Annus Horribulis

I went back to work last week and a lot of people said to me, “it’s been a tough year, hasn’t it?”

I have to admit it has, but people don’t know the half of it. I mean Collingwood won the flag, didn’t they? But I’m looking on the bright side. I’m still here, I’ve been given the all clear by the cancer doctors (although once you’re in that system you never get out of it). And as my sister said, there are only seven weeks of the year left and if I don’t step in front of any buses between now and then I should be okay.

I guess most people lose a parent or two at some point in their life and have the occasional accident which might necessitate a visit to the local hospital. And one in three people get cancer. But I think it’s fair to say that I’m pretty unlucky to experience all this in the same year. Annus Horribulis was a term invented by the English Queen when she found out one of her sons was gay, one was an incurable womaniser and the other was talking to plants while his wife was sleeping with everyone in Britain with a double barrelled name.

I’m sure it was tough on her but I think I’ve trumped her.

The year started off badly. I swam in a river on Australia Day (January 26th) and picked up giardia which took me six weeks to shake. Mainly, I admit, because it took me that long to visit a doctor. I spent two weeks of that time in India which might sound like a double whammy, but actually that’s the best place to be if you have the shits because nobody turns a blind eye in India if you jump up and rush to the toilet and come back sweating.

Unfortunately, I spent the following week in Singapore, a country so proud of it’s cleanliness that I wonder if they use toilets at all.

I got over that in time to smack my face off St Kilda Road on the last day of March. I spent a couple of nights in hospital then which introduced me to the delights of the Australian medical system. Little did I know that by year end I’d be an expert on how to adjust the angle on hospital beds, how to operate the remote control for the TV (which is more complicated than key hole surgery) and crucially, how to negotiate an early release, because hospital is prison without the fun of football games in the yard.

I just about got over that when my mother decided to help me earn some air miles by traveling twice to Ireland in the space of three weeks. She earned a few herself, mind you, on her trip to Heaven.

I was getting over the jet lag from the trips to Ireland when my wisdom tooth decided to give out. Probably because I’d subjected it to twenty or so airplane meals over the previous three weeks, including some tasty mints that help your ears while landing while simultaneously setting about your teeth like a jack hammer.

I had it taken out by a nice lady dentist who was slightly horrified when I told her that I wanted to take the tooth home. I think dentists want to keep them and sell them to ivory poachers or something. She seemed very possessive anyway. Getting it taken out was fine but a few days later the place it came from got infected. Nature abhors a vacuum and it filled mine with food that I was too lazy to get rid of. I turned into a baby with the pain and had to plead with a young dentist in Singapore to sort it out. Her solution was to give me a bottle of pink liquid and a syringe and to encourage me to do it myself. Strangely enough it worked, which means that if my annus horriblus continues and I contract diabetes before year end, I will be well practiced in the art of self injecting.

Sport is often a positive distraction in times of misery, but this year it has followed my run of bad luck. Back home my beloved home county were robbed of their first title in fifty years by the worst piece of refereeing since England were awarded that goal in the 1966 World Cup. I follow AFL football over here and given that sport usually involves liking one team and hating another one with all your passion, I chose Collingwood for the latter. And needless to say in the year of misfortune they broke a twenty year duck and won the Grand Final.

But I guess that the plus side of getting cancer and surviving it is that you get a new perspective on life. For a start I’ve realised how many friends I have and how lucky I am to have a supportive and loving partner. Plus I’ve received cards, emails and presents from so many people I am truly humbled.

I think it’s time to stop and smell the flowers which is opportune because spring came to Melbourne this week and our street alone is awash with roses and colours that would give Willy Wonka a fit. I enjoyed the racing carnival last week and made my first visit to the Melbourne Cup, the race that stops a nation. I’m not a big horse fan I admit. I couldn’t eat a whole one, although having said that I’ve actually eaten more of them than I’ve ridden.

I visited an Oncologist last week (a word I couldn’t spell never mind understand four weeks ago). He told me things are looking good but once the Big C has visited he likes to come back. So I’m booked in for a session of chemo next Wednesday which won’t be fun but will put me back on same level as the landbubbers (those of you who haven’t surfed on the Big C). And then it’s only 43 days until year end. Boy will I celebrate New Year’s Eve - my second life begins on January 1st!