Showing posts with label Stupid Me. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stupid Me. Show all posts

Tuesday, April 28, 2015

When your "health practitioner" is anti vax

Recently I made the decision to go and see a chiropractor. It wasn’t a decision I made lightly because I’ve read so many things about them being quacks. But in my readings I found that they could actually be good for back pain, which is what I was seeking to resolve. I didn’t want it to miraculously change my fertility, or cure my asthma, or any pseudoscience bullshit, I just wanted my back to not keep me awake at night.

I've had a few appointments now and I was really intrigued with how it was all done, and my back was actually feeling a tad better. I went to my appointment the other day and my usual guy wasn't there, so I saw the head honcho of the centre. His treatment room has three beds; he’ll tell you that’s because the treatment isn’t secretive and so that we can all learn from each other. It didn’t bother me at all. I’ve birthed two babes, it takes a lot for me to be embarrassed these days.

So I lay down on the centre bed as indicated, my head through the hole, and listened as the Chiropractor went to work on the lady to my left.

She tells him she’s achy all over because she’d had a flu vax yesterday, but other than that, just her usual pain.

"Well if you get the flu vax you're guaranteed to get the flu, if you don't get the flu vax, there is only a chance" he said.

My head was down, so no one saw me roll my eyes.

The lady went on to tell him she has diminished lung function and that therefore, the flu is really dangerous for her. She continued, saying she got the flu every year until she started getting the jab. She explained that the theory is you get a small dose so that your immune system is trained with how to deal with it, hopefully meaning you'll be able to fight it off better if you do get it.

Quick as a flash he replied "I'm glad you called it a theory, because that's all it is. There's no proof anywhere that it actually works". Those were his exact words.

I’m so glad I was laying down for that, because I might have fallen over.

I didn’t know what to do. Do I get up and storm out? Do I start a huge argument with him? Do I stand up for this woman with diminished lung function who is being told to not have a flu vax in the future?

I was angry but I decided to stay put to hear what he had to say for himself when it was my turn.

After saying his goodbyes to Lung Lady, he walked over to my bed and asked how I was. I said fine. He said he didn’t believe me. What can I say? I suck at lying and it was obvious from my voice that I was not happy.

“I’m just a little upset from the conversation I just heard” I said.

“Ah, yes, vaccination can be an emotive topic. Can I ask why you are upset?”

“Because science” I replied.

He went to work on my back, making strange breathing noises, rubbing my temples, placing glass vials on my throat, a finger in my mouth; a whole heap of weird stuff and dude, I just want my back to stop hurting, thanks. As he worked, he talked.

He told me how he’d never been vaccinated, that his lifelong chiropractic treatments had kept him safe from viruses and diseases. It was really hard to not scream out that actually herd immunity had kept him safe all this time, and now that the herd immunity is lowering we’re seeing an increase in vaccine preventable diseases and deaths.

But I just listened. In fact I stayed, for the most part anyway, completely silent. He took my silence to mean I was agreeing with him, so he kept talking. Digging a little hole for himself.

He told me that food allergies are caused by vaccines. He stopped just short of pulling out the autism link (you know, the one that has been debunked about three million times now), but mentioned that vaccine can cause delays, social problems and behavioural issues.

At this point I was so angry that I had tears in my eyes and he saw me wipe them away. Again, he took this as passionate agreement.

“Has one of your children had a vaccine reaction?” he queried, with genuine concern.

“No.” I spluttered.

I couldn’t say any more. I was dumbfounded. I opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out.

I have met people who don’t vaccinate before, but they weren’t standing in an office, as a ‘medical professional’ proclaiming that there is no evidence behind immunisations. Interestingly, by the way, there is a heap of studies on how there is no scientific evidence behind chiropractic work helping with anything but back pain.

He talked at length about how the government is taking away the choices of parents by removing Centrelink payments from those who choose to take care of their kids; claimed that pharmaceutical companies only introduced vaccines to make money; and said his mother was brave to make the right decision not to vaccinate him. Spoken like a true conspiracy theorist.

All of this in the space of ten minutes while he manipulated my spine and made me move my legs, open my jaw and put my hands here and there; a game of Twister on myself.

I collected my belongings, paid my fee and walked out the door. I promptly wrote down everything that had happened, not wanting my emotions to cloud my memory, and when I was done, I burst in to tears.

They were angry tears. Embarrassed tears. It took so long for me to come to chiropractic, to embrace a little bit more of the alternative side of life. I ignored all the evidence, all the science, and had treatment anyway, based on anecdotes. In my head I was thinking “what does it say about me if I choose this method?” and at the time my answer was that I was, quite obviously, a dickhead. But I’ve changed my mind since then.

I’m just a person looking for answers. A person with an insanely sore, previously broken back, that just wants to be pain free. I’m desperate, to be honest, and willing to give anything a go, even “alternative medicine”.

Because anything Tim Minchin says is true. Especially if it's on the internet
I had been liking the treatments. My back was actually feeling better, but now I’m just so conflicted. The next day I rang up and cancelled all my future appointments. Then I rang my health fund and told them he should not be on their preferred provider list.

I cannot support a business or practitioner who can advocate to a woman with diminished lung function to not get a flu vaccine, in odds with all medical advice.

I cannot support a business that tells me vaccines are only about making money, particularly when he wasn’t cracking my back for free.

I cannot support a business that says vaccines are not proven; that it is just a “theory”.

I haven't decided yet if I'm going to search for a new Chiropractor that only tries to fix backs and doesn't claim he or she can cure addictions and diseases. Once bitten, twice shy, fool me once, and all that shebang.

As I sit here, contemplating what to do next, I'm staring at an Australian Health Practitioner Regulation Agency complaint form that my health fund has provided for me to fill out. Because if you use your position as a "health practitioner" to spout bullshit about vaccines being unproven, when there is a plethora of scientific evidence that they do work, and recommend people don't get them when there are people who can't get the jab and babies too young to be immunized DYING, you can bet your arse I'm going to make an official complaint about you.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Pointing the Bloody Finger


Five little ducks went out one day,
In to the bottom kitchen drawer to play,
Mother Duck said "Quack quack quack" (which loosely translated means "watch your fingers")
And only four little ducks came back...

Yesterday morning, as I was getting Tricky's breakfast ready, he was playing with the bottom kitchen drawer about half a step away from me.

It's his drawer. Only his stuff goes in there and he's allowed to play with it. He'll sometimes touch the other drawers but after being told "no" he'll generally leave it alone, and go back to his drawer.

Yesterday was no different. Except as he went to close the drawer, he slipped and fell over.

Didn't make a sound. So I said "Oops, you fell over! Up you get, time for breakfast"

Then he started screaming.

I figured he must have bopped his head as he fell and was doing one of those delayed reaction cries. You know the ones where it's been a good five seconds since they've injured themselves and you can see the little cogs in their head turning. Does this hurt? Should I cry? Yeah I will. Waah! So I scooped him up for a cuddle and saw a little bit of blood on the floor.

I checked his mouth. He's put his tooth through his lip or gum before after a fall, but there didn't seem to be anything there. I looked down at his hand...

Blood everywhere.

I could see it was coming from his finger, but there was just so much blood I couldn't see how bad it was.

"Oh fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck have you cut your finger off?" Because dropping the F bomb to a one year old is fine in these situations.

I'm not entirely sure why I asked him. I didn't exactly expect him to look up and answer me.

I tried to blot away the blood with a tissue but it wasn't doing any good so I ran his finger under the tap. He went quiet. I think he liked the cold. I could see through the water that a big chunk of skin was missing.

After quickly getting dressed while my Mum (who was almost at my house already when it happened) held him, we jumped in the car and raced to the doctors.

We asked if we could see the nurse.

"You can't see the nurse without seeing the doctor"

We asked if we could see a doctor.

"Do you have an appointment? They're fully booked."

Are you fucking kidding me? Do you think I have an appointment? Meanwhile my child's hand is dripping with blood.

But I kept it all inside and instead said "No, I don't, he's just cut his finger a few minutes ago"

"Well he doesn't look too distressed"

What?! Can we focus for a second on the blood pouring out his frickin finger? Maybe he was in shock, I dunno, I'm not a medico and neither was she. Being a receptionist at a medical centre doesn't actually qualify you to triage.

So we waited almost an hour to see the doctor. My Mum and I took turns holding him, and holding his hand up and his thumb away. He wanted to touch his finger and each time he did it, it would pour with blood. We could see it wasn't a bad injury by now, but like all finger wounds, it would not. stop. bleeding.

I was anxious that the doctor would tell me off. Tell me I should have been supervising him more carefully, that I shouldn't let him play with the drawer. But instead, he introduced himself to me, asked what had happened then told me how his own son, at age 23, has just run his car up the back of a Mercedes, assuring me that "it doesn't stop as they get older, you'll have to get used to this".

The doctor put on those big magnifying goggles and had a look. The giant flap of skin was still partially attached so he unrolled it (ick), smoothed it down, and put a bandage on it.

All the while Tricky just sat there, hand outstretched, staring at the doctor. No screaming, even when he was unrolling the skin. Then when it was time to go he turned around and waved to the doctor. He bloody waved! The child is a champion.

Be sure to send in my Mother of the Year nomination, won't you?
Look I haz bandage!

Hrmm, tastes funny

I feel better now, Mama
It got caught in Frederick's teeth

Sunday, March 27, 2011

Would The Real Glowless Please Stand Up

Before last weekend I could count on one hand the number of people (other than friends and family) who knew the person behind the blog. Who knew my name. Who knew Map Guy and Tricky's names and what we looked like.

Now, there are what can only be described as lots, and for reasons I'm yet to fully understand, it scares the shit outta me.

I'm not so completely full of myself that I think anyone I met even noticed my name tag or could recall my name five seconds after meeting me (to the vast majority I'm still nameless) and I'm not so vain to think that anyone besides me actually gives a shit.

So why am I still struggling? I should feel liberated, shouldn't I?

This blog was my cocoon. I was safe inside here; growing; developing. In to what, I'm not sure. The word 'writer' gets bandied about quite a bit on the Blogosphere but I'm definitely not one of those or I could have thought of something a little more descriptive than 'lots'.

Being anonymous meant there was little chance of any repercussions. If no one knew me, I couldn't get hurt. I could divulge my deepest secrets and it wouldn't matter.

I was Glowless; a persona; a character. Sure the real me was there, she came out in glimpses; but she was hidden under many layers like a Bloggy Babushka.
As Glowless I stood at the top of my Blog mountain, shouted "I'm a nutter" and was applauded for helping to break down the stigma of mental illness. Now that I'm 'out' though, I'm afraid to write. I'm shying away; censoring myself. I'm scared to say what is really there.

My friends, who are already familiar with the many skeletons in my closet, have stood by me in spite of them. Maybe because of them. But the newer friends? The ones that don't know my sordid past? Will they run if they see it here? The real me?

If they know how broken I really am, surely they will leave; relegate me to the 'Too Hard' basket and be on their merry way, perhaps looking back once to cast a pitying glance at the chaos that is my life and shake their head in disgust at the girl who can't get her shit together.

I know that people who leave when it gets hard aren't real friends. Part of me wants to be the bigger person; let them walk away. Even give them the finger and say good riddance. But there is that other part of me, the part that I wish wasn't there; that little corner of my soul that still yearns to be accepted. To be liked.


I have the words "be authentic" ringing in my ears. But how authentic? Where is the line between moderation and censoring? Between privacy and secrecy?

This shit just got real and I have no idea what to do.

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Glowless rocked the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

Wednesday, March 16, 2011

When She Loved Me

This weekend my Inlaws are coming to housesit. Every time they come I go in to a mad panic because even after all these years I’m still trying to impress them – I don’t know why, I’m pretty sure they like me, I gave them an awesome grandbaby after all. So a massive clean out was ordered. With that, Operation Furiously Unclutter and Clean the Kitchen (acronym, anyone?) commenced at Casa de Glow.

As part of the Operation, Map Guy and I decided it was time to donate some of our stuffed toys.

I was never a big fan of stuffed toys when I was a kid – I was a Barbie Girl (life in plastic, it’s fantastic) through and through so never really saw the point in them. You couldn’t dress them up, you couldn’t plait their hair, bor-ring.

Fast forward to my late teens and early twenties when my mental health was rapidly declining; Out of nowhere came the desire to cuddle a teddy bear. Call it a need for nurturing, call it regression, call it pathetic. But it was what it was and for a few years AS AN ADULT I found much comfort in my little blue bear, Sullivan. Why was he blue? Well, because I was too.


After those few traumatic years I grew stronger and I moved on from Sulli. But he never left; he just migrated to the bookshelf to watch over me. I think he may have even given the “evil teddy eye” to Olli, the new bear in town, who I cuddled every night of my pregnancy (the perfect bump pillow).

So when the time came today to part with Sulli, I couldn’t just chuck him in the garbage bag, it seemed so wrong. I had to cuddle him; kiss him; say thankyou and finally, say goodbye.

I then proceeded to wail like a banshee.

I cried so hard over a silly stuffed bear who was always losing fluff no matter how many times I mended him. A silly bear who has a half missing mouth because I used to twirl the cotton of his sewn-on smile. A silly bear who could barely sit up any more because years of teary cuddles had compacted all his stuffing. A silly bear who, for a time, was my friend.

I did for a minute consider taking him out of the bag and putting him back on the shelf, but the time had come for us to part ways. There is, after all, no worse fate for a toy than to sit on a shelf or in a box not being played with. Toy Story and Sarah McLaughlin taught me that.

Sulli has started a new chapter in his life now at the local Good Samaritans store. My hope is that he will bring joy to someone else. That someone will find him and take him home, and love him just as much as I did. As much as I do.

And I will start a new chapter of my life, too… right after watching this and crying some more.


Do you have any toys that you’re emotionally attached to? Or is it just me who projects characteristics on to inanimate objects?

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Meet Glowless at the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

Thursday, February 24, 2011

The Key to Success (or my front door)

Continuing on with the theme of blogging about the embarrassing, stupid things I do, I bring you today's post.

I had put Tricky down for his nap and was so tired (though it was only 9.30am) that I thought I'd try to have one too. But then the postman came on his little bike and the allure of a man in high vis gear was just too much for me, so I went to empty the letterbox. At that point a whisper of a breeze decided to come and slam my door. Brilliant.

I was outside. Tricky was inside. On top of the unbrushed hair and bags under my eyes, I had no keys (duh), no phone, no shoes, NO BRA and was still in my PJs. What a sight.

Tina had only just told me to put a bra on but I didn't listen. I've learned my lesson.

I looked up and down the street - the elderly lady two houses up was watering a few plants in her front garden. I hurredly walked up to her, holding the junk mail and letters across my bra-less boobs and by the time I had gotten to her the tears had started.

"I've locked myself out of the house and my baby is inside! Alone!"

Why did I add "Alone!"?. It was pretty bloody obvious from my tears and choking voice that he was in there by himself.

Mrs Neighbour took me inside her immaculate home whilst asking me to excuse the mess, then sat me in front of their phone. I went blank. What was Map Guy's number?! I always just hit his name in my phone, I never dial his number.

I started to dial Aunty Penny's number (the first mobile phone number I ever learned so it has stuck with me all these years) but it hadn't even connected yet when I had a sudden flash of brilliance and remembered. Hurrah!

His voice sounded so mature and commanding because he answered using his 'work voice'. And then there was my voice. All meek and squeaky like a mouse; "I've locked myself out *sob sob*. Tricky's inside *sniff sniff* Can you come home?"

It would be about 25 minutes til he would be home so Mr Neighbour walked me home, insisting that he would try his own house keys in our Fort Knox-worthy front door. Mrs Neighbour just rolled her eyes and wished me luck.

Not surprisingly his keys didn't work, but I wanted to hug him for even trying. He made sure I was OK and returned home to Mrs Neighbour, to no doubt talk about how strange it was to see a crying, bra-less woman standing on their doorstop in PJs.

Map Guy rolled up, a knight in shining armour a Black and White taxi and let me in just as Tricky was waking up from his nap and starting to cry. I'd been outside for almost 40 minutes.

I went and got these for my neighbours, it's so nice to know that there are kind people who will take pity on a girl in her jammies.


Have you locked yourself out?
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Meet Glowless at the Aussie Bloggers Conference thanks to

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