The Modern Yogi Project

Today I'm starting a 6 week yoga project with a bunch of other likeminded yogis. The aim is to practice yoga six days a week, meditate daily, be mindful of what I eat and do some soul-searching. 

I will also commit to blogging my progress daily - so watch this space dudes!

Let the zen begin!

I Vant to Clot Yer Blawed

About three months ago, I started a new job in the tertiary sector. I was beyond thrilled as I've been dying to get out of banking and finance for years now. It was a whirlwind selection process, as I had my interview and was hired on the same day. My new boss was in a hurry to onboard me as she was due to go on a four week holiday to Thailand the following Monday, which was also my first day of employment. She was very apologetic that she wouldn't be there to help me settle in but I was left in the very capable hands of my predecessor and the rest of the lovely, knowledgeable office staff.

Then, on Monday of my second week at the new job, I started noticing a shortness of breath which I put down to my past history with asthma. I took a puff of Ventolin and when that didn't help, I borrowed my friend's nebuliser for a hardcore dose of the drug. But it wasn't asthma, I still felt short of breath.

The symptoms continued and I experienced chest pain as well, particularly after walking up a flight of stairs or hurrying to catch a bus outside work. I felt like an old woman. I started taking the lift and reluctantly let public transport pass me by instead of sprinting to catch the departing vehicle.

I was concerned by the symptoms but being the second week of my new job, I didn't want to take time off to go to the GP. Instead I soldiered on, trying not to grimace too openly when I sharp pain erupted in my chest.

By Friday, the symptoms had disappeared but I still made a GP appointment for the following day, just in case. I described my symptoms to the GP, and expressed my concern that I could perhaps have a blood clot? My Mum had blood clots in her lungs in 2009, which caused a heart attack and stroke, which led to epilepsy and dementia. Mum had had a bumpy ride health wise and I didn't know if I was suffering from hypochondria or spot-on-ism.

My GP dismissed my fears, saying that I probably had some sort of virus but if I experienced any of the symptoms again to come back and see her.

Fast forward to two weeks later on a Saturday night and the symptoms were back. Again, I thought I had asthma and when the Ventolin didn't have any effect, I started to worry. I felt pretty average on Sunday and considered calling in sick on the Monday but I decided not to. The main reason was that my boss was due back from her holiday and I didn't want her to think that I was prone to taking sickies. What a bad look it would be for me to call in sick on her first day in the office with me. So I dragged myself into work.

From the get-go that day, I knew something was definitely not right. I had pain breathing in, so my breaths were shallow. Part of my role is executive support to a professor and he asked me for assistance with collating his new book for publication. I had a lot of work on that day but wanting to help, I set about the task with a fierce determination to complete it - the total absorption in my assignment helping me to ignore the pain. It got to mid arvo before I realised that I had worked through lunch, hadn't eaten a bite and now couldn't stand to work any longer. I put on a vague out of office message and went to tell my boss that I needed to see my GP.

I guess I looked pretty pale and sickly because she almost pushed me out the door. I told my stunned colleagues I was leaving to go the doctor. I guess I'd been quiet that day but I hadn't really complained much about the pain, so they seemed a bit confused when I left.

I called the GP and told them about my symptoms. They said to come straight in and see whoever was available. I saw a different doctor this time who was quite concerned about my symptoms in light of my Mum's medical history and the fact that I had recently gone back on the Pill, after a long hiatus.

He tested my urine which was infection free, although I was a bit dehydrated. Then he ran some blood tests, including a D-Dimer test to see whether I had any blood clots, and an ECG. The D-Dimer test is interesting because if it comes back negative, you definitely don't have a blood clot, whereas if it comes back positive you may have a blood clot or you may not.

After the tests, my GP told me to make an appointment to come back the next day to get the results. However, if my symptoms got worse, I was to go straight to the emergency room.

Lying in bed that night, I couldn't get comfortable. The pain down my left side was horrible, so I could only lie on my right. My lovely boyfriend tried to distract me with watching an episode of a favourite TV show but the pain kept clutching at my chest. Then my mobile rang. I didn't recognise the number and I was feeling too shit to speak to anyone, so I let it go to voicemail.

A nagging thought that maybe my Mum wasn't well, made me play back the message. Ever since we nearly lost Mum a few years ago, I am hyper-vigilant about taking random phone calls. But this time, it wasn't about Mum.

"Hello Elizabeth, this is your Healthscope pathologist calling. I've received the results of your D-Dimer test and it has come back positive. Due to your family history and the fact that you are on the Pill, I'm quite concerned that you may have a blood clot and I'd like you to go straight to emergency tonight. Please give me a call back to discuss."

I was stunned. I couldn't get the words out to tell my BF, so I played the message back for him instead. His eyes widened and we both climbed out of bed, silently getting dressed to go the hospital. "Which hospital?" he asked. There was only ever one answer that I could give to this question.

THE AUSTIN

Once I got to the ER and told them of my symptoms, I started to feel the emotion of the situation. It felt like deja vu although this time it was happening to me and not Mum. The did a quick ECG on the spot which came back clear in terms of heart trauma but would not help to determine whether I had a blood clot. So I was ushered through to the fast-track section of ER and more blood tests were taken, including the D-Dimer test. Sitting there with my BF and my Dad, and their much-welcomed distracting chit-chat, the results came back quickly - I had a blood clot.

An x-ray of my lungs was taken and I had a heparin injection in my stomach to thin my blood. I then said goodbye to my beautiful BF and loyal Dad and went to spend the night in the short-stay area, where I had a bed to sleep in. They wanted to do another test in the morning, called a VQ scan to better determine the location of the blood clot.

During the night I was woken intermittently by nurses to check my blood pressure, pulse and temperature and I even had a doctor perform a rectal exam to check for bleeding in the bowel. The doctor apologised profusely for waking me at 4am to spread my cheeks but I was too sleepy to care. When I woke in the morning, I wondered if it had been a dream!

The next morning was a long wait to do the scan. I texted my BF and told him not to hurry into see me because they might end up sending me home after the scan. Lying in bed waiting for the scan, I asked a nurse for some water. It's over there, she said putting at the sink in the corner of the room. I couldn't believe it. Apparently a pulmonary embolism does not justify bedside care...

Around midday a male nurse arrived with a smile and a wheelchair to take me for the scan. He was a lovely bloke, chatting to everyone he passed on the way to the examination room. Once in the room, I lay down on a narrow shelf that slowly rolled me into the heart of the machine like a conveyor belt.

After 30ish long agonising minutes laying beneath a revolving camera and trying not to squirm with pain, the test was over. I felt horrible. I stood up and felt very dizzy, so wheelchair man came back and fetched me. I waited another hour or so in short stay before they confirmed that I indeed had several blood clots in my lungs and I would need to be admitted onto the respiratory ward.

I called my BF and my Dad who rushed in to see me, bringing clothes, toiletries and much needed cafe latte. Once settled onto the ward, I felt a lot better. I was being taken seriously, something was definitely wrong and I was going to get the care I needed. The difference with the nurses on the ward was amazing. Not only was I asked if I wanted water, I was offered my choice of two flavoured cordials! It was like being put up at the Ritz after spending a night in a jail cell with Bubba, my anal probe night caller!

The next couple of days before I was discharged was a flurry of twice daily Heparin injections, once daily Warfarin tablets to thin my blood, obs checked every four hours and trying to ignore an annoying patient in the bed opposite me who thought it was necessary to holler every sentence, rather than just speak at a normal pitch. I even had a 'counselling' session with a bikie who was also in for a PE. He was a heavy drinker and smoker and I told him my story of how I quit and how much better life is now. I hope he left the hospital and made some changes.

Fast forward to today and I'm slowly on the mend. I started yoga this week and tomorrow I'm going on a gentle bike ride with my BF. To be honest, I have been so frustrated about my slow recovery because I haven't exercised in 3 months and it shows. I've put on weight and all my clothes are ready to burst at the seems. I know I shouldn't focus on this but I just don't want to accept these changes in my body. I'd be more comfortable if I went clothes shopping and bought the next size up but that seems like admitting defeat. I guess I'm a lot like my Mum in that regard, who has never let her health issues rule her life. Up until the last few years where she can't fight it anymore.

Anyway, I'm hoping yoga and light exercise will work wonders and I'll start getting my fitness back. I can't believe that I ran a half-marathon in 2010 and this year I find it hard to walk around the block. Also, my mortality has reared its ugly head. At the time I went into hospital, I was going through the motions, staying calm, keeping my head on straight. It wasn't till I was back at home, telling everyone my story that I realised that things could have been a lot worse. People die from PEs. People collapse and have heart attacks. So many people have told me that I am lucky to be alive and its freaked me out. How strange that I got through the experience relatively calmly but seeing the distress of my loved ones and the passing comments about my narrow escape from death, have been the part of the experience that has been the hardest to bear.

I met my awesome foursome girlfriends for brunch today (ok, I'm a loser, there's four of us) and told them what I've just told you. And I finished by saying that I don't know how to feel about the experience. One of my friends gave me the perfect response that finally knocked some sense into me. "Grateful. You should feel grateful", she said. And I do.

The Pub With No Beer

I've always thought there was no such place as 'The Pub With No Beer'. I thought it was an urban legend that someone cooked up to scare Aussie blokes all around our sunburnt land, where a hard-earned thirst can only be quenched by an ice cold beer.

Sure, it could be argued that the humble pub originated as a meetinghouse for the community, a place to converse with your fellow man, not a place to get off your head. So if by some freak occurrence the pub ran out of beer and punters had to forgo a frothie (or whatever your favourite tipple is), would it really be such a devastating event?

The answer, quite simply, is yes.

For those people that don't drink beer or alcohol (and I mean people who pass on alcohol because they don't enjoy the taste, effects etc, not problem drinkers who have given it up because it interferes with their life), let me put it this way to you. To a drinker, a pub with no beer is akin to Christmas without presents or Easter without chocolate - a very sad occasion indeed that has had all the magic sucked out of it.

Last weekend I visited the pub with no beer. All the other patrons were ordering pints of amber ale or chilled glasses of pinot gris - so refreshing on a 40 plus degree day. But for me, the pub was dry. The beer on tap had stopped flowing, the corks remained in the bottles, the spirits sat stiffly on the shelf. It was as if I was a ghost, unseen by the publican, instead of a paying customer with a need to wet their whistle with the good stuff.

I'd be lying if I said I'm finding the transition from drinker to non-drinker easy the second time round. The first booze-free nine months I spent last year were a breeze because I was single, living with my Dad and totally consumed by writing and finding the zen within. But this time round, I'm distracted by the dazzling bright lights of my future. I am in love with the most amazing person and the temptation to drink with him is constant. Especially when hanging out with his friends. A drink or two would help to lubricate my social tongue, take the edge off, reduce my anxiety, help me to relax enough to let my personality and sense of humour shine. But I can't drink. It's not worth it.

Back to the pub. So considering I had to be content with a lemon, lime and bitters, I remembered that there was actually something else I loved about pubs which didn't involve alcohol. The chicken parma. Surely, eating a delicious parma would be just as exciting and satisfying as drinking a Coopers Pale Ale?

I eagerly took the first bite but was immediately disappointed. The chicken was dry in parts, the gloopy cheese on top was a cheap variation to mozzarella, the pasatta was sour and manufactured. The salad flopped in an awkward basket on the plate was smothered on top with squeeze bottle dressing instead of tossed through the salad. On the bright side, the crinkle cut chips were pretty good.

Noticing the disapproval on my face, my boyfriend asked me what I thought of my parma.

"I'd give it two out of five," I said.

"Really?" What do you think's missing?" he asked.

"The beer," I answered without missing a beat. Then I laughed because I wasn't joking. "What would you give yours?"

"Three out of five" he said.

"That's because you're drinking a beer," I responded.

His rating was understandable. He hasn't visited the pub with no beer yet...

Un-Australian

Our PM - 100% Australian

I'm Un-Australian. I didn't drink yesterday to celebrate Australia Day. I don't like cricket. When I'm watching the tennis, I don't barrack for someone just because they are Aussie. I barrack for the player I like the most.

I'm totally Un-Australian and I'm proud of it.

Why? Because if I'm Un-Australian, it means that I am something other than fitting a subjective psychological mould of what's right and wrong. What's good and bad. What's patriotic and what's not. What is so bad about not being Australian anyway? 

I find the term Un-Australian utterly racist. It implies that any behaviour that is not classified 'Australian' must be bad, shameful, wrong. Therefore, not being Australian is bad, shameful and wrong. You can come to our shores (by plane, not by boat) but you better start eating Vegemite and choose a footy team before you get through customs.

I can't believe that the term is used so loosely and bandied about all the time on TV by presenters. Don't people realise how racist it is? When Americans claim to be the greatest country in the world, don't we as Australians recoil in horror at their arrogance and their ignorance? When we hear the Poms declare to be the best nation in the world due to their class and heritage, don't we shake our heads and think 'that's bullshit, I've seen Ladette to Lady!'

So why do we think it's ok to judge our behaviour by its Australianness? Isn't that just the same as claiming to be the best country in the world, in fact isn't it even worse because its not just about geography, wealth and opportunity, but down to character traits and birthright. It's not just alienating the rest of the world, its alienating those people living in Australia who are not Australian by birth or citizenship or who are Australian but don't fit the status quo.

As a kid I always felt ashamed to be Australian. I craved the culture I believed was lacking in Australia. I was more interested in artistic pursuits like writing and music. I hated football and all sport in general. I wished I had been born to migrant parents; I wanted to have Italian or Greek or Indian blood like half of my classmates at school. They had history, architecture, tradition, food and exotic language. Whilst most of these kids might have been secretly wishing they had Aussie parents, little did they know that the pasty white skinned kid sitting in the shade, desperately wanted even just a teaspoon of that difference. That Un-Australianness.

Then in my twenties I went backpacking and lived in the UK for a couple of years. I decided that being Aussie was a good thing after all. We had a good reputation when travelling (at least we did ten years ago), the cost of living was affordable, we had little conflict internally or from external threats and Melbourne was starting to become a global city in its own right. I felt blessed when I returned from my stint in grey, dreary England.

So I loosened up. Started to accept all facets of being Australian. The larrikin, the bogan, the underdog. Hell, I even chose a footy team and started watching the Aussie Open every January. I embraced our culture. We like a beer. We like a derogatory joke. We like new cuisines. We'll accept new races into our fold but not until we've put you through the wringer and you've populated our cities with an Australian-born generation or two. Then you're ok. Then we'll not only eat your food, we'll learn how to cook it and share a table with you. As long as you don't mind us calling you a wog. As a joke of course.

But now, having ditched the booze and spent a dry Aussie day, not playing cricket but instead eating pannetone with some Italians, I'm reconsidering my stance on being Aussie. I'm not proud of our treatment of refuges, I'm not proud of a culture that makes me feel bad for being sober and not joining in sports, I'm not proud of a culture that only accepts difference once it can pick it apart, eat the good bits of meat off the bone and then throw away the gristle.

And that's why I'm proud to be Un-Australian.

2014 Australian Women Writers Challenge

This year I pledge to read and review at least four books written by female Aussie authors. This puts me in the Stella category.

Check out the website here for more info or to join yourself.

Sober As A Judge

Happy New Year everybody!

I love this time of year. I love making New Year resolutions and all the promise of potential that the New Year holds. And going into 2014 is particularly exciting for me as I embark on a new chapter with my amazing man.

And I have finalised my contract with alcohol, deciding to give it up entirely. Although it's hard to comprehend NEVER drinking again, I think it's the only way to keep my sanity intact.

Recent festivities have reminded me of why I decided to stop drinking in the first place. The two main reasons are:

1 - I'm a bit of a douchebag when I drink
2 - My anxiety skyrockets in the days following drinking

I probably didn't emphasise the second point enough in previous posts but alcohol relaxes me in the short-term and then increases my anxiety following a drinking session. And the amount I drink doesn't really matter because I can't avoid feeling anxious by limiting my consumption. For example, I can have a couple of drinks and feel shit for two or three days, or drink a truckload and be anxious for the next seven days.

So I decided a few weeks ago to stop drinking again and I have just experienced my first sober Christmas and New Year's Eve since I was a teenager. And on the whole, it was no big deal. Christmas was a bit hard because let's face it, Christmas is a stressful occasion. Family dynamics, emotions and lots of red wine consumed by your loved ones, can make things a bit tense. And when you can't have a drink yourself to take the edge off, its hard to relax and enjoy the day. But I resisted the urge to drink.

And last night was New Year's Eve. Which was a lot easier than Christmas Day. My boyfriend and I spent the night at my sister and bro-in-law's place. It was a very tame night. We had a BBQ and managed to keep awake till midnight to watch the crappy ABC countdown. My sister (who is also a non-drinker) and I got stuck into a variety of non-alcoholic beverages including soda water with lime, blood orange mineral water and bitter lemonade. Scrumptious!

So now I'm proud to say that I'll be sailing into the New Year as a confident sobertarian. Awake, aware, switched on and still up for a good time... if the company is right.

Back on the Horse

So I lasted 9 months and 1 day without drinking. The first 9 months were easy. The last 24 hours were agony. All of a sudden, on Melbourne Cup Day, I just really wanted a drink.

There may be a few reasons for this but the one I like to focus on, is that I'm happy. I met a boy. A wonderful, amazing, caring, smart, sexy man. And my desire to drink, to socialise, to have a beer or a wine just because I feel like it, returned.

And as my sexy man said to me, "You're just changing your relationship with alcohol". Did I mention that he is wise too? This statement is so correct. When I stopped drinking earlier this year, it was through shame. Shame at my behaviour when drunk, shame at the self-inflicted abuse of my body, shame at my self-destructive patterns that I carried all through my twenties (and allowed me to nurture a melancholy safety-net of negative self-talk that I would never be good enough to follow my dreams.)

And this shame made me scared to ever have another drink again. After I stopped drinking, I had dreams every night for months on end, that I got drunk either intentionally, accidentally or I was drugged by someone else. And each time I woke up, I was sooo relieved that I hadn't had a drink. I had a fear, a phobia almost, about what would happen if I drank. Not so much about losing control but more about being disappointed in myself. About regret and not living up to my own high standards, even though I couldn't really articulate what they were.

But on Cup Day, that fear took a backseat, when all of a sudden at my brothers house, nervous and happy after introducing my family to my beautiful boy, I decided to have a drink. To calm my nerves. To celebrate. To relax. To socialise. To live a little.

I drank lots of water. I only drank a little bit because I was driving anyway. And I felt great. So happy. And the next day, not a skerrick of a hangover.

Fast forward to last Saturday night. Celebrating my friend's 40th birthday, I had a few drinks. Not many. Two beers and four modest glasses of red wine. Again, I drank quite a lot of water. But for the next two days I had a hangover. That red wine in your veins, heavy limbed, dull headache and general blah feeling. After hardly drinking anything and eating a big wedge of pork belly for dinner! Surely the pig blubber would've soaked up any nasty hangover-producing molecules!

So that's where I'm at now friends. Two drinking experiences under my belt, one positive, the other less so and a gorgeous new boyfriend who helps me to articulate what I'm feeling. And now, with no sense of shame or fear, I know that I am merely drawing up a new contract with booze. A pre-nup if you will. For the first time in my life, I am renegotiating my relationship with alcohol in a refreshingly sober fashion.