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Pessed.

I’m reading the latest issue of MO, a peer-reviewed medical journal that we receive regularly in our practice.  As I have a nervous habit of reading anything available to me while I’m outside with my coffee and cigarette (yes, I know), it wasn’t long before I found myself reading a clinical review on Female Urinary Incontinence. 

Riveting. 

Actually, it was.  As someone who has had one child already with a view to more in the distant(ish) future, I really only thought that urinary incontinence was secondary to bearing children and nobody else.  Save the elderly, where anatomical regression seems to be par for the course.  Pelvic Floor Muscle Training (PFMT), Bladder Training and Oestrogen Therapy seem to be first-line management techniques and, if that doesn’t work, then you look at second-line which would involve either a specialist referral or Tension-Free Vaginal Tape (TVT), Vaginal Pessaries and Botulinum Toxin Treatment.

Pessaries!

Pessaries, for all your pessing needs.

 
I decided, halfway through, to look at the references because the treatments seemed to be escalating rapidly in horrific names.  Tension-free isn’t what I’d be feeling if I had to go to a doctor for urinary frequency and/or incontinence, amirite?  Anyway, I found reference to an intravaginal device called the “Contiform”.  Apparently, it comes in four sizes.  Four sizes.  Small, medium, large and… gross?

That’s all I really want to write about this, because I have a load of chores to do before I get on with the rest of my day.  I’ve wasted this crisp winter morning watching Dropkick Murphys and Grandaddy film clips and checking out Jason Lytle’s website, and playing some MW2 while The Kid was sleeping in. 

I need to pee, but I’m sure I can hold it if I need to.  Win!

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Mummaflippin’ Sandwich Day!

July 11, 2010 1 comment

As mentioned before, I took a sideways promotion at work.  Essentially, I do all the troubleshooting with my boss, get to wear the stupid red Fire Warden baseball cap whenever the alarm goes off (with disturbing frequency, it seems), and listen to woebegone stories of Workers Compensation patients.

I heard through the grapevine (being the accounts lady with whom I share an office) that the boys (owners of the practice) are out of their recession slump.  Our chairs are sagged with the hydraulics gone and need urgent attention as we look like bedraggled semi-corporate Whack-A-Moles sitting in our seats.  We need to call someone in to repair some carpet work near the photocopier so that we’re not tripping over it daily, running the risk of falling face-first into the corners of our desks.  The practice needs to employ two highschool students to do the menial tasks so that the fully qualified can attend to in-house triage or, at least, hire one more staff member with a view to full-time work.  I desperately need more hours to pay the ever-increasing bills but shit, everyone needs that.  I’ve made some loose plans through work to go into study which is what I’ve wanted to do since the day I left home but haven’t had the opportunity.  Now that The Kid is older and a little more independent, I find my time opening up to the point where study can actually be a possibility.  Unfortunately, the guys at work cannot pay for me to study at this point but I’ve heard that if I hang around for another 5 – 10 years (WTF), they can re-assess their finances.  It looks bleak, seeing as I’m also the Personal Assistant to one of the partners of the practice, the one going through a malicious divorce and is shuffling practice money around to survive, so I know exactly where the money sits for both the immediate and long-term future of the practice.  Gah. 

So what do I ask for above all else?  A Sandwich Day.

I knew this was a risk to take, as it didn’t just mean sandwiches.  See, a few years ago, there was an almighty exodus in our practice where two essential workers had had enough and, prior to their explosive exit interviews, the owners attempted to quell the fires by hosting a sandwich day.  Catering was organised and sandwiches as far as the eye could see were placed in our not-right-now-but-spare-at-the-time dental surgery.  Gourmet sandwiches overflowing with grilled seasonal vegetables, lazy tongues of meat poking out of bready blankets and spicy sauces.  The downside was that the two people who had threatened to leave were the ones who had missed out by poor shift organisation, a practice free-for-all which had other departments scabbing food in their pockets and an even poorer attempt by the bosses to “surprise” the staff by leaving the catering delivery time open.  It was immediately delicious but overly awkward.

I wasn’t really thinking Big Picture when I asked for a Sandwich Day, more that my stomach had called warfare of the gastroeosophageal refluxy kind at the time of the meeting in which I decided to raise the issue.  My immediate boss said that she’d take it to the boys. 

One week later:  Surprise pay rise.  Whaaa??  I asked about my Sandwich Day and made it very clear the pay rise cannot be reneged.  Suckers.

One week later:  Sandwich Day plans.  I check the catering website and organise an emergency meeting to discuss staff food intolerances and allergies.  It emerges that I am welcome to eat sandwiches if I can put up with excessive flatulence all around and/or prepare to work pretty much alone as most will end up recovering in our treatment beds.  Everyone is gluten intolerant beyond digestive enzymes supplied by our Dispensary.  The caterers do not provide a gluten-free option.  I am sad.

UNTIL I FIND THAT THERE ARE ANTIPASTO AND GOURMET MEAT PLATTERS AVAILABLE.

The photo above is the closest visual depiction of the joy I feel about the alternative.

Pay increase and a free feed on a day where all relevant staff have a couple hours overlap and I have an office to retreat to in the event that all the joy of the modern world overwhelms me?! 

This is what I’ve worked all these years for.  Study can wait another five, right?

On Solitude

July 5, 2010 2 comments

I remember my blood congealing underneath my skin as my phone went off, a dumb buzz in my clammy hands.  I looked up at the rotund window-washer swinging gloriously back and forth atop the domed gravel bank, an engorged horsefly drunk on a dumpy grey horse’s arse. 

Late, you know how it is, I’m sorry and blah…

No worries, I said, because there’s a guy washing windows up high and I want to see him fall off or at least lose his bucket.

You wore chinos because your grandmother said that’s what gentlemen wore.  I asked you how she was and you said she was long dead.  We talked about doggybag alfoil swans and then you said you needed a fellow idiot to deconstruct Kant.  We laughed heartily and became fast friends.   

I hear you occasionally when boughs break in the valley and wonder what you read these days.

Egg cartons lined your walls when you had vague dreams of being successful, a beaten up Korg stunning against the mural of a blurry Macleay Street outside, decades of vomit and faded glitter streaking bins and parking spots that cost hundreds of thousands.  I hate the city because the hum becomes a din becomes something bigger that eats you alive. 

I swung myself back in from your balcony ledge, a lame horsefly drowsy on nicotine.  Ash blew back into your lounge and I covered it with De Montaigne as you played back a mis-dialled answering machine message from three weeks prior where an Indian woman crooned for eight minutes straight in a dialect that we both knew then was going to outlive us.