The need for balance.

There seems always to have been a trend to separate science from creativity, logical process from intuition, IQ from EQ. A mathematician is perceived to be as far removed from a comedian as an astronaut is from a rubbish collector. Are they really that far removed from each other? The astronaut may be brilliant academically, but have no concept of humor, the mathematician is comfortable with numbers, but not people. The rubbish collector may have a mundane job, but is happy within himself and the comedian has a grasp on the ridiculous, but is not. Different areas of the brain have been tapped to cause this. The astronaut was possibly the child of strict, over-bearing parents who had no time for humor. The comedian used funny to cover something lacking. The rubbish collector may not have had the opportunity to gain an education, but had a loving family life and the mathematician was perhaps not socialised well. The concept of left-brained people and right-brained people puts everyone into boxes. I feel that all brains have the capacity to excel in all fields if stimulated correctly. Take a child from the seventies who grew up climbing trees and using imagination versus a child of this day and age who grows up using indoor technology. The seventies child is likely to be a practical person with a good immune system, strong body and a creative mind, the modern child, although superior perhaps intellect-wise, relies on Google for answers and is lacking in physical ability and often ill. This of course is a very broad generalisation. The secret, I feel, to a well rounded person is balance. Significant elders are often to blame for not realising how important this is. It is easier to sit a child in front of the screen of some gadget than to read them a story, draw with them, play with them. If the brain is stimulated in many areas, curiosity is encouraged, reasonable boundaries set and negative reinforcement steered away from, there is no reason why the brain will not develop the capacity to use all it's faculties. What I observe in children who are growing up in a well-balanced environment is a wonderful mix of intellect and creativity, good social skills and a natural understanding of moral codes. Children stimulated by technology alone, and there are many out there, are not interested in being creative, can be socially inept and seem to have very little concept of how to deal with reality. Balance, sorely lacking in our time and something we all need to think about.

Angus. His story.

Angus is a bull terrier. He is almost three years old and his life has been a rollercoaster ride. Born in September 2011, he came to us at eight weeks. Our elderly male bull terrier, Digby, had died aged twelve and Daisy, our old girl had arrhythmia. As grumpy as Daisy was, she mothered little Angus who was strangely quiet and unaffectionate as a puppy. Sadly Daisy died of heart failure when Angus was about five months old. Angus had been going to puppy classes to ensure socialisation and to learn the usual commands which he did very well. He loved to play with a little bully girl named Lola and seemed very happy. Suddenly he began behaving rather strangely. He became aggressive toward other dogs and would bite whatever was in front of him, including us. This happened more and more frequently and so we had him neutered. Puppy classes had to be stopped. Neutering had made no difference. At six months, Angus began to chase his tail. Not the happy spinning that bull terriers are known for, vicious growling and snapping accompanied his frantic spinning which could not be stopped by anything. The first time I witnessed it I will admit I was afraid of Angus. We consulted the vet who was keen to put him down, we consulted a behaviourist who told us to redirect his attention. We contacted the breeder who assured us that he was the only problem dog in the litter. As things escalated, Angus began to bite his tail. He would spin in an out-of-control manner, bite his tail to the bone and then growl and growl and the blood would splatter everywhere. The house looked like a murder scene. Angus would go for us if we went anywhere near his tail to try and stem the bleeding. This happened several times a day. The vet did not seem interested in what I had to say about all the research I had done. I was pretty convinced at this stage that Angus was autistic and perhaps suffering from focal seizures as well. I looked at this aspect because when he started to spin, he had a faraway look in his eyes and often spinning accompanied a stressor of some type. I interrogated the breeder. Eventually it came out that Angus' mother had to have a C-section due to enclampsia and all the puppies had to be resuscitated. Here was a possible reason, lack of oxygen to his brain at birth. I was furious that this information had not been disclosed. As far as I am concerned, this is an example of unscrupulous breeding. The spinning problems became so bad and I was so stressed that I did not want to go home to Angus. The vet was still unco-operative and pushing euthanasia. We decided to give Angus another chance and changed vets. Thank goodness we did. At the first appointment, I was armed with information. I probably also came across as rude and a know-it-all mom because I was expecting another stone wall. For those who know their animals, I knew if we found the right person, we could help Angus. We lived with him and we saw the sweet, clever, funny personality in between spinning episodes. I showed the vet a video I had taken of Angus spinning and put forward my thoughts. The first thing that struck me was how Angus, usually muzzled at the vet, allowed this vet to check him over without a whimper or a muzzle. He listened and asked questions. I was silently elated, he was hearing me and taking me seriously. He put Angus on an anti-depressant to see if it would control the spinning brought on by possible anxiousness. He expressed Angus' anal glands because any pain in his rear could cause a focus for spinning. We concocted a long term plan for Angus' treatment which, we were warned, may or may not end up with his tail having to be docked to stop self-mutilation. We decided to try all other options first. Over the next few months, Angus calmed quite a lot, the spinning still happened, but not as frequently. His tail began to heal. We are not sure what happened to trigger it again, but something did, this time even worse. The vet put him on an anti-epileptic drug and we had an emergency stock of tranquiliser if things got out of hand. They did and we had a choice. Either have Angus put to sleep or dock his tail. We opted to dock his tail. This move was our last hope to give Angus a life worth living. The vet seemed relieved when we told him of our decision and Angus was booked in immediately. The vet docked his tail leaving a rottweiler-type stump and Angus came home to heal. He had to wear a big puffy collar, but he didn't seem to mind. Now, six months down the line Angus is a different dog. He still spins, but cannot hurt himself. We are relaxed and that helps him. He has been weaned off his anti-epileptic meds and we plan to try and wean him off the anti-depressant drugs in the not too distant future as well. Angus will always be a special needs dog, but he is a special dog who lights up our lives with his funny antics, his un-bull terrier-like perchant for swimming and his very sensitive nature which picks up on sadness and causes heavy duty snuggling. All I can say is thank goodness for the people who are really there for the well-being of our animals, thank goodness. . . . . .

A stereotypical South African braai.

Most South Africans are very sociable people.  They will strike up conversations in queues, coffee shops and even between bathroom cubicles!  Almost a little latin in temperament, in other words quick to anger, slightly suspicious, yet helpful, quite often a chance meeting ends up with the inevitable. . . "We must braai sometime."  The South African tradition of braai is likened to the Australian, New Zealand and British barbeque, but is nothing like it.   A South African braai is uniquely disorganised. It is often spur-of-the-moment, with the guest list growing as friends of friends are spontaneously invited. It is wood in an outdoor fire place and a firestarting device, then charcoal and finally flames.  While the flames burn down to coals, there is drink.  Commonly beer or brandy and coke for the men and wine or spritzers for the ladies, but once that has run out, really anything goes!   Braai's are accompanied by salads like potato salad, beetroot salad, a green salad and rolls.  Often there is a speciality dish made by someone so requests for "Mel's cracked potatoes" or "Bella's curried bananas" are made. All the food, including the pre-margarined rolls, is laid out on the kitchen table. The cutlery, serviettes and condiments are displayed next to the paper plates which are stacked in flat wicker baskets to keep them from flopping once loaded with food. All this is covered with dainty white see-through lacey umbrella dome-type devices to keep flies at bay. Potato chips accompanied by dips are provided to ease the hunger pangs. If the fire has burned down enough, it is tested by holding a palm above the coals and counting to ten. To hot for hand, too hot for meat. The braai fire and the cooking of the meat is the preserve of the men who clap tongs and mutter among themselves about rugby scores. The kitchen area is where the women sit and put the world to rights along with plaintive bemoaning of loutish husbandly behaviour and knitting tips. Quite often the drink takes precedence and the braai extras like tin-foiled potatoes and mealies become casualties remaining sadly forgotten and blackened in the fire while the meat is consumed before it even gets to the neatly stacked plates. Bodies "rest" on couches, dogs are subjected to tearful life stories and children stay up far beyond their bedtime. There is sometimes drama, but this is usually resolved with smooshy sentimentality and unstable hugging. As people weave their way home, promises of doing this again are made. The chaos of bottles in various states of fullness, half-eaten food and over-flowing bin are left until the following morning. And on said following morning, the phone calls "Did I leave my sunglasses, cooler-box, children behind?" Or the classic, "I called to apologise. . . "

Road trip!

Early Saturday morning, we packed the car and with Angus, our bullterrier in tow, began the two and a half hour drive to Gansbaai.  Gansbaai is a fishing town known for shark cage diving just past Hermanus on the South East coast of South Africa.  On all our adventures since the beginning of road trips, it has been mandatory to pack "padkos" or road food which must always include coconut-covered marshmallows! Angus loves them to distraction. The roads were quiet and we arrived in Gansbaai mid-morning. Our accommodation was one of the original homes built literally a stone's throw away from the sea. (This theory was tested.) The walls, made of lime and seashells, are sadly crumbling and the rooms have been added over the years in a haphazard fashion, but the view is spectacular. Our friends, collectively known as "The Posse," had arrived the day before and shouted greetings from the balcony.

We settled in with a cold cider while Angus sniffed and peed on everything! Our first visitor was a mongoose who eyed us from the safety of his bush. Then the whales arrived and put on a spectacular show, launching their massive bulk out of the water and crashing down, known as breaching. As the day progressed, naps were had, walks were taken and food prepared. Our supper was a lamb curry "potjie" which is an iron pot in which all ingredients are simmered very slowly until the meat is wonderfully tender and flavour-infused. We ate as the sun sank and an orange glow picked out Cape Point in silhouette across the bay. The fresh sea air had woven it's relaxing magic so an early night was had by all. Our room was under the main house so apart from Angus initially barking at footfalls on the wooden floors above, we slept well. At crack of dawn, to the calls of a myriad of birds, we awoke. Angus took himself for a swim as we made steaming mugs of tea and coffee. It was to be a balmy, spring day with a touch of "Berg" wind. "Berg" means mountain and it is a warm wind that usually heralds rain. As bleary-eyed friends emerged to the smell of coffee and amid much cheerful banter, the whales slid into view, blowing gentle plumes. Angus helped with breakfast, although I think he was more interested in morsels of bacon. Mongoose was spotted again and Angus barked at him as he sped away into his bush which was surrounded by pretty white daisies. After a delicious breakfast, a lone whale began tail-slapping. It was quite far out, but we could hear the cracks as the massive tail hit the water. Washing up and tidying done, packing the vehicles began and with a final look at our beautiful surroundings we headed out in convoy for home. Another weekend to remember fondly.

If the tables were turned.

Over the years, while caring for patients both in the ambulance and hospital environment, I have felt for them being in the vulnerable position of illness or hurt, having to rely on strangers for help.  I always tried to be as empathetic as I could by mentally putting myself into their shoes.  I often wondered how it would feel if the shoe was on the other foot. I know, only too well, the feeling of being "shut out" when I am not in paramedic mode and medical staff, unaware of what I do, look at me in that "tone of voice" when I start asking questions. Being a patient must be so scary if you are not au fait with medical terms and nothing is explained, as often it isn't, but I wonder how much more scary it would be if you are knowledgeable?   When you know how things work, the usual treatment and prognosis of various diseases?  What if you are only too aware of euphemisms used and what they really mean?  An injury, as debilitating as it may be, heals eventually, but a disease like cancer tends to be unpredictably fickle in responding to treatment.  I wonder if it would be better to be ignorant as a patient?  With a potentially life-threatening diagnosis, which for some is just a string of scary-sounding words, people are sent home to dwell on their possible life-changing situation while they wait on test results.  What goes through their minds?   Is this as bad as it sounds, am I going to have to have bits of me removed, will my family cope, will I suffer, am I going to die? Most people can't help but think about the worst case scenario and as an experienced paramedic, would it be more acute? Suddenly a person becomes a body in a blue gown, poked and prodded, x-rayed and biopsied. Medical staff, and I generalise, although trained to be caring and smiley, don't seem to see past the condition. The stark personal reality of the fear-filled being is often neglected. Choice is, to a large extent, removed. The chasm between doctors, in their mystical medical world and the patient, is high-lighted. I, personally, do not agree with giving people "time left to live", as it becomes a self-fulfilling prophecy. Too often people live for almost exactly the amount of time they have been given. I wonder why that is allowed and positivity is not encouraged? It is after all incredible how powerful the mind is and if it is understood that the mind manifests illness, it would stand to reason that the mind can heal the body as well.

A day to remember.

The 9th of August is Women's Day in South Africa and it has become customary for our unofficial Mayoress of Kommetjie to hold a luncheon complete with theme for us, the ladies.  This year the theme was "Out of Africa" and women of all ages, races and suspicious gender. . . arrived resplendent in traditional African garb, enormous hats, red overalls, spikey heels, traditionally painted faces, wigs and much leopard print. Everyone looked fabulous.  The effort made was wonderful, the camaraderie comforting and as the food, and particularly the wine, was consumed, the decibels, high. The delicious food, all made by our philanthropic hostess, was typical South African fare. Music supplied by a Congolese duo caused feet to tap and eventually quite a bit of unfettered dancing and singing. There were prizes and lucky draws and I won a book which I have been longing to read called "Good Morning, Mr Mandela" written by his private secretary, Zelda la Grange. Very fitting, I thought, because it is written by a lady who was a self-proclaimed racist, but learned to accept that colour is not an issue from the great man himself! Our Women's Day event is never without a cause because giving back to women in need is what it is all about. This year we raised funds to help a creche in Masiphumele, an informal settlement, which was badly damaged in the recent fires. Other amazing things transpired, like a request for a wheelchair was granted for a diabetic lady and much needed donations were made to TEARS, the animal shelter. What struck me once again is how spontaneously fun, kind and happy women are when in a group. The only thing that could have made a lovely day better is if my daughter had been able to get off work to be there with me. The significant others, i. e. the men, were all down the road at the pub where a husbands day had been arranged. Apparently the venue was very quiet as men sat gazing into their glasses, eating oxtail potjie and waiting for their women. . .

Our Mayoress and one of the ladies in red.

Blue Sundays.

Sundays are depressing. The only good thing about a Sunday is waking up and realising that staying in bed is an option. Sundays became an issue for me when I went to boarding school. We had to go back to that awful place on Sunday afternoon. I would get up early on Sunday morning to make the most of the half a day I had, Mum was usually nagging about cleaning school shoes and packing suitcases, but I was half way out of the door, surfboard under my arm, heading for the solace of the waves. The sinking feeling of having to leave the water and trudge home is still with me. The depressingly green suitcase open on my bed in the sanctuary of my little room signified the end of my freedom.  The resigned silence in the car all the way to Cape Town and the wind.  I don't know why, but it always seemed to be windy.  It whistled around that old school and rattled the sash windows.  Even though there was an excited air among the other girls, catching up with news and weekend exploits, I just felt flat and sad.  Another week of horrible food, silly rules and bitchy girls, of wishing the days would hurry by and Friday afternoon magically be. I would stuff everything into that damn green suitcase and wait for my Dad's white Ford Escort to appear. The anticipation was excrutiating. I cannot imagine what it must have been like for the full-time boarders, stuck there for weeks on end until the end of term. I don't think I would have survived that. I thank my lucky stars I was not one of them. One of the best and worst days of my life was when I was asked to leave that school for not conforming to the system. I was not particularly badly behaved, but I was so desperately unhappy I didn't care to toe the line and be a "well-adjusted young lady", whatever that means! They did not approve of my surfing, I refused to take my surfing posters off the wall, my hair was wild, I struggled to tame it and that was an issue. Oh, the petty list went on and on. My Mother was naturally mortified that I had been dismissed from one of the "best" schools in Cape Town and I felt I had committed the ultimate sin letting her down like that, but I was secretly elated. I was finally free. And Sundays, well, I still have the need to pinch myself to ensure that I am in the here and now because the residual angst feeling from those days still remains.