The Health Fuckup Executive
I’m very envious of those parents who can just bring their kids for vaccination jabs and be done with it, without worrying about what this stuff is actually doing to their immune systems. My protests seem so absurd, why the hell not give the kid something to ward off deadly diseases if it’s freely available?! How irresponsible am I to even CONSIDER not vaccinating them? The dirty great big needles loom over my babies and I do it anyway. Bar useless influenza jabs, the rest are just not worth gambling on, surely.
Puppychild got her two jabs against a multitude of diseases last month. I got a nasty dose of the flu straight away, then passed it to the Accidental Terrorist who then caught pneumonia. He’s been floored for almost three weeks, hemorrhaging money as he goes. Coincidence? Dunno. Dunno.
Sir Fartsalot got a BCG (tuberculosis jab) on July 5th. The teeny pinprick hole in his skin did not disappear, it slowly grew and grew, and turned into an abscess. A large purple eye-shaped growth with a pus-green pupil gazes at me and wills me to prick it out of its misery and all the while my boy-o cries. He cries when I feed him, when I pick him up, when I strap him into his car-seat, lots of tears and red-faced misery usually follow. So much suffering, so much blood-stained gunge erupting from my babóg’s arm.
It’s so un-fucking-fair that the HSE cannot sort its shit out.
I read that in 2002, a previously dodgy EVANS BCG was withdrawn from public consumption, to be replaced by the SSI BCG.
An article written in 2005 states that there have been 152 reports of local complications like Sir Fartsalot’s since the new vaccine was rolled out. I can only presume that the figure has doubled by now. I brought the kid to the doctor, to a local A&E (where I was told to bugger off because they’re not insured to treat babies), and to a paediatric A&E. They told me not to worry, that it was a normal reaction, that they get this sort of thing all the time.
ALL THE TIME???
I read that occasionally, such swellings result in lymph node infections which is a very serious thing indeed.
‘Not to worry!’ they say. O, but I do worry. I worry a lot.
Meanwhile Sir Farsalot hasn’t yet had his 6-in-1s, a process that was supposed to begin two months ago. The vaccination program for children looks like this:
- At birth: BCG tuberculosis vaccine (given in maternity hospitals or a HSE clinic)
- At 2 months: Diphtheria, Tetanus, Whooping cough, Hib, Polio, Hep B, PCV (Pnuemococcal Conjugate Vaccine)
- At 4 months: Diphtheria, Tetanus, Whooping cough, Hib, Polio, Hep B, Meningococcal C.
- At 6 months: Diphtheria, Tetanus, Whooping cough, Hib, Polio, Hep B, Meningococcal C, PCV (Pnuemococcal Conjugate Vaccine).
- At 12 months: Measles, Mumps, Rubella, PCV (Pnuemococcal Conjugate Vaccine).
- At 13 months: Meningococcal C, Haemophilus Influenzae B
- At 4-5 years: Diphtheria, Tetanus, Whooping cough, Hib, Polio, Hep B, Meningococcal C; Measles, Mumps and Rubella (by second injection)
- At 11-14 years: Diphtheria, Tetanus
- At 12 years: Human Papillomavirus (Girlz only)
That looks like a rocky road to me. A road full of miasms that will give our great-grandchildren strange side-effects, I fear. I don’t know what to do.
Why on earth do people still trust the HSE after all its fuckups? I sure as hell don’t, especially not with something as important as my kids, but yet those around me tell me I’m crazy.
Better crazy than dead though, hey?
Stop playing with yourself Daddy
‘There’s an app for that’. You know that ad on the telly (there’s an app for that too) for iPhones which shows all the fantabulous (there’s an app for that) things that it can do? I don’t have an iPhone, but TAT does… I’m sure it’s lovely but if it won’t flip sausages while I colour in pictures of Spongebob, I have no interest.
He won’t go to the toilet without it now. We walk past distant gunfire, waiting for our turn on the loo while TAT conquers spy allies. Sometimes he catapaults birds. Puppychild has to thump loudly and tell him to stop playing with himself frequently which is wrong in so many ways.
“It won’t wipe your arse though will it?” I scoff at him when he finally emerges with a burnt matchstick and a pins-and-needles limp. “No app for that, is there?”
It’s all very affecting, this waiting around for TAT and his crapps. I don’t know if there’s a helpline, but I’m pretty sure there’s an easy way to look for one if there is.
Please don’t chew your gum near my baby
It’s your lunch break. You scarf down an onion bagel, a packet of crisps and a can of diet fizz, all washed down with a cigarette maybe. On your way back to the office, you pop one or two chewing-gums to dull the pungency of it all and congratulate yourself that you’re doing your teeth a favour even if your smokey lungs are shot. Two out of three ain’t bad, sure.
-o0o-
It’s not your lungs you need to worry about though, it’s the other thing… the thing that was in most of what you just ate. Crisps, diet (‘zero’) drinks, chewing gum, diet yoghurts, artificial sweeteners, breakfast cereals, aspartame, aspartame, aspartame. It’s in sugar-free children’s medications, in a bid to prevent tooth-rot. It’s in 1200 of the products you consume, and it’s very slowly mucking up our genetics and making us say things like… ‘isn’t it funny how people are dropping like flies with cancer these days?’.
Unstranger’s recent post reminded me of E951, the toxin that in 1980, was voted against by the FDA Public Board Of Inquiry on the grounds that the data was flawed, there were brain tumor findings in animal studies, and there was a lack of studies on humans to determine long-term effects.
Aspartame was since approved spuriously via pressure from Donald Rumsfeld, apparently. Urm… ok.
“The official story is that aspartame was discovered in 1966 by a scientist developing an ulcer drug (not a “food additive”). Supposedly he discovered, upon carelessly licking his fingers that they tasted sweet. Thus was the chemicals industry blessed with a successor to saccharine, the coal-tar derivative that foundered eight years later under the pressure of cancer concerns.” (according to this)
Aspartame basically metabolizes into Formaldehyde from amino acids and methanol, which eats you (so to speak) slowly, causing severe health problems at exceptionally low levels of exposure. It disguises itself as illnesses such as Lyme Disease, Alzheimer’s Disease, Hypothyroidism, Fibromyalgia, Lupus, and Attention Deficit Disorder, to name just a few.
Some of the symptoms of aspartame poisoning include:
Headaches, Dizziness, Muscle spasms, Rashes, Depression, Fatigue, Seizures, Tachycardia, Insomnia, Hearing Loss, Anxiety attacks, Loss of taste, Joint Pain, Vertigo, Tinnitus, Irritability and Breathing difficulties.
Because it metabolizes into a poison, it is believed that it can also trigger or worsen things like brain tumours, Alzheimer’s Disease, Diabetes, birth defects, epilepsy, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and Parkinson’s Disease.
Side effects can occur gradually, can be immediate, or can be acute reactions, but! It’s a billion dollar market, so SHHH!!! don’t tell anybody!!
Here I sit with a tobacco pouch with the words ‘Smoking can damage the sperm and decreases fertility’ emblazoned in BIG lettering on its side. I have no sperm. I have plenty of children.
I’m worried about the warning that’s absent from my bottle of 7UP Free that should state ‘This product contains a chemical which eats holes in your brain. Do not consume if pregnant.’
But there will never be, because there’s no money in that lark.
Because we could all be run over by a bus tomorrow, I guess.
While my blog gently weeps
Sir Fartsalot, at the tender age of seven weeks has already surpassed his nine-year-old brother in terms of physical ability.
I wrote that sentence a week ago and got stuck, couldn’t find the right thing to say after that. One child is a novelty and eclipses the other where adoration is concerned and that’s hardly fair. Writing about it, even thinking about it is unfair to Laughingboy, but I can’t help it. It’s frustrating that he hasn’t progressed, hasn’t passed a single developmental milestone since he was a year old.
One has tiny nappies that make my boobs hurt with the cuteness of them, the other has giant nappies, the type they don’t bother to print pictures of Pooh bear on. One child stares into space at vague impressions of shapes but cannot make any sense of them, while the other has already learned to fix eye contact and goo toothless pleasantries at his admirer.
They both flail their hands wildly in an effort to suck a thumb and gauge mild surprise when they accidentally whack themselves in the face, but one has learned that a set of knuckles is just as nice to suck on, while the other is content to grind, grind, grind his teeth instead.
They both scream for my attention. One is screaming because of short term mammory loss, the other because he has a whole array of possible annoyances and is quickly becoming dependant, if not immune to pain killers because he can’t voice his woes.
They both have a sister who is slowly learning to live without my attention, but who will soon have the adoration of a younger brother who will hang on her every word and will leave his older brother behind on his hopeless island of developmental delay.
It’s pointless moping about it all, and stating that usual bullshit about Laughingboy being the light, an angel sent from above with smiling eyes just doesn’t cut it, it just makes me sad when I hear other mothers of disabled kids say it. We have broken children, I feel like telling them. Let’s just say it. Broken children with no future.
Except that’s wrong too. Laughingboy has a purpose, a glorious purpose that will enlighten somebody or something in time to come. Just because I can’t figure it out doesn’t make it not true.
People goo over my youngest son and tell me how lucky I am, and I agree. They jokingly ask me if I wouldn’t like him to stay at this adorable age for ever, but to this I don’t react at all.
East meets Breast – Boobquake Day
I can understand how women baring too much skin could cause earthquakes, after all, if we can cause cow’s milk to sour and a pestilence on the spuds, it naturally stands to reason. That’s why I wasn’t surprised at all when I read the following quote;
“Many women who do not dress modestly … lead young men astray, corrupt their chastity and spread adultery in society, which (consequently) increases earthquakes …” Hojatoleslam Kazem Sedighi, senior Iranian cleric
I am therefore outraged that Blag Hag, an irresponsible and reckless blogger in Indiana has decided to put millions of people’s lives at risk by staging a national ‘low-cut top’ day on Monday 26th April that she calls ‘Boobquake Day’.
“On Monday, April 26th, I will wear the most cleavage-showing shirt I own. Yes, the one usually reserved for a night on the town. I encourage other female skeptics to join me and embrace the supposed supernatural power of their breasts. Or short shorts, if that’s your preferred form of immodesty. With the power of our scandalous bodies combined, we should surely produce an earthquake. If not, I’m sure Sedighi can come up with a rational explanation for why the ground didn’t rumble. And if we really get through to him, maybe it’ll be one involving plate tectonics.”
Disgraceful, endangering people like that.
She’s on the facebook and the twitter, and is brazenly flaunting her boobs in everyone’s face which is all well and good when you’re all sprightly and perky, but what if you look like this lady:
I am afraid. Allāh will not like it. Not even one little bit.
The Pyjama Gang
If there were such things as fashion police, who would they be and how would they enforce basic fashion sense? Like those depressing notices you see in hospitals and Post Offices telling people that indecent behaviour will not be tolerated – in modern society, in a reasonably intelligent world, there should be no need for notices like these.
I now live in what could be called the arsehole of what was a quiet rural communtity. It’s a lovely place to live in if you ask me, a small housing estate that keeps itself to itself with ivy decorating trellised walls and planters holding pretty exotic grasses adorning the doorsteps. There is just one phenomenon that irks people of our surrounding hinterland no end… the pyjama gang.
These are a small gang of teen-aged girls that just happen to be travellers. Nope, I’m not going to go on another rant about travellers because I’m too damn tired and I couldn’t be arsed. Whether it’s a coincidence that these kids won’t be told or not, that’s up to your own judgement. Fact of the matter is, a few locals have pointed the phenomenon out to me in dismay, and seem to have elected me the fashion gardai. What the fuck am I supposed to do?
This is Elaine Carmody, a lady who is the victim of a recent fashion shut-down in a Tesco outlet in Cardiff. She was booted out on her ear for wearing her PJs during a brief attempt to buy smokes from the store. Other news stories declare parental dismay at the fact that some people couldn’t be arsed to get dressed to bring their kids to school. There’s a flat-out blanket ban on pyjamas in Shanghai, China. But – what is the difference between pyjamas and tracksuit bottoms? Is this new invention of pyjama jeans included?
If pyjamas are banned on the basis that they look stupid, shouldn’t spandex cycling gear also qualify?
In the case of my local pyjama gang however, the problem runs deeper. They don’t wear pyjamas to the local shops because they’re too lazy to wear clothes, they wear them because they have bigger pockets. There’s me being all racial again! Just because they’re travellers, doesn’t mean they’re out to rob everyone!!!
Wrong.
I interviewed the dude in the local shop in the hopes that he too might introduce basic clothing laws, but he spent our conversation venting a huge lament over his loss of stock to dressing-gown pockets, and telling me how much his new CCTV system cost. The suggestion to ban such clothing was lost on him, I guess I’ll try again when he’s calmed down a bit.
So, I suppose my question is, if I were to tackle these girls again to ask them for the basic courtesy of getting dressed before they leave the house, how do I bridge the gap that is the bleedin’ obvious? Do I point and laugh?? Do I hire goons to knock on their doors late at night? Even if I could get the leopard to change its spots, who’s to say the new spots won’t have deeper pockets!
Why am I bothered anyway? Oh yeah… pride and sense of decency. Damn it.
Household chemicals- not just for making bombs out of.
Being a 30 something fun-lovin’ chick with a hectic social-life, I chose last New Year’s Eve to clean out Laughingboy’s fishy bubble-generator. That was when I discovered that distilled water is more expensive by the gallon than petrol for some reason. I decided to innovate, and got to boiling kettle after kettle of normal water and sat patiently all night waiting for it to cool down. The excitement was pants-wetting.
Four months later, and I discovered that I’d grown a very magical but totally useless algae-garden which had swamped the air-pump and rendered the bubbles obsolete. Bugger. There goes the idea of putting REAL fish in there.
Last week I re-hashed the whole process and got clever with kettles again, this time adding two capfuls of pure bleach to the water as I poured it into the tube. I was so smug at my smart-arsednedness, I was sure I’d cracked it, but no.
I turned around from administering Laughingboy’s meds on the fishy bubblemaker’s maiden voyage and was met with this disturbing entity:
It would remind you of going to a pub in the UK and watching the barman pour a pint of Guinness. Complete bubble fail.
Back to the drawing-board, then.
Smell ya later
My pet hate of the day is the farting air-freshener.
TAT brought one home last week and as much as I bitched and moaned about his having been duped by Godawful fake smellies and the fact that the refills are thrice as expensive as the gizmo that farts them, he set it up anyway.
It’s like a big stupid white dildo on the shelf there, reminding visitors that we stink.
I hate it.
Whenever I walk into the room it farts at me. This is okay during daylight, but at night it’s a whole different story. I reserve the right to wander into the kitchen at 3am for my nightly fix of chocolate biscuits and milk without having the bollix scared out of me by a farting air-freshener. It sounds just like a cat, hissing violently at me as I walk past. It gets me every time. Sometimes it sees me coming and farts directly into my eyes, scaring me and blinding me in one fell swoop. Other times it waits until I’ve just passed it, then hisses at me behind my back, causing me to scream in blind panic in my sleepy state and whirl round jiu-jitsu style to face my combattant feline attacker. Then I just feel stupid.
I moved it to the shelf above the TV yesterday. That didn’t work, it just farted on my TV dinners. This morning it got moved to the computer table and messed up my mouse’s mojo with its sticky effluent.
Tomorrow the farting air-freshener faces death by pressure cooker. Pine fresh my arse.
In a world where sanity is a commodity
This is a blog post which probably should go without being written, but given the cathartic nature of blogging, fuck it.
Echinacea failed me last week for a change. I found myself standing in Laughingboy’s bedroom in dismay as our family doctor spoke on the phone to the ambulance crew in the background and my little boy fought to squeeze oxygen into his clogged up little lungs. Auto-pilot took a while to take over, but next thing I knew, the bag had been packed and I was riding in the back of the ambulance with the sirens blaring. “Hey dude, they’re playing that for you! How cool is that?!” The irony hit me that ambulance sirens are only cool when you’re not on the stretcher, so I shut up to the quiet amusement of the paramedic.
He’s home now, fully oxygenated and saturated with antibiotics. I was getting used to his hospital room, it was peaceful in there, apart from the odd 3am emergency helicopter landing outside our window.
I had a rough night last night… I dreamed of wading through rubbish-dumps full of rotting corpses, and trying to hawk two black bags full of household un-want at a car boot sale, also full of dead people. It’s strange, but Puppychild losing her blanket has affected me far more than her.
One of the people who babysat her during our wee trip to the hospital took it upon herself to decide that now was the time my five-year-old must grow out of her comfort blanket, see. So, it went in the bin. I thought it would have been a proverbial bin, but it wasn’t. By the time I had phoned to retrieve it (to stash in the attic until Puppychild reaches twenty one), the bin-men had come and gone, apparently. Gutted doesn’t even come close. It’s amazing how like a pet a raggedy smelly old blanket becomes.
I’m thinking that some people actually deserve to have their toilet-seat superglued.
Earlier today a woman behind the counter in Avoca Handweavers smiled at my swelling belly and asked me how long I had left. I hear that question a lot, and the answers are getting frighteningly short so today I changed tack, because I was in the mood. I gasped in indignance and retorted at the top of my voice; ‘ARE YOU SAYING I’M FAT?!?’, and stormed off with a big smile on my face. It felt good. I think I might leave that as my standard answer from now on.
Insecure
He dropped her name into conversation a little too casually and made my ears prick up. He told me about how beautiful she was, how sound, sitting in his taxi surrounded by shopping bags. I gave out to him for not finishing his sentences properly.
“She’s really funny though…”
“But not as funny as -” I prompted.
“But not as funny as you, of course. She has lovely hair, too.”
“FINISH THE DAMN SENTENCE!!!”
I got given out to for being touchy. Now on Sunday nights during ‘The All Ireland Talent Show’, TAT locks himself into the bedroom with the television wearing only a dressing-gown, and won’t let me in. I hover with my swollen body trying to think of a good looking Irish male television presenter I can glean revenge with. I fail miserably.
I don’t know whether I’m insecure because of Miss Perfection, or because The Accidental Terrorist’s viewing standards have slipped so low.
