Personal and Domestic Plumbing Perturbations

As a month it's been memorable, not in a misty-eyed, rose-tinted glasses mode though; more like a veritable mensis horriblus. It started with the Stephen's-Day thaw, one of those once-in-a-lifetime, extraordinary weather events that saw the temperature soar from a bracing minus seven to a balmy plus eight in the space of 24 hours! Our house being of the Baby Boom generation with all the attendant physical figaries of third age, was perhaps built to withstand such events while in its first flush of youth but not now in its sixties. As with all cantankerous 'auld wans, when placed under such extreme environmental pressure; our house burst a pipe. The water broke through the ceiling just left of Boy Wonder's bed and flowed unimpeded through the house until it had laid waste to three ceilings, one floor, quite a few pieces of furniture and a brand-new space ship which had recently landed courtesy of a very kind gentleman delivering goods from somewhere north of Greenland.

We were homeless but unharmed and in possession of a fully paid-up home insurance policy, it could have been a lot worse we reasoned calmly. Of course it could, I know it could, but six weeks in and still no sign of a moving-home date I have to admit to having a meltdown and to believing in my own self-indulgent, snot-fest that it couldn't possibly, ever be worse than this! I hadn't realised how much my home serves to anchor me in the chaos of the open water of life with a kid with a secondhand kidney. Well at least now I know (note to self: avoid repeat of homelessness at all costs).

As luck would have it, Rory's own plumbing, although considerably younger than that of our humble home, had its own foibles. I believe the technical term for his condition was a 'kink in the pipe'. Probably due to the meteoric rate at which he is growing, this 'kink' needed a lot of investigation and a whole heap of monitoring. The added complication of spending at least one day a week in a hospital on the other side of the country does little to aid the affliction of temporary homelessness.

In the midst of the maelstrom created by staunching the flow in some pipes, while trying to increase the output of others, the HSE saw fit to cancel Boy Wonder's medical card. A mere slip of the pen almost put paid the very costly supply of anti-rejection drugs. As is usual with all things HSE-esque, it took a small non-renewable forest of paperwork, coupled with the intersession of saints, scholars and, I dare say, a near-schizophrenic mother to get it back.

I have greeted the recent arrival of spring with a sense of exhaustion so pervasive that I have been unable to think never mind blog. I'm hoping the stretch in the evenings will loosen the logjam in my brain and allow some light to flow again.

Cheers,

Ann

Merry Christmas

Our house has been filled with the sounds of rollerblading- astronauts preparing for hazardous missions in far off galaxies since early morning. The front room is a mine field of discarded wrapping paper, un-read instructions and assorted decorative debris. As I look out on the snow and ice I am again struck by our immense good fortune: we are not forced out in this weather, we don't have to make to the hospital tomorrow for dialysis. Please spare a thought for those who still do and perhaps in doing so, you might consider an organ donor card as one of your new year's resolutions. We are settling in for our third consecutive hospital-free Christmas and for that I am eternally grateful.

Merry Christmas

Cheers,

Annb

Three Years Today

I figured today I'd let the pictures do the talking. Sorry about the technical glitches, I think an ad even snuck in there somewhere - it's been an emotional day!

Cheers,

Ann

A Winter Tonic.

It was one of those days, I had foolishly turned on the radio only to be assaulted by a torrent of fiscal doom and gloom. The rain was of the biblical variety and the weak spot in the kitchen had sprung a leak, spilling an expanding pool of rainwater across the floor towards the fridge. The mop was nowhere to be found and the anaemic light from the blinking bulb in the hall was vainly attempting to augment the darkness of this November noon; scuppering any hopes of a mop search and rescue mission.

I could feel the clouds lowering and then all of sudden, they were lifted by that reassuring ping of my mobile phone announcing an incoming message. Someone out there was thinking of me. It was a picture message from school. In a single flash of communication technology, this one simple image immunized me against this year's two deadly doses: the weather and the economy. I hope it works for you!

Cheers,

Ann

Subordinated Debt

It's the phrase on the lips of every eejit who's trying to look clever. Personally I think the term was invented in a board room somewhere south of Hades, to be used as a tool to bludgeon the general population into a pulp. I have to admit it's pretty effective, since only fifteen hundred people turned up to protest in Dublin last week at the extent of the country's economic hangover.

Being a simpleton with a less than competent grasp on the state on my own overdraft never mind the national debt, I resorted to my old friend Google. So here goes a bluffer's guide to Subordinated Debt :

• In finance, subordinated debt (also known as subordinated loan, subordinated bond, subordinated debenture or junior debt) is debt which ranks after other debts should a company fall into receivership or be closed.
  en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Subordinated_debt

• Term covering hybrid core capital and subordinated loan capital. Only losses exceeding the shareholders' equity are covered.
  www.nationalirishbank.ie/en-ie/About-National-Irish-Bank/Bank-in-brief/the-crisis/Pages/Dictionary.aspx

• Debt that carries a lower-priority claim on issuer's income or assets than that of other (senior) debt.
  www.freddiemac.com/smm/s_z.htm

There were many more - Google it for yourself, it makes for interesting reading. It occurred to me that children's health services will become the subordinated debt of our solution to the mess in which we find ourselves.

So if I understand this correctly, (which lets face it, in my case is a big 'if') the economic unit on which our future depends is currently being subordinated in favour of the senior units who screwed the whole thing up in the first place.

Permit me an analogy here: a child like our Boy Wonder requires expensive medical treatment to keep him alive, this treatment is attractive to senior medical units because it shows the tangible result of extending the life of that child thus reducing the national child mortality rate, which reflects well internationally on the country as a whole. The effort vs reward equation stacks up well in the short term and saving his life is rightly seen as a senior debt.

Once the danger has passed, the child then slides down to become the subordinated debt of the local primary care authority. In the eyes of the primary care bosses, the child will neither exert enough pressure nor bring sufficient reward to warrant being considered as a senior debt. As a subordinated debt, there is no incentive to provide specialist intervention to allow the child to reach their developmental targets.

When the child ends up in a classroom requiring a special needs assistant or specialist equipment, they can migrate to being a senior debt liability again but the debt has now passed to the education department. The education mandarins will in turn strive to reduce their level of debt on this child by redefining the terms of their liability. Simply put, they will change the terms of the child's entitlement. This change in the terms of entitlement will result in creative reporting from the 'ologists in primary care to meet these new terms and ensure they can off-load the child from their debt portfolio. And so the debt shifts back and forth changing status with each department.

What we all know about debt is that we tend to prioritize our repayments in favour of those yielding the biggest baseball bats should we refuse to pay. Currently the ones holding those lumps of lumber, are unidentified bond holders; nameless, faceless entities beating our children out of the way while they charge to the top of the queue.

This is what comes of living in an economy instead of a society.

Cheers,

Ann

Losing the Run of Ourselves

Obviously encouraged by the recent bouncy castle success, we threw caution to the wind and booked a short family holiday, on an island no less. Our now über-normal nuclear family casually committed to ferry timetables like it was second nature to us. Admittedly, the planning did start back in the late spring as we haven't quite arrived at the 'spur-of-the-moment-family-break' stage yet but we're damn close! Jess decided that it would be 'good for us' - her words exactly- to have a holiday where we could all cycle together somewhere safe. After much consideration, an island without any sheer cliff faces was considered the best option. Inishbofin - just off the Connemara coast was a no-brainer: close to home, few cars, beautiful beaches and best of all a house with an enclosed garden to rent - what's not to like?

That, of course was the easy part, the difficulty was getting a date to fit with Rory's ever increasingly frequent 'olgist's appointments and the other kidney's hectic work schedule. This short break was subject to some of the most elastic scheduling ever witnessed by any aspiring tourist! The elastic finally snapped when the school bell rang again in September, so we opted for the first weekend after the dreaded school return, figuring it might lighten the back-to-school blues for our less-than-enthusiastic pupils.

And so off we went, I stressed as usual over the packing, with copious lists and then some lists about lists and more just-in-case supplies than your average UN African peace mission. When we arrived at the quayside I was marginally concerned that our luggage may sink the rather tiny looking ferry. I say tiny only because the patch of Atlantic that stretched out between the pier and the island looked so vast and I, not being blessed with a pair of sea legs, was not relishing the short but inevitably bumpy crossing. Boy wonder, on the other hand was positively buoyant at the prospect of having his guts rattled by the waves! While the local insect life feasted on my face (judging by the trail of bites still visible across my cheeks, I was clearly a rare delicacy in those parts) we loaded on to the ferry set sail for our own little treasure island.

What followed were two days of sheer bliss. The sight of Boy Wonder's be-helmeted head thrown back, arms out-stretched in joy as he sailed down the fuchsia-filled lanes on the back of his father's bike will keep me warm right through the cold winter ahead. Jess got her wish and we cycled every navigable lane on the island - and as it's been a while since I've been on a bike, I now have the John Wayne walk to prove it!

It was a fitting salute to the brave Tour de Picnic crew, cousin Dave and Auntie Mags, who cycled the 90km from Dublin to Stradbally in aid of Temple St. Hospital that same weekend. Thanks to all of you who supported their fundraising so generously, because of your help, the event raised almost a half a million euro for the hospital's neurology department.

You could say it was a great weekend all round.

Cheers,

Ann

The Future is Bouncy

Ever since his birth I have avoided looking forward, choosing instead to be grateful for each 'present' with Boy Wonder. The future was not our country, we had no business there. Today, on the occasion of Boy Wonder's seventh birthday we allowed ourselves the indulgence of a day-trip to the future. We fearlessly planned a party but not just any come-over-we're-having cake-event, this was a full-blown, bouncy-castle bonanza.

It was delivered shortly after noon, he had to stand on a chair to watch through the kitchen window as it inflated before his incredulous eyes. His sister swelled with pride, hardly daring to believe that this festive event was destined, at last, for her back garden. The call came from the other kidney minutes later, 'the guy says he needs two kids to test this yoke'. They were like bullets out of a gun, whizzing out the back door. The bouncing began to shrieks of laughter and whoops of delight; the facility being thoroughly tested and declared party-ready before the cousins arrived. The afternoon was dry and we settled around a garden table, which creaked under the weight of palette-tickling party food. Pots of tea punctuated the ease of the gathering, all relishing the now while acknowledging but not dwelling on the past.

This is, dare I say it, yet another milestone; his birthday has magically morphed from difficult memory to joyous celebration. He has asserted his seven-year-old self and demanded his own gifts, written his own guest list and dictated his own day. I had never let myself travel as far as to even imagine this day. To see him seemlessly, breathlessly and brazenly snatch it, has been one of the greatest thrills of my life. Long may you bounce my boy, long may you laze in the love of all around you, long may you and your sister make us feel like we have glimpsed into the future and been granted the world.

Cheers,

Ann