the menu.

This was appropriate really, for his cursory and flippant rapport with his guests was almost as acidic as the juice of this most majestic of citric fruits.

And just like some breakfasts, I would like to start this entry with a grapefruit.

Not just one but a host of enormous plump ripe fruit, all ready for picking, in fact so heavy that the fall from the boughs like drunk squirrels.

For at the bottom of our new garden stands an impressive fruit tree, thick with heavy juicy grapefruit, a marmalade makers delight…

But alas not for yours truly. The joys of the gralefrit are now off limits for good, and not just for reasons of bad taste.

My main immunosuppressant tablet is the drug Tacrolimus, which needs to be ingested at a steady dose at the same time intervals so as not to build up an excess in the system. Too much Tacrolimus is dangerous and can cause organ rejection, just as much as not taking the drug. A finely balanced existence then, one which the grapefruit does it’s best to upset.

And now the science part:

The juice of the fruit reacts with the ketoconazole present in the blood which affects drastically the levels of an enzyme that interact with the Tacrolimus. Studies therefore have shown that the Tac can both increase and decrease, which has a seriously detrimental effect on the use of Tac as an immune suppressant.

So this time honoured breakfast staple is off limits for good.

Which is ironic, given that we are abundant with the malicious fruit.

Move Closer

Was it Nelson Mandela who uttered those immortal words “Hey Baby, you go your way, and I’ll go mine, but in the meantime…Move Closer”? No, it was another Nelson; Phyllis,  in fact, who crooned her way to a UK number 1 in 1985.

Perhaps Ms Nelson’s interest was aroused by the sight of a Pickford’s removal van, perhaps not, who can tell? 

This week, however, I myself have been inspired by the process of relocation.

We have been on the move this week, shifting our chattels within the local environment like a particularly magnetic snail. The delights and glories of Arkles Bay have been replaced by the equally delightful and glorious suburb of Manly, whose world renowned beach attracts literally tens of people to the wide expanse of flat damp sand, miniature dunes and  expensive real estate.

Resolutely occupied by the older community, mainly due to the level terrain, leafy lanes, and complimented by the proximity of mothballs available at the local mall, traditionally, the only surfers here are of the silver haired kind.

But this locale is slowly changing as more and younger purchasers wrest control of the demographics: with lifestyle factors such as being handy to the shops, beach, transport, entertainment and a pleasant commute into Auckland.

So now Manly is our new home, complete with the same doctors and same pharmacy as before.

So my medical needs are unchanged, which is one less thing to worry about. 

Unlike the unpacking.

Eye to Eye

A track gifted to us by the buxom diva, Chaka Khan, who, I must admit, I thought was the name of an Indian cricketer with a particularly deadly arm swing.
However "Chucker" then out of nowhere threw a googley, smashing not stumps but the charts with "I feel for you" in 1984..
Clearly optically inspired Ms Khan carried  on with hit after hit, and was graciously "honoured" by Whitney Houston who covered her "I'm Every Woman" and featured her with an appearance in the video, with Ms Houston gesticulating and repeating "Chaka Khan" throughout. Once the novelty wore off this became somewhat of an irritation...Yes of course its Chaka Khan  Surely your people talked to her people? How many lost disco divas accidentally stumble upon a video shoot, of a cover of their own song....?

Anyway  rant over,back to, normality. And after last weeks visual drama interspaced with intense blood "wafting" mine eyes hath returned to approximately 90% of clear vision. The "floaters" are still there, albeit in a very reduced capacity and now resemble a small dark tropical fish flitting around a large transparent fish tank...

And whilst it is still present, it is not as offputting as before and can be largely ignored, bar the occasional check on it's wellbeing.

Just like a sea captain's pet. Aye Aye Cap'n

Bad Manners?

No not some social faux pas uttered in my prescence for me to pounce upon and relish the retort, but instead the ska band of the very early eighties , who jumped up the British charts with hits such as Can Can, Special Brew and Lip Up Fatty. Fronted by their wobbly bald headed lout of a lead singer, they garnered the public' attention and affection.
Of course he had to have the de rigeur weird name, and this gentleman revelled in the nom de plume "Buster Bloodvessel". Oh such wit.And it is with this epithet that we delve back into my world, where Buster has indeed been seen....

My right eye has fallen foul of the old diabetic retinothapy, with the result being a small blood bleed into my vitreous gel (The squigdy clear bit that sits behind the pupil and the iris, into which flow the retinal arteries.

Now with the grim harbingers of  diabetes and age the poor old arteries have a tendency occasionally to leak, releasing a small  escape of blood into the vitreous gel. This results in the eyesight of that eye being interrupted by a layer of black streaks and waves which move with  the sight as the eye moves. A very odd and slightly disorientating sensation. It feels like there is a  ghastly ephereal spirit phantasmagorically weaving and flowing in front of your eyes. It begins at first from dark concentrated spots in the field of vision, like black holes, leaking antimatter into the visual universe. Rapidly they spread out and grow in stature, until they affect the entire organ.

In cinematic terms they are the equivalent of the spectral visions emanaiting from the Ark of the Holy Covenant when it is finally opened by the naughty Nazi archeologists, except my phantoms are quite harmless.

At first the effect is so distracting that covering that eye improved the sight for reading, driving and watching TV.After a day or so the patterns start to dissipate as the blood starts ti dissolve onto the vitreous gel, which is 99% water. They then start to appear translucent  and elongated, like a black Aureola Borealis.
And suddenly after a week or so they vanish and the eyesight is left unblemished and clear once more.

These floaters seem to be linked to high blood pressure, and this time the catalyst would be lifting boxes of ornaments during our ongoing house move. So shall be more careful for the rest of the packing and unpacking boxes.

I didn't really appreciate Buster Bloodvessel and his music intruding into my aural world in the 80's and now I dont like the intrusion into my visual world,
After all turning up and hanging around when you are not invited is the height of bad manners.

A Century, Not Out!

Or some such malarkey, is often shouted about during the game of cricket.

Cricket I hear you say, What Ho. Cricket, where 12 men dressed in white costumes try to hit three little sticks with a small ball.
To defend the stick, another man also dressed in white attempts to hit the ball away with another fatter stick. The ball gets struck and the man then starts running about, waving his fat stick around.. A referee, also wearing white, but distinguished by wearing a trilby (Oh I say) points a bit and mumbles to anyone within hearing range.
The spectators meanwhile clap and gasp at appropriate points in the proceedings, but are clueless about what is happening before their eyes and how the score is calculated.

Interspaced with unintelligible language, such as Howzat!, googley, LBW and furnished with odd game rules to match.

That most quintessentially English of sports has been exported globally during a period of colonialism, so successfully in fact that the old motherland often gets thrashed by the teams from Australia, Pakistan,  Sri Lanka, India, New Zealand, and The Windies (not a remedy for indigestion, but the Caribbean..).

But before I rush off to get attired in my flannels, attach my leg pads, and grab a stout willow, I should stop and count to 100....
Yes, folks this is my hundredth post in Andrew's World.

A feat I never contemplated, it has happened slowly and regularly over time. It has evolved from an comedic online rant regarding my experiences on dialysis in Auckland, to a comedic online rant regarding my experiences post transplant plus a  the weekly indignant moan.

It has accompanied me along the path to transplant, operation, recovery and ongoing care, as well and the odd interjection about our pets and family events.
And now some stats:

As I write, this blog has had 11.654 views, the current daily average number of visitors is 100, the most popular posts were Breakfast at Tiffany's in April 2012, and Ra Ra Rasputin in May:

The most amount of traffic emanates from the US, then the UK, New Zealand, Ukraine, Spain and Canada. Continued greetings to one and all!

Interestingly the most popular method of browsing seems to be using Chrome, then Firefox, Safari and bringing up the rear poor unloved and almost obsolete Internet Explorer....

The blog is read on Windows PC 68%, Mac 16%, and then Ipads 10% with Iphone, Android and Blackberry bring up the rear.

So thanks to all who actively follow my blog, those who come back occasionally, those who stumble across it via Google and stay for a read and those who just search google and copy the photos for a variety of reasons. You are all welcome.

And as I close, another 13 visitors from the USA, Germany, and Malaysia have just dropped in.

Howzat!

Day 49 in the Big Brother House...

Eviction time in the House

Eight housemates remain after the surprise double eviction of Dodgy Kidney and Non Functioning Pancreas from Northampton. Their eviction came as a shock to those pundits who saw these two remaining until later in the show. On Friday they were in, and by Saturday, after the public vote, they were out.

Big Brother held a surprise of his own when he introduced new housemates as replacements, Copious Drugs from Kettering, and from Exeter, Extreme Crabbiness. 

Andrew struggled to adapt to the new arrangements and was soon to be spied in the Diary Room demanding an audience with Big Brother. He was quick to express his horror at the new housemates side effects:

"All this falling over and general tomfoolery  is so unbecoming in the BB house", he was heard to complain. "It really is most annoying and will be quite unpopular with the discerning audience that this televisual feast attracts"

Andrew retired to the lounge where he spied Tom Foolery giggling on the sofa with Vanessa Feltz, who was herself taking comfort in a large Cadburys Fruit & Nut.

"Housemates will assemble out in the garden in 5 minutes time" announced Big Brother.
Soon the team are gathered outside to find out what this week's task is...

"Housemates are to write a series of Big Brother inspired parodies to be revealed tomorrow, after which the public will vote. The housemate with the lowest number of votes will leave the Big Brother house"

Oh no, pondered Andrew, for humour was not his strong point.

After a week of time consuming and pointless ratings-grabbing clips of edited endings, non existent cliff hangers, ridiculous humiliating tasks and "tantalising tidbits", the end of the week drew close and another eviction loomed...

Who would be going this week? Whose usefulness had expired?

The last remaining inmates gathered on the sofa and waited...
Andrew looked around him......Tacrolimus, Mycophenylate, Aspirin, Ranitidine, Prednisone, and Fludrocortisone; all his regular allies were gathered here, looking nervous.

And the housemate to leave this week.....is.........

Fludrocortisone.

The drug looked stunned, but realised that his mistake had been to increase Andrew's blood pressure, which ultimately would be damaging and increase the risk of cardiac events. Therefore the renal producers had decided to evict Fludrocortisone as a precuation.

Stopping only to say adieu to the other inmates, Fludrocotisone left and waving goodbye to the assembled audience, climbed on his bike and rode off into the sunset.

Andrew looked on with disdain, for he did not approved of pedalling drugs.

I Knew You Were Waiting

Serenaded George Michael to Aretha Franklin in their 1987 chart-topper. Aretha who had been waiting for another hit following her excursion with the Eurthymics, where she insisted on solo femininity and opening doors for themselves (thank you I'll get it myself")
An odd pairing indeed given the age difference at the time.
Perhaps George was waiting for the considerably older Ms Franklin to arrive at the studio........

Meanwhile in my world I knew who would be waiting at the Phlebotomy clinic.

As I swept into the car-park at 7.10 am, my heart sank as it was full of cars already.
I observed one of the occupants struggling with his seat belt and stick in his Cotrolla. As the lab is a first come first serve facility, I quickly sprang from the car.
Forgetting my haematology card I had to return to the Peugeot for a quick scrabble amongst the detritus within my car.
With form firmly in my hand I exited once more and made a dash for the door. However this delay had merely furnished the Corolla's occupant to hobble somewhat suspiciously rapidly into reception. Thwarted again!

As I waited to be seen, I assumed that most British of traits, the "casually glancing around followed by a sudden fascination with my finger nails" look. Maintaining a nonchalant stance, I inwardly fretted as the espied the time. Hurry up I silently intoned.
Finally the man shuffled off to sit down and wait for a blood  test, his gait noticeably different from that observed as he hurried to the door in front of me...

I was quickly checked in and asked to take a seat, to which I glanced around to ponder the chair options. Oh dear, just like the Underground. Do I sit next to the old lady with the crutches, or the two elderly gents with red faces. I opted for the crutches, as I presumed they weren't infectious.

There were 5 people ahead of me, of which 4 were of an elderly disposition, quietly sitting gnashing their teeth, sucking their cheeks and patting their gnarly hands in an attempt to emulate the London Philharmonic Orchestra for body parts.

The time ticked by, and I began to fume quietly. Why oh why do the senior citizens of Whangaparaoa all turn up at the same time at the blood collection centre? I mean they have all day to fit this in? Are their schedules so full of important indoor bowls competitions, visits to the large text library, and pressing hair rinsing appointments, that they cant come later in the day?

The lab opens specially early at 7am in order to make it accesible to workers, allowing them to fit in a blood test just before starting work. So it is quite irksome to find the early morning shift already resembling a resthome. All I needed now was a sympathetic caregiver to softly place her hand on my arm and offer me a cup of tea.

I shouldn't moan really, because I will do exactly the same thing in many years hence, and I shall certainly expect a little more R.E.S.P.E.C.T.

Yo ho ho and a bottle of Pugwash.

Kipper me capstans and blistering barnacles, heave ho the anchor and lets cast off for another  voyage into Andrew's World....

The jovial Captain Pugwash, a gloriuosly inept sea captain of an indeterminate age and era sailed the seven seas in zany maritime adventures in the BBC TV series of the seventies. Awash with genteel niceties, the crew of his Black Pig were always saving the day for the Cap'n against his arch nemesis the pirate Cut Throat Jake.

Urban myths abounded concerning some erroneously named crew: Master Bates, Roger the Cabin Boy and Seaman Staines. These myths which after much titillation and gossip, were dispelled when the producers went to court and proved that they were indeed fabrications of a journalistic mind. A pity really, ho ho.

The main tipple of the nautical community is of course rum, and it was an encounter with the fabled beverage earlier this week that resulted in a trip back into the past....

We had been invited to Uncle Rod's beachfront mansion for a spot of dinner and a beverage or two.
Of course with his being a salty sea dog and yacht owner we felt it appropriate to toast the meal with a few swigs of Waiheke Island Wild Days rum.

Before you could say "dolloping dolphins" the swigs became the whole bottle, and we became a tad inebriated, sloshing around like keel bilge water.

Driving home was out of the question, and so we set off like lolloping landlubbers for the walk back to our house.

Dithering Dogfish! Rain began to spatter down, so we held aloft umbrellas, looking like a two masted schooner forging through the storm.

As the precipitation precipitated harder our jeans became wet and heavy, and legs felt like jetsam being carried along the wet pathway.

Staggering Stalactites! My legs suddenly locked and fire breathed through the muscles, tendons, sinews and joints. Every step was doubly difficult, as the pain seared through and the jeans did their best to cause me to founder.

It was the return of my previous nemesis, the diabetic neuropathy. Due to nerve damage caused by long term diabetes, walking at speed for a distance can be quite painful. This is one side effect of my previous condition that was going to be with me for ever.

Whilst the eyes can repair some of the damage, and further damage to the nerves is halted by the transplanted pancreas, the existing damage stays.

Regular exercise can help, but the pain is still there. Ho hum.

After much fire I staggered home, and promptly fell asleep, dreaming nautically of the Black Pig, Pugwash and sailing off to Waiheke to capture some more rum for the next episode.

It's in the Bag

was an enduring New Zealand game show which ran from 1980-1992, presented by Selwyn Toogood (punning opportunities abound!!) in which hapless contestants chose from a variety of "bags" to win a prize. The magnificently proportioned pensioner presenter would then attempt to buy back "the bag" with tempting offers of hard tax free cash.

The bag could contain various luxurious prizes ranging from a gigantic wooden colour TV set, a large  electric sewing machine, and an enormous twin tub, right down to the booby prize of a pen. And to top it all the show travelled around New Zealand, setting up camp in small provincial townships, where clearly the lure of a twin tub lured folk away from their sheep fancying.

Of course there was always New Zealand's own Blind Date.....but this never caught on in the metropolitan areas.

And so we move flawlessly from an old bags, to a new bag...

Collected this very week from Her Majesty's Purveyors of Salves, Ointments and Remedies, otherwise known as my local pharmacist.

Not a discreet paper bag as one might expect, containing a small selection of pills, no this was an enormous carrier bag, filled completely with a veritable cornucopia of drugs, caplets and tablets.

My monthly supply had been dispensed twice and I was presented with this medicine chest of supplies.

Upon closer inspection it looked even more enormous, and threatened to overflow my modest medicine repository. Off I trotted, swinging my bag of drugs back home, returning with considerably less chic than a Bond Street expedition. Oh well, I will just have to adjust my Ikea Björkken medicine cabinet. Clearly this is indeed a case of substance over style.

And they do keep me alive, so however cheesy this may be, (but not quite as cheddary as "Its in the Bag"), I am grateful for my particular bag,  It is indeed a wonderful prize.