Bye Bye Gorby.

No humour this week. Our young kitten Gorby was unfortunately run over on Friday night.

We are devastated, it is like a ray of light has suddenly been extinguished. He was so jolly, mischievous and inquisitive. Soft, white and fluffy with a perfect temperament, he soon found a way into our hearts.

Although only with us for four months, the bond he made with us was incredibly strong.

It hurts as we walk through the house, for each room and piece of furniture holds memories of his playing, hiding and sleeping. Even writing this is painful, as he always came to see what we were doing on the computer, often rolling on to the keyboard and trying to swipe the display as the cursor moved.

Click on link below for youtube link of Gorby playing.

Gorby playing with a Mouse Feb 2012

To some people the death of a pet must seem trivial, especially compared to the daily suffering we see in the world today; the Japanese Tsunami, Christchurch earthquake, the daily ongoing slaughter in Syria, and closer to home when you hear of an accidental death on your local news.
However we welcome into our hearts these companions warmly into our lives. We feed them, talk to them, teach them, provide shelter, warmth and security, so that they do become part of your family. They do not criticize, or argue back, don't have bad moods and their love is unconditional.
As a couple with no children we are especially attached to our animals, as regular readers of my blog and Facebook followers will know.

Last year we lost Bagpuss our cat of 19 years, and were again stunned at his loss. However he was very old, quite frail and his passing was somewhat expected at some point.  This feels different, for Gorby was only five months old, four of which he had spent with us. He had his whole life ahead of him. At least his passing was swift and he would not have known anything. He did have a good, happy, if short life, and we are honoured that he choose to share it with us.

This loss made me think deeply about my transplant, and it really came home to roost that there is a family out there still grieving no doubt for the loss of their loved one in July last year.
The anguish and heartache they must have experienced and then the sense of loss must have been enormous.
I am truly grateful to them that they took the decision that they would allow the donation of their loved ones organs. I was so fortunate to have received 2, the pancreas and a kidney, perhaps further organs were also suitable for transplant.  Potentially 4 or 5 other recipients benefited from the family's brave decision to agree to participate in the transplant process.

Organ Donation NZ is an organisation that raises awareness of organ donation. It works with both donors and the bereaved families to facilitate a sense of community and understanding. Many events are held annually to say thank you.
Trees are planted throughout the country to honour the donors and their families and raise awareness of the importance of agreeing to organ donation. Names of all involved are kept confidential and are not known to any of the people involved.

Organ Donation NZ website  

As recipients we are given the opportunity to write a message, letter or card to the donors family (with no identifying traits in it). I have not done that yet, as I did not want to intrude on another family's grief.

But I will now, to say thanks and that I truly value their kind and brave decision.

If you read this blog, and wish to be a donor then please let your family know, or if your country has a register for donors please indicate your wishes. Death always seems such a long way, but in reality it is always with us, and we never know when it will affect us. As humans we often put things off because they don't seem urgent or can be done later, but sometimes we are not given that option.

We will miss Gorby enormously, we hope he had a happy life with us, we certainly were honoured to be his family. Bye Bye little buddy xxxx

Communication...?

Communication let me down and I'm left here.....

Spun beautifully by the synth band Spandau Ballet, affectionally known as the Spands, in February 1983 as they raced up to number 12 in the poptastic UK charts, pure pop Gold.

In 2009 on a visit to Berlin I took the S Bahn to Spandau in search of the elusive ballet that helped inspire the Spands but guess what?  Not a sign or a hint of a tutu anywhere!

I did however spy some tights in Kreuzberg, but thats another story not within the remit of this blog.....

But I digress. This week I have, like Basil Fawlty, been experiencing some communication problems....

Faced however, not by the indomitable battleaxe Mrs Richards, but rather by the equally receptive appointments section of the gloriously efficient North Shore Hospital Appointnent system whose reliance on pointless paper and forgotten filing has only been equalled by the East German Government (Leipzig Regional Divisional Command Office Number 8) Stationery Department Paperclip Requisitions Section 14.

Twas the 22nd of the month of February when I received in the post an epistle from the NSH Diabetic Clinic. Thinking it might be acknowledgement of my transfer of care to the renal clinic, or a final goodbye from the clinical staff that I had grown so fond of, I opened the missive.

Dear Andrew,   it began
An appointment has been booked for you at the Diabetic Outpatients Clinic on the 13th March at  2pm.


CONFIRMATION REQUIRED
Clinic Date:  Tuesday 13th March 2012
Time:            2.00pm....

Anyway to cut a long story short....

Underneath was a final stern paragraph...

On receiving this letter please telephone our Appointments Confirmation Service on 09 xxx xxxx
to confirm your attendance, Failure to do so within 1 week of this letter will result in it being given to another patient. 

It concluded in a more conciliatory tone:

If you no longer require the appointment it would be appreciated if you contact us.

I was bemused as to the nature of this sudden reappearance of the Diabetes Clinic into my life,  like the reintroduction of a particularly disliked evicted housemate in Big Brother who then goes on to annoy all and sundry yet again. I have heard of late onset diabetes, but late onset appointmentitis?

Naturally I entered into the spirit of things by following the final paragraph's advice....and duly contacted the Diabetes Clinic to enquire whether I need attend, since I was no longer a diabetic after my transplant?

After a protracted pause, an abrupt and cold voice informed that she would let the doctor know and someone would get back to me. And so we left it at that and carried on with our lives, mine a joyous and exuberant joi de vivre, hers in a living compendium of the collected customer service skills of Basil Fawlty.

A week passed without news, and I thought mayhaps the appointment had been deemed as unnecessary. However I was too rash, for what should appear in the letter box a few later, but another letter from the hospital.

This one had exactly the same content as the previous, except some overly zealous functionary had highlighted Confirmation Required in a rather bright purple. Oh how bothersome! Perhaps I was supposed to go after all....but still I declined to get highly strung.

Naturally I rang the clinic to make confirmation but the steely voiced hindrance stopped me short and announced that indeed I was not expected at the clinic anymore as my care had been transferred to the renal clinic. But what about the last letter, I enquired, choosing to ignore mentioning the vibrant graffiti added in for good measure. That was just the system , and the system does take time to process new information.
Concerned now about the mysterious and authoritarian nature of The System, I thanked her and bid her good day.

Just 2 days had elapsed before I received.....not another letter, but this time text from presumably The System. It was just my instinction...

Was this System unstoppable, like an all empowered Terminator from the future,
stealthily wresting control of Earth's electronic systems, starting with the Waitemata District Health Board appointment system? No that would be too far fetched, for as far as I could see the there was no logical calculated system at the hospital and therefore this could only be the product of human design and intelligence.

I resolved to call the number as instructed on the text message.

I explained to the rather bored sounding gentleman in the Appointments call centre that I rather thought that this appointment had been cancelled?

"Are you sure?"

Was Rutherford sure when he split the atom?
Was Glenn Miller sure when he felt in the mood?
Was Cleopatra sure when she played with her asp?

Not only was I assuredly sure but I was in fact adamant.

That's charming I thought, as I proposed to stand my ground until they deliver.
Eventually he agreed to manually override The System and cancel the looming appointment, which he could see had been abrogated by the doctor herself.
I thanked him and hung up... (who let Madonna in here? Get her out!)

However, the communication trilogy was about to spawn yet another ghastly sequel,  as unbelievably yet another text arrived just 2 days later.

 By now I was almost incandescent with rage.....

Staying calm, I pondered on the appropriate response. How would Bagpuss have reacted when presented with such a situation?

I resisted the urge to roll over on the sofa gracefully snoozing, yawning and exposing myself whilst fondling my iphone.

Feeling quite highly strung, I replied with a quick text, as you do.

No reply was forthcoming and my life went into limbo as I awaited a response from The System.

I fretted, slept fitfully, experienced deep stabbing pangs of angst whilst anticipating the dreaded repetition of the recent events. Like Eschers eternally repeating staircase I was stuck in a perpetual cycle of strange purpose.

Or was I? A day passed, then another day, stretching out to a week and still no communication from The System. Was I free at last from this Kafkaesque parody of efficient bureaucracy?

Finally the 13th March dawned and the appointed hour hove into view. Would I get a last minute call from the clinic reception asking where I was.....?

No. the day passed uneventfully!  Dare I hope that I was free of The System...?

Had I really escaped from the demonic taunts of the ever repeating cycle of phantom appointments, where I had been held in tow by The System, unable to break through.........

I fought a letter from the void....

But now I've come back again.

Why do I find it hard to write the next line?

When I want the truth to be said.......

Ah Ah Ah Ah Ah

I know this much is true.

Ah Ah Ah Ah Ah

I know this much is true.

I know this much is........

I know this much is.......

True.

Train of thought.....

`Aha! La oss våge ned til Norge, landet av Aha og Nul punkter, unnskyld? What? Oh yes....

For the benefit of all my non Norwegian bloghoppers, the rest of this entry will not be an 'orse.

or indeed in Norse.

So where was I? Oh yes, let us then us take a trip to the magnificent fjords of  Norway:

Mystical land of pop group Aha! and the nul points of Eurovision fame. 
This great sculptured marvel where the sun always shines on TV,  a land of trolls and herring that gave us Aha! A group who garnered a UK number 8 hit in 1986. Norway also rose to pop ignominy with its train of zero scores in the pan Europe song contest....


Words go up words come down
Forwards backwards twisted round

However the train of thought I speak tell of happened recently at the phlebotomy clinic where my bloods are regularly harvested.......

As usual I arrived at the appointed hour for the fortnightly ritual of blood letting, less high tech, more Aztec. I availed myself of the ample hospital seating, covered in the finest plastic and stuffed so full of stained foam, that bits of filling were luxuriously cascading to the floor from the generous gash.

I studied the notices placed around me, from the mildly humourous "jokes" about phlebotomists, clearly placed during a moment of guildic pride (oh how funny, Dracula! a fellow bloodtaker! ha ha ha bonk....excuse that was the sound of me laughing my head off....), to the patients charter and service expectation information.

As I was reading my rights in 3 languages, English, Maori and Corporate PR speak, I was interrupted by the patter of soft soled feet and a nervous voice broke the silence.

Was I next? questioned the young intruder into my concentration. I noted with some concern that she had dispensed with the traditional medical outfit, and had opted for casual jeans and a blouse. Perhaps it was Mufti day, or she had suffered a break in to her locker.
I scanned my surroundings and finding not another soul, suggested that yes, I possibly was next.

I rose and followed her to the console table, where tubes, cards, pens all littered the surface.
Waiting for me was another nurse attired in a suitably reassuring medical attire. Clearly it was not Mufti today, or perhaps this professional frowned on such frippery.

After the traditional exchange of pleasantries, well hers were, mine was merely an acknowledgement of this tradition. If indeed she really wanted to know how I was today, she would have asked after my appointment, or checked my consultants notes as to my medical state?

It is said that it takes 43 muscles to frown, and only 17 to smile. To this I have further reduced to just 5. My visage remains impassive, except for a quick curling of the mouth and jaw, in the shape of a smile, maintaining this for 1.5 seconds and then regaining impassivity,  just 5 muscles and pnot a hint of warmth. A trait that has served me well since my childhood.

She informed that her name was Maria, presumably she felt that I was opthalmically challenged, and therefore unable to read the large fonted name badge she wore. Even given the drooping angle she preferred to wear it, I could clearly make out that she was indeed Maria, and furthermore she was a phlebotomist. Her badge affirmed to this fact. Sensing a potential whimsy I enquired whether she was a nurse, to which she looked taken aback and pointed to her badge, just to confirm that she was indeed what the badge said she was.

Rather pointedly I looked at  Miss Mufti, awaiting an explanation from Maria, who I could sense was in charge.
Mindra was her name and she was in training, would I mind her observing the procedure?
Mmmmm, training someone usually adds time to the blood taking, making it either drawn out Oslo.

 Flattered that I was the chosen subject I agreed that she could Take On Me.

Ushered to yet another well appointed clinical chair, I sat and waited.....

And waited....

For to my chagrin, Mindra was having the blood test procedure explained to her by the obliging Maria. First she had to collect 5 specimen tubes and collate them in a kidney dish (oh the epithetic irony of it all).

Off she scurried and began sourcing the tubes, Hunting High and Low.

Maria meanwhile had become fascinated all of a sudden by a mark on her hand, which transfixed her gaze, making her scratch it like an old krone.

Mindra was still seeking the last tube,

which I could see plainly visible on the table top. Oh great, I mused, for if she is blind to a rather obvious and clearly labelled tube immediately in front of her how is she going to locate my vein?

At this juncture I could restrain myself no longer, and making a frosty and arctic glare I "helped" her, with the aid of an audible tut and an extended finger.

Our relationship turned decidedly cool after that.

Maria meanwhile asked me which arm I would prefer, to which I indicated my right. Briefly glancing at the proffered arm, she rather abruptly htook the other limb and examined the elbow area, searching in vain for veins. That is why I offered the original arm, which as I recall was at your request.

Clearly she felt a bit Touchy!, for Maria regarded me with a chilly stare; whilst the trainee similarly adopted a united front, like the Norwegian resistance. Camaraderie amongst vampires is clearly a reality, despite the fighting and disagreement displayed in the Twilight films.

Maria's commentary continued apace, as she tried to locate my median cubital vein, which to my eyes was as clear as the Manhattan Skyline, but which eluded both the professionals surrounding me. Aha! she exclaimed as she glimpsed the vein. But it was a  Cry Wolf  as my vein shifted, like the Norwegian government, to the left.

I've Been Losing You, I mouthed to my subcutaneous extension of my mischievous inner self, much like a naughty water sprite in the forests as painted by Kittelsen.

Eventually the needle met with no resistance and soon the Blood That Moves The Body was free to gush and flow. Repeated five times her job was soon, like Peer Gynt, about to draw to a dramatic conclusion.

Maria scowled for good luck, exiting with her prized specimens. Mindra and I were left to gaze at each other.

First time Mindra, how was it for you? I quipped as I exited the clinic.

She smiled as I withdrew and I could tell that our previous frosty engagement was beginning to Thor.

Click on this link to watch the 1986 video from A-ha Video for Train of Thought

The Air Attack Sounds Like.....This is the sound.....

So began the intro to "Two Tribes" by Frankie goes to Cricklewood. (I thought he went to Hollywood? Perhaps he took a relaxed detour first?)

As the world teetered on the brink of nuclear holocaust during 1984, Frankie spoke of the threat to mankind as the Cold War entered it's coolest period. Brrrrrrrr....!!!

Staying at the UK number 1 spot for 9 successive weeks, it featured the vocals of Holly Festive Johnson, with assorted electronic effects and the realistic opening siren, which still chills me to this day. Interestingly the moustachioed "dancer" of the group now lives here in New Zealand, on Waiheke Island to be precise, where I was over at Christmas.

It also contains a narrative by the marvellous Patrick Allen who ominously announced in a stentorian but supposedly reassuringly calm voice such advisory gems as:

"If you are caught out in the open, lie down"

"If your grandmother or any other  member of the family should die whilst in the shelter, put them outside, but remember to tag them first for identification purposes."

Now of course if you are indeed caught out in the open and happen to discern  the chilling wailing of the four minute warning siren, then the best advice really is to run like crazy waving your limbs in an agitated jumble and then after four minutes suddenly vaporize into millions of atoms.

Similarly if you place a radioactive relative outside, tagged or not, this too is fraught with logistical problems. The local authority may refuse to collect them, citing isotope affected body collection is only on Mondays and not today as it is a Tuesday, or a day later in the case of a public holiday.  Or with equal bureaucratic panache, that the glowing relative must be sorted into the right pile for recycling:  green, brown or clear should do it.

Patrick Allen was also known for being the face of Barratt Homes as he helicoptered around the nation extolling the virtues of Barratts tiny shiny new houses in vast estates.

These were the very same estates that fared so well in the simulated nuclear blasts in the Protect and Survive booklets handed out by a concerned UK government as the Cold War heated up.

With such great advice as building a nuclear shelter in the lounge from doors. mattresses and sandbags, to stocking up on essential foodstuffs to endure the endless nuclear winter.

 

                                           (Click on link to read actual 1980 advice pamplet)

 Protect and Survive Booklet from 1980.

I am not quite sure which government department tested the blast protection and radioactivity repelling properties of a mattress, but under Thatcher's free market it was no doubt sponsored by Sleepyhead and Sealy Posturepedic. Possibly  the same government department responsible for maintaining the secrecy of government only nuclear hideouts....

But Andrew, I hear my dear readers cry, why is this relevant in today's, peaceful world? Surely the threat of nuclear war has receded following the dismemberment of the USSR. There is no more Rusian threat to the West, is there?

Well think again near sighted ones, for there does exist a danger so grave, so injurious to my wellbeing that could only be from the days of Brezhnev or Kruschev.

Really? Has Vladimir Putin suddenly lost his country's presidential election and refusing to give up power sparked an armed revolt in St Petersburg, thus ensuring the Russian army in turn revolts and joins with  unarmed protesters, plunging Russia into turmoil, leaving China to invade and stabilise the country whilst the West nervously awaits an armed conflict?

Has perhaps a revolt in a Middle Eastern hardline state been ruthlessly crushed by its own army, leaving thousands dead and the world in horror,  leading to a UN security council resolution which is vetoed by Russia and China, causing revulsion across the globe, and in turn causes a civil war which engulfs the region and leaves Israel and Iran twitching their nuclear trigger fingers?


No that would indeed be silly.

Whereas this isn't..........no, no really it's not dear readers.........

Yes, Gorbachev, the ex president of the Soviet Union!
 His actions have caused my defences to go to Defcom 4.

(not the world statesman, but my cute as caviar kitten companion)
.
Allow me to explain exalted ones, his latest escapade that has my renal doctors and I having a fallout.

Being a mere kitten he is still playful and loves nothing better than rolling over and playbiting my hands. Now his teeth are somewhat sharp, indeed I can sometimes be heard Yeltsin out loud with mock pain. Alas this unprovoked attacked has unleashed a strategic response from my reduced immune system (blah blah blah, rejection drugs), resulting in multiple impact sites. Observe....

The other hand too is contaminated by this affliction, but was unavailable for the photography session above. Honestly sometimes the left hand doesnsnt know what the right hand is doing). I have tried Putin on antiseptic, balms and tinctures, but it is a slow process with the reduced immunity.

So the consultants have instructed yours truly to avoid kitten playbiting, as the resultant scratches can get infected. This could develop into a serious infection which could literally make my Andropov.

Of course trying to explain that to a boisterous kitten is no easy task. He is not used to being admonished, but slowly like a thawing stream in the Siberian spring, we have achieved detente.

I just have to learn not to Rage Hard, and just Relax......(extended 12 inch dance remix of course!)