Brain Is A Bit Iffy...

I think my shunt is playing up; or starting to break down. Hopefully it isn't.

But after twenty-seven brain operations, you get to know when something doesn't quite feel right. You can't always explain it. You just know.

Of course, my brain, these days, looks like a washing machine; bits and bobs added here and there. When my neurosurgeon operated last time it was his first time. I told him it was the left and side to which he replied “it all comes from the same well, so it won’t matter…” So, I had the operation on the right side only to be back in two days later to have the left done.

He learned a lesson. He sent me for MRI’s and pieced the whole thing together.

The good news is that I actually feel okay. Well... my brain would want to. The problem isn't necessarily how I feel today. It's the waiting.

First, you have to see the GP. Then they send a referral. Then it takes a few days to reach the neurosurgeon's office. Then it gets triaged. Then someone decides when you get an appointment.

Brains don't always appreciate bureaucracy.

I've learnt over the years that, when it comes to your brain, it's probably better to be the annoying patient who came in too early than the brave patient who waited too long. So yes, I may have jumped the gun.

I'm perfectly happy to have a neurosurgeon tell me, "Carol, you've worried over nothing." That would make my day!

Because if they're right, I get to go home and continue annoying the Squeeze for a few more years.

I’m worried about my bloody hair. I have just got it right. Honestly, you'd think after twenty-seven/twenty eight brain operations I'd have my priorities sorted out. Apparently not.

People imagine that facing brain surgery involves deep philosophical thoughts about life, mortality and the meaning of existence.

Not me… I'm wondering how long it'll take before I can get back to the hairdresser.

I genuinely hope everything is fine. But after everything I've been through, I've learnt one thing. If your brain starts behaving differently, don't wait for it to send you a second reminder. And if this all turns out to be a false alarm...

...I'll happily apologise to my shunt.

Right after I apologise to my hairdresser.

Neurosurgery. What Fun. Not.

Before anyone wonders...  I'm fine.

Well... I'm reasonably fine.

It just feels suspiciously like one of the shunts in my head is deciding it's had enough of gainful employment and is considering early retirement.

If I'm right, it'll mean another trip to the neurosurgeon. Another operation. At this point I honestly can't remember the exact number. Twenty-seven? Twenty-eight? Somewhere around there. Once you've had enough brain surgeries, they all start blending together.

You know what annoys me the most?

Not the operation.

Not the hospital.

Not even the recovery.

My bloody hair.

I have just got it right.

After months of trying to get it to an even length, because neuro’s ain’t no hairdressers! They don’t have a hairdressers brain between them! And now some surgeon is probably going to shave a chunk out of it again. They may as well use a lawnmower with the GT stripes up the back.

Honestly, you'd think after this many brain operations I'd have my priorities in order.

Apparently not.

People imagine facing brain surgery involves deep philosophical thoughts about life, mortality and the meaning of existence.

No.

It is my plan to go out this way. Just go to sleep and never wake up! No pain. No awful accident. I’m well prepared for it; well who wouldn’t be after twenty seven/eight brain operations? I’ve even got the plot at the cemetery and the plaque to go on it!

But I regress lol. I'm standing in front of the mirror wondering whether the hairdresser can somehow work around another scar.

The thing is, after this many operations, fear isn't really the emotion anymore.

It's irritation.

"Oh... not this again."

You know the hospital.

You know the forms.

You know the smell.

You know they'll wake you up every two hours to ask how you're feeling.

"Tired."

"I wonder why."

The upside is that modern neurosurgery is extraordinary. The people who do this for a living never cease to amaze me. They've kept me going through more than two dozen brain operations, and for that I'll always be grateful.

I just wish my shunt would stop behaving like an ageing appliance.

Everything else in my house seems to want to be replaced lately.

I'd rather my brain wasn't trying to join in.

Why Is Everything a Subscription?

I have spent the last few weeks trying to cancel subscriptions I didn't even realise I had. At this point, I'm fairly certain I'm financially supporting half the internet.

It starts innocently enough. You buy a program. An app. A streaming service. A photo editor. Makeup. Something that promises to organise/beautify/fix your life, improve your photos, teach you Italian, make you fitter, thinner, smarter or somehow transform you into a better version of yourself.

You click "Buy Now."

What you don't realise is you've actually entered into a lifelong financial relationship. Nothing belongs to you anymore. You don't buy software. You lease it. You don't own music. You rent it. You don't own movies. You subscribe to them.

We've somehow accepted the idea that paying once is old-fashioned.

Now everything politely helps itself to your bank account every month while sending you cheerful little emails thanking you for your continued membership. Membership?

I only wanted to edit one photograph. The worst part is cancelling them. Signing up takes approximately twelve seconds. Cancelling requires an archaeological expedition.

The "Cancel Subscription" button is never on the first page. It's hidden somewhere between "Manage Preferences", "Account Settings", "Privacy Choices" and "We're Sorry To See You Go."

Then comes the guilt. "Would you like to tell us why you're leaving?" Because I don't want to pay you forty-three dollars a month forever, Karen. Then they offer you fifty per cent off. Then seventy per cent off. Then a free month.

It's a bit like breaking up with someone who suddenly becomes the perfect partner the moment you walk out the door. And somehow, they all renew at three o'clock in the morning.

Nobody ever gets an email saying,

"Congratulations! We noticed you haven't used this service in eleven months, so we've cancelled it for you and refunded your money."

No. That would be ridiculous. Instead, they quietly keep collecting money while I continue to forget the app even exists.

The other day I looked through my bank statement and discovered subscriptions I'd completely forgotten about. One was teaching me a language. Based on my progress, I can now confidently order one coffee and ask where the train station is.

For several hundred dollars.

Companies love subscriptions because they're predictable. Consumers hate subscriptions because they're invisible. Twenty dollars here. Nine dollars there. Another fifteen somewhere else. Individually they don't seem like much. Collectively they're funding someone's beach house.

I miss the old days. You walked into a shop. You bought a thing. You owned the thing.

The end.

No monthly fee. No automatic renewal. No reminder in six months that your "introductory offer" has quietly become a premium package.

Maybe I'm just getting old. Or maybe we've all become so used to renting our lives that we've forgotten what it feels like to actually own something.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go and cancel three subscriptions I only remembered while writing this.

Assuming, of course, I can actually find the cancellation button.

Apparently Size Matters...

Yesterday I listed my coffee machine for sale.

Perhaps I should put it into context… We were going out for lunch, so we dressed; I put makeup on, so we are looking good! We start off down the highway and when we are about halfway there, my brother-in-law calls. It seems my call to check the time we were expected caused a catastrophe. My sister went running for the phone, tripped and went down hard on the tiles. So, lunch is out and they are off to the hospital.

We were near JB HIFI when the call came so the Squeeze suggests going in for a look as it is end of tax year sales (June). So, we went in.

We were only in there half an hour tops! Came out, $5500 lighter… Came out with a new TV, Coffee Machine and new Sonos sound bar and a sub. I'm convinced those shops pump some sort of gas through the air-conditioning.

So, there is absolutely nothing wrong with my coffee machine. It makes excellent coffee. Every morning it faithfully delivers caffeine into my bloodstream without complaint. But apparently, we've reached that stage of life where perfectly good possessions are discarded because we've bought something else.

Then came the television.

Not because it's broken. Not because the picture is bad. Not because it catches fire occasionally. No. Because it's only sixty-five inches.

Apparently seventy-five inches would be better.

Now, for context, this television lives in the bedroom. The bedroom. You know... the room where you're supposed to be asleep for roughly a third of your life.

Our current television is so large that if I wake up suddenly, I briefly think I've been admitted to a private cinema. I genuinely don't understand how another ten inches is going to transform our viewing experience. At some point you're no longer watching television. You're being stalked by it.

Men have an extraordinary relationship with size. Cars. Engines. Barbecues. Power tools. If there's a larger version available, somewhere a bloke is already convincing himself he absolutely needs it. Which does not fit with the Squeeze. His weird relationship is technology… He couldn’t care less about Cars. Engines. Barbecues. Power tools. But put him near technology and he is preaching from the handbook!

"It'll be so much better." Will it?

It's the same Netflix. The same football. The same news reminding us that the world is on fire. Just... bigger. The funniest part is trying to sell perfectly good things online. Within minutes someone messages, "What's your lowest price?" I don't know, Karen. What's your highest?

Then someone else asks if I'll deliver it. For free. To the other side of Victoria. Another asks if it's still available, then disappears forever, only to reappear three weeks later asking exactly the same question.

Facebook Marketplace isn't a marketplace. It's a psychological endurance test. I swear it's designed to find out exactly how many stupid questions one person can answer before they snap.

So today I'm saying goodbye to my faithful coffee machine and trying to convince complete strangers that a sixty-five-inch Samsung Frame television is somehow inadequate. Personally, I think it's enormous. But apparently around here...

...it's just not big enough.

And my sister... A broken arm!

Getting Older Is Like Running Windows 95

When I was younger, I imagined getting older would be a graceful process.

You'd become wiser. More patient. More sophisticated. You'd sip wine, read books, and dispense life advice to younger people who'd finally realise how brilliant you were all along.

Turns out, getting older is less like becoming a wise elder and more like trying to run Windows 95 in 2026.

Technically it still works.

It just takes a while to boot up.

Every morning begins with a series of loading screens. Knees first. Then hips. Then lower back. My neck usually joins the conversation somewhere around breakfast.

If I stand up too quickly, my entire operating system freezes while it decides whether today's going to be a good day or whether it's going to throw an unexpected error message.

"Balance.exe has stopped working."

Then there are the updates.

I went to the hairdresser yesterday to get my lovely silver hair back. Instead of silver, it had developed a rather attractive shade somewhere between yellow and swamp water. Apparently it could be the shampoo. Or the water. Which means I now need a shower filter.

A shower filter!

When did washing my hair become a chemistry experiment? Nothing is ever simple anymore. I buy silver shampoo. Now I apparently need a different conditioner. Then a treatment. Then a filter for the shower. By next week I'll probably need a laboratory technician standing beside me with a clipboard.

Every problem seems to generate three more purchases.

I don't remember my mother needing an engineering degree just to wash her hair. Then there's the memory. I can remember the phone number of the boy who sat next to me in primary school. I cannot remember why I've just walked into the laundry. Or where I left my glasses. Usually, they're on top of my head.

I've reached that wonderful stage of life where I spend ten minutes looking for my phone while using the torch on... my phone. The body's no better. Bits of me make noises now. Not painful noises. Just... announcements.

Every time I stand up, my knees sound like someone slowly crushing a packet of barbecue Shapes. Apparently that's normal. So is discussing bowel habits with complete strangers. Nobody warns you about that.

At twenty-five, if someone had told me a conversation about fibre could last forty minutes, I'd have laughed. Now I'm contributing. Enthusiastically.

And passwords.

Sweet Jesus, the passwords. Every website wants a different one. Must contain a capital letter. A number. A symbol. The blood of a unicorn. The tears of your first-born child.

Then they ask you to prove you're not a robot.

At my age, I'm not entirely convinced.

Still, I wouldn't go back. Sure, the software's a bit buggy. Some of the hardware has seen better days. The memory's patchy. The maintenance costs have skyrocketed. But the older version of me worried far too much about things that don't matter.

This version laughs more. Says no more. Knows who her real friends are. And has finally accepted that perfection was never the goal. Besides...

Windows 95 may have been slow... ...but it still got the job done.

And so do I.

😊