Take more steroids. Feel better for a bit. But then, unexpectedly a terrible bout of gastro. So painful that I ended up in hospital on IV pain relief, again more steroids, antibiotics. A few bumps in the road, said the specialist. We’ll try a double dose of the remicade, we’ll do it early. But it didn’t work and whatever control I had over the inflammation in my colon remained was gone and suddenly I was so unwell. So very unwell that I couldn’t sit up, couldn’t walk, couldn’t function. For a few weeks I thought, it’s just the gastro, it’s hit me hard and it’s taking a bit to get over it. But it wasn’t that. It was my colon, the ulcers and inflammation so bad that protein was leaking out the surface, spreading into my tissue, my feet swelling grotesquely, my face puffy and pale.






Emergency admission to the hospital; an urgent scope showed it to be much worse than expected and then out of nowhere a surgeon started to visit me to talk about what needs to happen next.






This is the loneliest, most confronting conversation I have had in my life. In the quiet, dark hospital room. A stranger in a crisp white coat, “You are very unwell and the longer we leave it, the more at risk you are of serious complications. I would remove the entire colon, with an ileostomy, and because there is so much inflammation I can’t say for sure, but it may be a permanent stoma. You need to start preparing yourself mentally.”


That night I spiked a fever and my inflammatory markers climbed, and things started to look pretty serious.






Then we waited and hoped that the new magic drug might start working. We waited. They gave me more drugs. More antibiotics. Four blood transfusions. And then, my CRP came down. And then it came down again.


I signed the forms for the surgery, and I waited for them to tell me that it had to be done, and I told myself that I was ready and I didn’t know exactly why I was so scared. I wanted them to make the decision so I wouldn’t have to, because I knew that I would wonder for the rest of my life, what if I’d just waited one more day for the drugs to start working?


But then my CRP came down even more.

So now I’m back at home, and we’re waiting. Waiting to make sure it doesn’t get worse, waiting for it to get better. For now, no surgery, but if anything changes then there’s no choice.


I was ready, you know. I’d started to imagine what it would be like. I pictured being taken to theatre and having the anaesthetic. I spoke to the stoma nurse and she showed me the bag, how you stick it on, how it fits the skin, the logistics. I thought I was ready, and then I wasn’t, but I didn’t need to be, and now my brain doesn’t know what to do.






I was at the edge of the cliff, and I took a step back. Slowly, I’ll take another.


❤

Centre: Jenny, Mini and Dougal

We didn’t get another dog straight away. Couldn’t. Not with the memory of Mini still so fresh.

And so that summer evening, after a year or maybe two of life without dog, the light faded and my excitement grew.

We drove out of town to pick her up and she was so, so tiny. Her little pink claws were so fine that they kept catching in the weave of my shirt. It was a white polo shirt, my school uniform, so it must have been Friday (on other days we wore red) and I must have been in Year 6. You know how a polo shirt has those tiny little holes up close, a kind of waffle weave? That’s how small my girl was.



I was bestowed the honour of naming her, and so with much gravity I declared that she would be Caramel. Because, you know…. jersey caramels. 

The name never really stuck; she was too obstinate. One day in the car at Wooli, parked outside the fish shop, Mum snapped (I can only assume that the dog had done something naughty, and had refused to respond to screeches of CARAMEL, CARAMELLLLLL as she ran away down the beach), “She can either be Cara or Mel. Pick one.” So she was Mel.

In some ways she was the worst dog. She was not obedient. She barked (at nothing and everything). She jumped. She piss-bolted out of the front door every time it opened. And she had long hair that shed on all surfaces, and knitted its way into all fabrics so that it could not simply be brushed off. Maintaining hair-free clothing around a dog with long, wiry, white hair is not easy. The dark maroon wool of our school jumpers was a particularly strong magnet. But to love her was to be one with her hair.

When I moved to Sydney for uni I got teary only once: the moment that I left Mel behind. She got older, and more rickety, and then one day mum called and said that Mel was at the vet with a drip in her paw and they were trying to make her comfortable. They were going to try and wait until the weekend so that I could get there to say goodbye, but after a day, I spoke to the vet and she said that the kinder thing was to end it. I cried at work. I cried at home. I cried as I wrote this out years down the track, because I loved that dog so much. And it was more than just the love I had for her, but the feeling that she was the last gift that my father gave me that was untainted by all the bullshit that would follow in the years to come.


Twelve years I lived in Sydney, six of them with the bunnies. The bunnies made me accountable to the world. I had to feed them every day, even if I felt like staying under the covers. But bunnies are not dogs, in spite of their cuteness. The bunnies did not need me, they simply tolerated me, and even then…not really. Still, one of the hardest things about the move to Dubai was rehoming my girls. On a very down day not so long ago, I sobbed, “I’ve given up everything, even my bunnies,” and it was the bunnies that made me feel the saddest.

While I’ve been so sad, so many times in the last few years, 2016 was awful. It was the most stressful, lonely, unsettled time. This big white apartment, with its hard surfaces and silence. My friends, too far away. The friends we thought we had, vanished. As silent as the apartment. The things I said I would do to stay happy, too difficult. Too hot and dusty, and no one to talk to, and so much sand. One night I stood on the balcony and I looked out on the lights of the construction and traffic and I cried because I realised I hadn’t spoken to another soul for an entire day. With Rob flying across the globe, I had not opened my mouth to speak.

In November I was in Australia and Rob sent me a message. “I emailed the lady about the dogs.” I didn’t want to get my hopes up because I thought we wouldn’t get picked. These dog adoption people are serious, and their questionnaires make you doubt everything you knew about dogs. What if your answers are wrong? Why is it any of their business if you’re going to have children What if you aren’t meant to say you’ll crate the dog? What if you are meant to crate the dog…. What if they realise that you don’t really know what crating a dog entails??


He didn’t get a reply. Then he did get a reply. And we went to meet the dogs. We agreed to a trial adoption, and said that we would get our friend to help us with pick up the following day. Then the lady offered to bring them over that evening.


We went out that afternoon and stocked up on supplies: a tiny purple harness, a giant bag of kibble. I said, “If it doesn’t work out we will just sell it,” but we both knew that we wouldn’t be selling it.


I don’t think it’s too strong (too sappy, maybe) a statement to say that a gap in my heart has been filled. Something has been missing, and has now been replaced.


I feel better now that I have to leave the house every day, even if it’s just to walk around the block. I have spoken to more people in the last month than the five that came before. I have made new friends. I have stopped taking one of the pills that was supposed to keep me happy, and in fact, Rob says that I am happier now than I have ever been. I have these two idiots to keep me company, and wake me up at 2am for no reason, and bark at other dogs/plastic bags/people wearing hoodies whilst on the lead.


Life with dog is better than without.

❤

Didn't see the dancing fountains either, but luckily I've got some time in Dubai coming up and I'll be able to catch up on the things I missed. Maybe not in July when I arrive, and it's 46 degrees, but I've got allllll the time in the world come winter

One of the things that I am very happy about at this point in time is that I am in a good place financially. Money, or lack thereof, has always caused me a great deal of anxiety. As a student, every last cent came into play and I struggled with the somewhat self-imposed impression that being an adult meant not asking for help. I quite literally worried myself sick, when realistically (isn't hindsight wonderful), I could have picked up the phone and called my mum. But you see, I didn't want to be a burden, and the few times that my brother and I asked our father for help financially, it was so unpleasant that I preferred to be poor. Can you imagine my amazement when I went shopping for the first time with Rob, who had a real job, and he didn't have to do a running tally of the things going into the basket to make sure that the total was no more than $12.07 exactly? And he could buy the nice toilet paper!

Financial independence is empowering, and soon I will quite possibly pretty much depend on Rob. And I can't quite get my head around it. I have tried to express to him that I am an expensive machine to run, but, I don't think he quite gets it (although he is trying)....you see, I like nice things, and when you pay your own credit card bills, you don't have to justify it to anyone but yourself!


And then, in Sydney, my social sphere is largely driven by work. We spend a third of our time at work, and I like my colleagues. I like that I am good at my job, and that I am starting to build a reputation for myself. I have been in the same field now for a few years, and I am proud that I can say that I actually have an area of expertise. My work plays a large role in my identity. And so I will need to do some re-shaping. But what will I do? Well I'm not sure (that's not entirely correct, but I'm too overwhelmed right now to be rational).


And I'm annoyed at my body for letting me down. I'm a total hypochondriac, so the idea of having an exotic illness was always, in the abstract, vaguely appealing. But turns out that chronic illness absolutely sucks, and bowel disease (ulcerative colitis) is not even remotely exotic. It involves speaking to doctors about your bottom, and cameras and scopes in places very much devoid of sunshine, and medicine that lands you in hospital in Scotland with pancreatitis (i.e. the most excruciating agony imaginable). It is draining, physically and mentally, and even with things relatively under control now I'm on all the drugs known to man, it just might never get better. Check your dignity at the door.


Here are my options:

1. Do nothing. Go mad. 
2. Become a consultant. Find something about which to consult. 
3. Find a job locally. Complicated by my current health situation. 
4. Hope for the best and keep busy. 
5. Make my own cheese and start baking. 

I'm going to try and stick with options 4 and 5 in the short term.

But what else will I do? Well, right now I am so pissed at myself for sounding so negative about something that is actually amazing!

At least Dubai has its own instagram hashtag.... I will work on gaining more followers and building my internet-acclaim worldwide!! #MyDubai!

So I'm going to try and get it all out now, go with the flow then, and keep looking at the bright side.

After all, it only rains 7 days per year in Dubai, so I'd better get ready for some sunshine.

On the most full-on day of interviewing, I returned to the hotel after Rob had gone to the eye hospital for part of the medical. The first thing I  saw on the bed was that book, and I thought "Holy shit the HR/PR is good...they got this into the room while we were both out!" But actually, Rob had left it on the bed earlier in the day so I could look too :D

❤