Mothers Day nightmare - 2013

During COVID lockdown as I try to rekindle some old hobbies (such as writing), I came across this blog I forgot to publish many years ago. 

A Mothers Day to remember - 2013

About a month ago, I read the horrific news of a young teenage boy in my area who died as a result of an injury he sustained on the rugby field. As a mother of two boys playing Rugby League, my heart skipped a few beats, but then relief soon came over me as I realised that this will never happen to my child.  

Because my children are mine. Because my children play for clubs who care. Because, because because.... because I didn't want to think that this could ever happen to my child. 

Today I kissed and stroked the lovely head of my 17year old son as he slowly woke from surgery. A Mothers Day afternoon rugby accident and I wasn't there to see his game because I was with my other child at the time. They both have such a love of league and their games were on at the same time. A struggle as a mother, especially on Mothers Day. 

My son had the ball and was tackled. A young player from the other team decided to tackle him with his shoulder even after the ref had called "held". Jack was already down on the ground, but the other player threw his shoulder into Jacks back - because thats what big boys are allowed to do. He was taken to the emergency department by ambulance and the Xrays could not find a fracture so they discharged him and referred him for an ultrasound. Then it was a CT Scan, and then he was sent right back to emergency.

The CT found a seriously nasty injury; extremely uncommon and the result of an extreme trauma. Not a soft rugby tackle kind of trauma, but a deliberate and heavy trauma. A posterior dislocation of the sternoclavicular joint which is the joint where the clavicle meets the sternum. Such an injury poses high risks of puncturing a lung, or an artery - because all those fancy bits of our "life" engine are held behind those bones. We're so lucky. One centimetre to the left and this would have been his spine. One centimetre upwards, and this would have been his neck. 

The orthopaedic surgeon explained the procedures to us and then scheduled Jack in first thing in the morning. Wednesday morning, three days after the incident. I mention this only to highlight that despite Jack being taken by ambulance to the emergency department, and then having surgery nearly three days later, no one from his Rugby club had called us to find out how he was doing (or from a crisis management point of view, how exposed they were for their insurance claim!). 

So I contacted them. I didn't have the phone number (not on their website), so I emailed the manager of Jacks team who also happens to be the secretary of the club. He called me back with three seconds of me clicking the "Send" button. I explained that Jack had been in surgery all morning, and then went on to explain that he probably wont be playing for the rest of the season. I also told him that I wanted the team and the player of the illegal tackle to be educated in the seriousness of their action and how something in the moment can go so horribly wrong. I wont say he grunted at me, but he did interject quite loudly that there was no illegal tackle because the ref didn't call it. Therefore nothing wrong was done on the field on Sunday afternoon. He also reminded me there were two linesmen, and no video ref - but that as far as he was concerned, nothing wrong was done by anyone that day. And the incident report? Well, there wasn't one, because nothing wrong was done. I wondered if a post match incident report could be written - no......... I wondered how an ambulance could be called without an incident report? Grunt. I wondered if a session to educate players on the longer term personal impact after such tackles could be considered - no....So, I then told him that I would like the details of the insurance policy the club held because I intended to activate this to claim for ongoing sport physiotherapy, and any other therapy my son would require as a result. I'll have the policy details by Monday. 

Not once did this manager of the team ask how my son was doing. Not once did he express any empathy towards what my son was now going through. Because, he really didn't care. I was absolutely aghast at how little this manager cared about one of his players. My son, who I had believed was being looked after in a sport he absolutely loves. 

Tomorrow Jack will be having another CT scan with the potential of more surgery. I will again be the mother patting her sons head as he wakes from the anaesthetic - groggy, swollen and bruised. I will comfort him when he is so depressed that he wont be playing a sport he adores. And I will be forever grateful that my son lived with injuries that could be healed by skilled professionals, that he is not a child whose life was lost as a result of a game. 

I sincerely hope the National Rugby League can start an education process teaching kids about safe tackling.

Postscript
My beautiful 24yr old son is not playing Rugby, but is healthy and happy. The Junior NRL was helpful and thorough in their investigation and made efforts to educate the teams. The club manager made no further contact.

Our Last Days Together

I know grief, I've been here before and I'll be here again. Grief is a way of honouring someone we love and I embrace this feeling, but it doesn't make it hurt any less.

The sadness is so deep it's painful. It hurts to breath. It hurts to think. It hurts to be.

And it happens at inconvenient times, like this morning. Out of nowhere, I remembered back to those final days we spent together unaware that these were our last lucid moments together. It makes those days all the more beautiful because they were authentic and kind.

I'd taken the week off work to spend a few days alone with my mum while my dad had some respite. What a beautiful opportunity to care and love my mum in her final days, I will be forever grateful that I had this time, just the two of us.

We sat together and talked and laughed about life while watching insipid TV shows which she loved. Neighbours, Home and Away, The Project. Her mind was slowly going and she thought the characters were her friends and family; it gave her comfort watching these characters and connecting with their lives. It gave me comfort that she had something like these shows to look forward to.

That week I cooked for her. I loved my mums kitchen and it was brilliant to have an excuse to make her some meals with love. I made chicken and mushroom risotto, and then I baked a chocolate cake.

In the weeks prior she wasn't really eating, so it was a surprise and a pleasure that she ate two plates of my risotto and then an entire slice of cake. My mum was an amazing cook, and sadly I didn't inherit her skills. I'm not known in my family for my culinary skills, so her appetite to my cooking made me feel really proud, I genuinely loved preparing that food for my mum.

I also bathed and toiletted her, just as she would have done for me many years ago. As an extremely proud woman, this would have been so humiliating for her so I performed my duties with absolute love. I made sure she knew that nothing was a bother. I hope she felt it.

One afternoon after her nurse had left, I massaged her feet and legs with essential oils and moisturising cream. Slowly and lovingly, it was such a beautiful moment and I felt proud that I could do something for her that gave her some relief from pain. I loved her so much in that moment, and I know she loved me back.

What a beautiful memory for me to have of those final days with my mum.

It's been 6 months and I've done everything in my power to avoid the grief cycle.

Extreme dieting. Extreme exercise. Extreme distraction.

And now it's hit me with one small trigger of the memory of those final days. As I write this with a face full of tears, a dear friend sent me a link out of the blue about depression and disease (Depression and Disease) which reminded me that its normal to feel sad and lost.

Happy Birthday Mum

Well, here we are. Another milestone. Another reason my heart is hurting.

Happy Birthday Mum, the first birthday where you're not here to cut your cake.

You've come to me in my sleep every night this week and its been a comfort to hear your words and see your face, animated and full of life. Happy, laughing, talking.

But they're just dreams.

Sitting in our old childhood dining room, the table beautifully dressed in a white lace tablecloth and filled with cakes and cups of tea. I'd brought a Tiramasu (obviously not home made, possibly a David Jones purchase) and couldn't find a space on the table for it.

You were there, smiling and entertaining us. When I woke, I wanted to be back there again with you but no matter how much I willed myself to go back to sleep, it didn't happen.

A lady sat staring at me on the bus this week; opposite me her gaze was compassionate and sad. Unnerved, I touched my face and met with wetness. Behind my massive Prada sunnies, I was crying and I had no idea that for possibly ten minutes, while music was blasting through my headphones, I had been crying alone along the journey to work.

So I got off the bus.

It hits me often and mostly I can fake it, cover the deep sadness that I'm now motherless but this week has been difficult. Mid sentence I lose my train of thought. It takes me an hour to read a paragraph. I found myself wandering for nearly two hours after work looking for the perfect birthday card for you.

I found the card. I came home. Alone, sad, grieving. And wishing again for just one more day.

Happy Birthday Mum. Thank you for teaching me the power of independence and thank you for coming to see me in my sleep.

I hope you visit often,

L xxx

"See Ya Later"

Funerals suck. Cancer sucks. Sometimes life sucks.

This year I had the humbling pleasure of celebrating the life of a truly rockin' chic - Oumani Browne. Sadly, she was only there in spirit. She had taken her final breath the week earlier surrounded by her beautiful and cherished son, her mother and her sister.

Being part of the day to honour her life was humbling. I learnt so much sitting there listening to others speak about this beautiful lady, she was and is surrounded by love.

I was in awe of her for so many things. Least not that she was who she was, no pretences, no judgments - she was Oumani. Real. Raw. Energetic. Generous. Beautiful. Funny. Intelligent.

And I hope she knew this.

See Ya Later Mani Browne. 

Rock Chic Oumani Brown

I'm dreaming of a Grief-Free Christmas.

The day is fast approaching and I'm feeling the strain of grief, guilt and anxiety as I prepare for the first Christmas without my mum. I want to spend it without the immense sadness and guilt I'm currently feeling. 

Sadness is a given. It's still new and raw and there is not a day where my heart doesn't feels heavy with loss. Sadness has given me an excuse for manic moods and "out of character" behaviour. Sadness is easily masked with a burst of energy and a distraction.

I can deal with the sadness because I know it's not my fault. 

It's the guilt that is playing games in my head. 

I'm guilty of avoiding so many of my mum's Christmas Day's, her favourite day of the year. And it's only now that I realise how I must have broken her heart year after year.

The lead-up months to Christmas were incredibly stressful with pressure on ensuring the day was perfect. Every detail was meticulously planned to craft a day resembling the Marcus Neimen "catalogue perfection". 

The tree would be put up on the 1st December and decorated beautifully with expensive baubles. Gifts were lovingly wrapped with the "theme of the year" wrapping paper and assembled underneath the tree. 

There were fairy lights. So many fairy lights.

A feast would be planned months in advance. Cold meat platters. Hot meat platters. Cheeses. Salads. Trifle. Fruit cake. Chocolates. 

Fortunately we never spoke of which brand of champagne because my parents didn't drink alcohol and this meant I could bring my own. It was Moët or Veuve. 

But even with the champagne, I dreaded the day. It didn't feel like "me". I was uncomfortable with the consumerism. I didn't like the stress of having to "perform" for a day.

When I became a parent, I used to plan on a one to two month trip from December to January just to avoid the fanfare and commercialism of it. I'd take my young family to remote destinations for a few months and make the phone call on Christmas Day and New Years Eve from some exotic location, thankful that I wasn't being consumed by a festival I didn't believe in. 

Last year, I realise that I'd missed the entire Christmas message. I lost what it meant to my mum that I was there sharing in her favourite day of the year. It wasn't about the Christmas tree or the feast or the beautifully wrapped and thoughtful gifts.

It was about having her family all together for one day. That was it. Nothing more. 

Fuck guilt. 

It breaks you heart and there is nothing you can do about it. 

Fuck grief. 

It creeps up when you're not looking and destroys a face full of makeup at really inconvenient times. 

Fuck anxiety. 

It stomps on your chest without warning. 

Fuck Christmas. 

Take me back to last year when we knew it was mum's last special day and we sat around in her living room, really living - laughing and loving each others company. 

Once again, I'm not looking forward to the day. 

Bali Healing

What a week I've had!

A last minute trip to Bali for work (sucks to be me), but actually right now, it does suck to be me. I lost my mum a few weeks ago and I wasn't sure being on this trip was going to be right.

With a last minute trip, that means last minute scheduling which makes it all a bit more stressful. For me though, this is the last week I could make this trip before March 2016, so it had to be done and I decided to view it as a nice distraction from my sadness.

And it worked.

Bali has been the most healing place for me to be this week. Not only have I ticked off my work schedule with honours, I've had the time and distance to heal.

Like so many Australians, I cut my teeth on overseas travel by coming to Bali when I was 18. I came with my bestie Kylie and we partied hard after getting over the culture shock. I've been returning back for work or play for the past (cough cough) 20+++ (++) years

I love Bali. I love the burning smells of incense and the earthiness of everything. I love the humidity. I love the gentleness of the Balinese people. I love the motorbike noises. I love the tripping hippies (but not the bogans). I love the frangipanis in the swimming pool. I love the sunset on the beach. I love the heady fragrance of holidays.

When we landed on Sunday, it felt like home. I felt wrapped in comfort.

And even with my heavy schedule of appointments, and sitting in traffic jams for hours - I was surrounded by truly kind and nurturing souls who kept an eye out for me.

I detox'd from caffiene, carbs and sugar (and still allowed myself some decent cocktails). I was massaged and skin-loved and had my nails done beautifully. In black - to honour my grieving.

I was checked in on. I was talked to. I was looked after.

The inner hippie chick has surfaced once again. I'm zen and blissed out.

My heart is in a good space.

Dedicated to a beautiful and nurturing nurse (Tamara) who accompanied me.

Grief, Distractions and Healing

Grief sucks. 

Its irrational and unpredictable and unreasonable. 

My mum died two weeks ago and I don't think it's hit me yet. I haven't sobbed uncontrollably or broken down on public transport. Sure I'm deeply sad, but I haven't consumed my days with looking at photos of her, rehashing old memories. Listening to music to remind me of her. Listening to my voicemail to hear her voice one more time. 

I haven't sobbed until my eyes were dry and my ribs were aching. I'm not filling my days with thoughts of the future without my mum. 

I didn't go out and get a tattoo. 

The taste of my tears is not a constant. 

This is what grief is like in the movies and I haven't done this and yet I'm not the same as I was three weeks ago. My mums death has shifted something so deep in me.

I've changed. I'm different. 

I've had conversations I wouldn't normally have had. I've used language I wouldn't normally use. I thought things I've never thought before. I've felt things I never felt before. I'm not even making sense to myself most of the time. This may be all a distraction to avoid the process, but I have no idea why I'm being like this. 

I'm in Bali for work, only a couple of weeks after my mum fucking died. How is that normal? Who goes overseas after just burying their mum? 

What the fuck is wrong with me? 

Being in Bali feels so zen and peaceful and right. It's work, but my downtime is nice. I'm being kind to myself. I'm being healthy. I'm focusing on only me. I'm ok with swearing. I'm ok with my thoughts. I'm ok with where I'm at and what I'm doing. 

And yet it all just sucks and I'm preparing for the flood of grief. 

Sitting in the front row.......

I never want to sit in the front pew of a funeral ever again. 

I never want to write a eulogy ever again. 

I never want to stand in front of a crowded chapel and read heartfelt words through tears, struggling to breath as I say goodbye in an honourable and dignified and graceful way. 

I never want to be that kind of "strong" ever again. 

I never want to see the last rise of a chest. The last struggle for breath. The last undignified ugly process of death. 

I never want to say goodbye to someone that I love. Ever. Again. 

But I know that I will have to go through all of the above at some point in my future because I am surrounded by people I love and who love me back. I know that death is a part of living. I know this, but I don't like it. 

It hurts like hell. Death is more painful for those left behind and my heart is aching for everyone who loved you.

I know that time will heal the pain and my heart will not be heavy when I think of you in the future. I know that over time I'll stop thinking "this time last Christmas, this time last birthday, this time last...". I know this will get better and it will stop aching. 

And I know this because I was given the most beautiful parents a girl could ask for, who taught me how to be compassionate and caring and love people with all my heart. 

It's time for healing now, for being thankful that you lived and loved. 

Thank you mum. For everything. 

Maureen Fryar

26th Feb '49 - 5th Oct '15

Open Letter to a Pervert......

Dear Dude with the smallest penis in the world, 

Monday was my birthday and I truly I love my birthdays. Unlike many other middle aged women, I celebrate every birthday and embrace getting older. 

I love my birthday so much that I put reminders everywhere - colleagues outlook calendars, post it notes around the house, messages on my husbands phone. My closest friends usually message me nice and early to wake me up because they know how much I love my special day (thanks Ky). 

This birthday (14th Sept, just in case you want to put it in your phone for next year), you were the first person to send me a message! How cool is that! And you don't even know me. 

I also get that you didn't know I was on-call, which meant my phone (my work phone) was beside my bed, ready to take your 1:30am phone call. 

And call you did. But you hung up before I could work out who you were. 

So you sent me a pic of yourself. 

Now because I wear glasses and it was the middle of the night, I didn't quite understand what you were trying to achieve and I innocently thought you were sending me a picture of Pinnochio (not quite at the lie telling stage). 

But then I realised you were sending me a picture of your little penis. 

Dude, this is what Snapchat is for. Snapchat means it disappears after about 20mins. Which in your case would have been a really nice way of disappearing into oblivion and not remaining on a strangers phone. 

But then you called me again! Some heavy breathing on the other end, and me threatening to report you to the police probably resulted in you "losing" the loving feeling. 

But being the zen chick that I am, I forgive you. 

I didn't report you to the police. I wanted to, but then I saw the funny side. You sent a pic of your tiny penis to the wrong number. You didn't get as lucky as you'd hoped, but I've dined out on your story all week. I reckon I have a months worth of story telling.

In fact, because  of you, I rated my 46th Birthday an 11.5 out of 10. It started with a dick, and it ended with the end of a dick (Tony Abbott). 

Thanks for making my birthday pretty bloody fantastic!

Lisa. 
(PS, dont forget to put my birthday in your diary for next year!)

Saying Goodbye to my mum

I'm currently in the throws of watching my mother die and it's horrible. It's undignified and ugly and hard. And in our Western culture, we don't have a 'nice' process for it.

My mum is one of my greatest mentors. Despite extreme adversity, she educated herself and worked her way up through the corporate ladder. So proud of her job, she remained humble in her achievements and always delivered her tasks with integrity and professionalism. Her big ticks in life came from everything she achieved. A loving successful family, a beautiful home and a wonderful career.

Her early beginnings were purely to survive - she would work menial jobs just to clothe and feed us and yet she did this with pride and grace. She cleaned houses and took in ironing, all the while maintaining a clean and safe home for us, and being there after school to make sure we were looked after. We were loved without question, and we always knew it. Such a strong lady who taught me the value of working hard and keeping those you love close.

She loved to shop. Oh My God! Did she love to shop! Every one of the bedrooms in her home has a wardrobe full of her purchases. Lovely clothes, jewellery, shoes and handbags.

She loved to decorate her home. Her home is impeccable and could be photographed for Vogue at any time of the day. Beautiful furnishings and floors so clean you could eat off them.

She loved to spoil her offspring. There is nothing she wouldn't do for her children and grandchildren (and now great grandchildren). Her time was her most valuable gift and she gave it with so much love.

And now she is dying a slow and horrible death.

My father is now her primary carer, and she needs help doing every little thing; bathing, toileting, feeding, breathing. She can't shop anymore. She can't decorate her home. Nothing.

Just watching her be so dependant on those around her is heartbreaking and cruel. You can see the indignity in her face when she asks for help for the simplest of things. Her brow is constantly furrowed - her life has been reduced to a social pariah as she sits in her chair all day in her bed clothes. It's obvious she's angry for her "End of Life". Every little thing upsets her, and it's understandable that she resents that the world is still spinning for everyone else but her.

We visit. We talk. We sometimes laugh and we cry when she is not around.

I decided to take a week off work this week (which is hard because my mother also taught me the terrible "joy" of being a work-a-holic), and I decided not to go away, something I have never done! I spent time with my mum and I am so grateful for the opportunity. Whenever I visit, I try to get her to remember those beautiful moments that make her smile so that she can go off to the next world in peace and with lovely memories. I get out photos, I started a family tree, I ask her questions. Most importantly, I listen.

It hurts watching my mother die but I also know that I have been given the gift of being able to say goodbye to her, a luxury that many people don't get to have.

Mum, Hunters Hill 2013

I'm Breaking Up with You.

It's over, Eddie. I found someone else and I cant see you anymore. 

You and I started out great. You made me feel like a princess after our first meeting. I was beautiful. I had finally found the one! 

You threw diamond cut compliments at me. Praise. Laughter. Promises. Attention. 

The colour was awesome. The cut was amazing. I swished my way back to the office and was buzzed for four days until the blow-dry finally dropped. 

The compliments from friends and colleagues kept me high and I was in total awe of your talents. 

I looked past the gaudy salon of gold and marble. I looked past your ponytail and forgave your hairy chest in your open silky shirt. 

I returned for the next fix. And even though the price had somehow gone up an extra $100, I still felt great. My bank account was suffering, but I justified it by feeling so lovely. 

Looking back Eddie, it was the third visit when the gloss started to fade. 

Before our appointment, I called and got a quote. You knew I hated surprises, and I needed to know I could afford to keep seeing you. 

So I came in. Our last time together. You didn't even cut my hair but sent me to some junior for a quick trim. He tried to up-sell me eyebrow threading. 

You threw some sarcasm at me for waiting longer than 6 weeks. My greys were showing, and you were less glowing.  

Your colourists didn't even bother to enter conversation. 

There was no cup of coffee. No glass of water. No massage at the basin. 

Your front desk lady charged me more than your quote. Two. Hundred. Dollars.... more!

I felt ripped off. I was charged a mortgage payment for a basic cut and colour, I was paying for your garish salon on George Street. You wouldn't even look at me when I questioned you about the cost, and you walked away which has given me the right to publicly shame you and never come near your salon again. 

Your staff are rude and evasive, and your senior colourist needs some conversation skills. 

And, to quote my friend Aurelie - "I've had better"

So - I found someone new. 

He's awesome, and honest, and makes me feel beautiful. He listens to me. He laughs with me. He cuts and colours my hair and brings out the best in me. 

He's funny. 

He's talented. 

He knows how to hold a conversation. 

He know's how to make a woman look amazing! 

AND, I dont have to sell my soul to look and feel this great.

Stear clear of Eddie Azziz and his Cheating Ways (Le E'Toille in George Street, Sydney)

I'm not telling anyone about my new guy Craig Roach in Surry Hills! 

"Before"

So much stress, so many greys.

"After" 

Loving myself sick with the colour and cut and blow dry by Craig. 

POST SCRIPT: My friend sent me this link after reading my blog about Eddie Azziz - no wonder I felt a bit creepy about him: Eddie is a Pervert!

Fair Go Fairfax....

My Australian childhood is rich with images from amazing photographers who put themselves on the line to capture a moment. Being so far away from the rest of the world, us Aussie's relied on the photo-journalists to let us in on what was going on.

Kampuchea held images of children with distended bellies, heartbreaking scenes of families being torn apart. 

East Timor, and Papua New Guinea - our neighbours who I would know little of it it were not for the journos and photographers who bring home that story. 

Bali paradise, American baseball games, African sunsets, Middle East conflict, human tragedy after global crisis. 

These images evoked my passion for travel, and inspired me to get out there and experience life beyond my imagination. These images have led me to places to work as a volunteer, and also to get into the industry I am in - emergency assistance for travellers.

Closer to home, the images of outback Australia, politicians, every-day Australians have provided the visual of whats happening in my neighbourhood. Bushfires, festivals, politics, tragedy, celebrations. We need to see these clever, funny, beautiful and sometimes cutting images of the my country. 

I'm proud of being Australian, and I love the images from home broadcast to the masses. We have an amazingly diverse nation to celebrate. 

With sadness I learn today that one of a major Australian media is considering ditching our Aussie photographers in favour of..... what? who? 


Come on Fairfax, lets not go down the path of bringing sub standard, cheap images of Australia. If we do that, we'd miss the amazing images like these from award winning Dallas Kilponen 20 Years of Australian Photographer for SMH


Keep our Photo journalists. #fairgofairfax

Please sign the petition to keep 30 Australian photographers employed: Sign Here

To Assist or Not To Assist?

A call-out came this week for a young Aussie man in Bali who was in a critical condition after a motor vehicle accident thats left him with significant trauma. Prognosis was poor and he needed to be moved to Australia for a chance at survival. 

He didn't have travel insurance. 

A senior manager at my company asked if there was anything my team could do to assist the family in getting him home. 

I work in travel insurance. I've recently set up a team working in emergency assistance helping out Australian and New Zealand travellers when they find themselves in trouble overseas, and together our skill-sets combined are over 30 years in the industry. Between us, there is nothing we haven't seen. 

My team are called "WE Assist". Because that's what we do on a daily basis. We love it, and we're very good at it. 

We know all too well the story about our young man in Bali because we've seen it so many times. 

When contacting the family to offer our assistance, they had already arranged the necessary arrangements but were thankful that a travel insurance company cared enough to offer help - at no charge. They have raised over 100K to air ambulance him home to Melbourne, and will probably need to double that amount to include rehabilitation. 

Nevertheless, our team are always happy to assist. 

We don't do this for the money. Unlike some international companies, we don't charge families a massive profit on top of the base costs. In fact, we only charge a basic case fee of less that $200 to cover any admin. 

We don't do this for publicity. We refuse to let the tragedy of others boost our business. 

We do this because we learn valuable lessons that will help in future cases. And, we do this because we are an awesome company who really care about people. It's in our core DNA. 

If our young man in Bali had travel insurance, he would have been home within 24hrs giving him a better chance for a longer term recovery and his family would not have had to go through the additional stress of having to raise money. But he didn't, and this is not a judgment post. 

If I can share any advice to those already travelling (or living away from Australia / New Zealand), get yourself a decent travel insurance product. Very few on the market allow you to purchase after you've left Australia / New Zealand, the ones listed below do. 

When choosing, make sure your travel insurance company has a reputable "emergency assistance" team who know (and love) what they're doing. So many Australian travel insurance companies are offshoring their claims and assistance teams to Malaysia, India and China (because it's so much cheaper) - so do your research, because when the time comes that you need them, you want them to know and understand your expectations. 

When family and friends (and often strangers) ask me which travel insurance they should go with, I'm very proud to be in a position to spread the word of the products WE Assist represent:

World Nomads (can purchase while you are already travelling)
Travel Insurance Direct (can purchase while you are already travelling)
SureSave

We also look after a number of other travel insurance products which we are happy to share the details of if you're interested. 

WE Assist are a 24/7 operation and can be reached by email: assist@we.com.au 

The Great Australian Christmas

I recently read an article in the Sydney Morning Herald telling me that my Australian Christmas is not real. Our snow is replaced with sand and our frozen hands are replaced with peeling noses. 

Who does this journo think he is?  

Like many Australians, it's the only Christmas I know. I didn't make snow angels under my perfectly groomed pine christmas tree in my childhood, nor did I rug up with red and white hand knitted scarves and jumpers while singing Christmas Carols outside my neighbours homes. 

Despite this, my memories of Christmas in Australia are real and have been nothing like the Home Alone movie. 

The Christmas Day of my childhood started very early in oppressing suburban heat having barely slept the night before. Sheer excitement of what I would find the following morning kept me awake, similar to children all over the world. My parents would have spent the last few hours of Christmas Eve putting together bikes and doll houses and setting the gifts perfectly under our tree. They would feign annoyance at being woken at 5am, but secretly couldn't wait until we unwrapped our presents, had breakfast and then had a morning nap. 

My day would be filled with various festive treats; cold meat platters, salads, prawns, trifle (yes, the full bowl of custard and cream and jellies), Christmas cake, soda drinks, and tropical fruit. 

Sometimes we would spend the day at Balmoral Beach playing with new water toys and smelling like sunblock. Sometimes we would remain at home riding new push bikes with the neighbourhood gang. Always, our Christmas Day was spent outdoors. 

When I became a parent, we started a new tradition of a champagne breakfast in Nielson Park with friends and family. We swam in the harbour, sipped champagne and ate from platters of gourmet cheeses and crackers. Our expat friends would join us, thankful not to be battling a freezing day in sleet and drizzle. Bikinis, kaftans and thongs were our friends. 

The rain kept us away this year. We ate croissants in a bakery in Bondi instead, and then headed to my sisters house for a large family festive lunch, under cover. We then enjoyed an evening with friends for yet another festive feast, sheltered from the continuing drizzle. 

A wonderful day despite the weather. 

It doesn't matter if its snowing, raining, or sunshine. Christmas Day is Christmas Day. Its real wherever you are in the world. It's the people you surround yourself with that make it special. 

Merry Christmas 2013! 

Christmas Fairy Maddie lighting the Christmas Pudding

What is My Crazy Husband Doing Now?

Dear Friends, 

Some of you may be aware that my husband has decided to put his "crazy" to the test by running the New York Marathon on the 4th November. Barefoot. 

Yep. No shoes in New York for 42kms. Ouch. 

Why would anyone think this is a a good idea? Well it's fairly simple. He's eccentric and he has an amazing heart. 

Since the 80's, John has been a strong supporter of Amnesty International focusing on human rights. As a bleeding heart myself, I love him for doing something to raise awareness and make a difference to those in our world who do not have a voice. He's not just talking about it, he has put himself through a challenge over the past year to get him into a position where he can run 42kms without shoes to raise money for some of the most marginalised people in the world.

Amnesty International started in 1961 by a British Lawyer who had the courage to speak up for two Portuguese students who were jailed for raising a toast to freedom.  Today, Amnesty works relentlessly for people around the world who are denied the fundamental human rights that most of us take for granted. 

As an Australian, I am relatively safe. I have a roof over my head, food on the table and I have the freedom to speak to whoever I want to, about whatever I want, whenever I want without being in danger of being stoned to death. 

As a woman I have access to education, a career and the freedom to chose who I want to spend my time with. 

As a mother, I am safe in the knowledge that my daughter will not be forced to marry a man three times her age, and my sons will not be forced into joining a war that is not theirs. 

As a wife, I know my husband will not be jailed and tortured for speaking out against the injustices of all of the above. 

I am in awe of John and people just like him. They dont just pay lip service to doing something. They don't turn a blind eye or justify crimes against humanity. They put their money (and bare feet) where their mouth is. They are the do-ers of the world. Do-gooders, bleeding hearts, tree huggers. And I am extremely proud to be married to one. 

After 12 months of training, too many blisters to count and a loss of nearly 20 kgs, John departs for New York  this week to prepare for the biggest challenge of all. His first marathon. He has self funded the trip, and has also pledged to raise an additional $9,000AUD for Amnesty International. 

If you have a spare couple of dollars that you are able to throw into the bucket, or have the energy to whip a hat around the office, John and Amnesty would really appreciate it. 

Tax deductible donations can be made here:  John's Amnesty International Fundraiser

A blog of Johns journey can be found here: His Blog!

And the Twitter hashtag if you want to follow him over the next few weeks is #running4rights

Thanks for taking the time to read this, and please join me in wishing John all the best on a massive run! 

Lisa 

Doesn't he look exhausted! 

Friends.

This week found me thinking about new and old friends and how fortunate I am to have so many wonderful people in my life. Those amazing people who I can laugh with, cry with, vent at, listen to, love. And at the end of all that, people who choose to remain in my life. 

A dear friend has been on my mind a lot lately, she lives overseas and I haven't seen her for 2 years! We chat on Facebook and text each other every now and then, but its not the same. It's not like having her in the same city for a quick catch up over a glass of bubbles. Or on the other end of a local phone call that doesn't cost my kidneys.

We were besties well before the term was invented. We met at the beginning of high school and have laughed together ever since. We initiated each other in our first holiday without parents. (Bali). We shared intimate secrets. We gossiped (but not about each other). We cried on each others shoulders as teenage love turned to a painful heartbreak. We laughed at each others jokes and stories until we cracked our ribs and could laugh no more. We fought. At times we hated each other. Especially when she threw out my favourite pair of dusty pink shoes that i absolutely adored! She was the first one to wish me Happy Birthday for many many years. She is the only one who can ever say - "you are NOT wearing THAT are you?" without me feeling the need to punch her. 20 years ago, I was her bridesmaid - she chose my dress! She honoured our friendship even more by choosing me to be godmother to one of her gorgeous girls. 

Sadly we drifted apart when life seemed to take over while we started careers and raised children and struggled through our "every day". Life got in the way, and then distance got in the way even more. 

A message at 2am this week asking which country I was in made my heart sing! Especially because I could see that her location (love social media) was at the airport! I had so much adrenalin from that message that I couldn't sleep.

Finally, after not seeing her for two years we stole a few hours for a quick catch up and it's been the best two hours of my month! 

Life happens around us, and we slowly move betweens friendships. After seeing her again today, I vow to our friendship that I will not let another 2 years grow between us. 

The fact that she lives so far away just means I have an excuse to indulge in my passion for travel.

xxx

Love What You do

I have a pretty good life. Gorgeous family, great friends, and I love my job. 

Its true. I love the people I work with, I love the company I work for, and I really love what I get to do on a daily basis. 

AND 

I love telling people what I do and where I work and more importantly, I love it when people realise that I'm not just paying lip service to some ideal work/life balance, that I am genuinely living it. 

I caught up with an ex colleague yesterday after not seeing each other for 2 years, and it was such a delight to hear him comment on how "happy" and relaxed I looked. 

The day before, I had lunch with a friend who insisted I've had Botox. (she's a doctor so I squinshed up my face to prove to her my face was all me!). 

Its not just that I "look" happy and relaxed, I feel it. I have so much energy, and I feel as though I have truly found my place. Not one day since I started at that company have I felt the dread of a work day. Sure there are a few days that seem to go slower than others, and Friday is always the best day of the week - but every day is rewarding and different. 

A few years ago I was working in a large global organisation in a job that I really did love. I worked with some of the most amazing people who remain very dear friends, and I learnt some valuable skills that have set me on my path. But toward the end of my time there, I wasn't too happy and it was fairly obvious to those who knew me. 

After leaving and taking some time out from corporate life, I returned last year to a smaller company in a slightly different role. I was still able to bring my expertise to the role; the new company embraced it, and empowered me with greater challenges. I am recognised for my contributions and I really feel valued. 

The best part of my new job is that my children see me doing something that I love, and hearing me talk about my days with positive energy. I am passing on the lesson in life that work doesn't have to be a chore. If you follow your heart and are passionate about the role you play in the world, you will be happy. 

And more importantly, champagne is so much better than Botox! 

Would you let your son play League?

I'm torn. I am the mother of two boys who absolutely love the game of rugby league. I also happen to love watching the game, but I hate what the game has done to my family. 

One son is 11 years old and he has been playing with the same group of boys since they were 5. It's been a pleasure watching them grow and develop into great little players. Their coach is an ex-A grade player (and an ex Wallaby), and is training the boys to play fairly and confidently. 

My other son is a 17year old. The rules are different. The stakes are higher. And the boys are bigger with a hell of a lot more adrenaline and aggression. 

On Mothers Day this year, my 17yr old was playing at the same time as my little guy, and as I could only be at one game at the one time, I went to the youngest son's game. A phone call revealed my older son had been injured and was at the hospital waiting to be seen in emergency. It's not a nice phone call to get. 

After an Xray, an ultrasound and a CT Scan, we were told that my son had a posterior dislocation of the sterno-clavicular joint. Sounds fancy right? Well it is. It's that join between the sternum and the clavicle, and it was pushed in and pressing on his arteries. And his airway (he was having trouble breathing). It's quite rare to have this happen, in fact there have been less than 100 reported cases since 1824. Thankfully we were in the hands of amazing orthopaedic surgeons, cardiovascular surgeons, cardio thoracic, and beautiful caring nurses of Royal Prince Alfred. 

One doctor told me our son was extremely lucky. The injury was such that it could only have been caused through excessive force (think of those adrenaline, testosterone 17 year old boys), and that had it have been one centimetre to the left, his spine would have been snapped. A centimetre higher, and his neck would have been snapped, and any more force, it could have severed his artery and I would no longer have my beautiful boy. 

I waited three hours for him to come out of recovery from surgery, and then I called the club to let them know he wouldn't be playing for the rest of the season. If I had my way, he wouldn't be playing ever again. The club's manager really didn't care, or he hadn't been versed in customer service. He disputed that an incident took place because the referee and the linesmen didn't report it. Even when I asked about the incident report (because lets face it, a child leaves the field in an ambulance, surely an incident report must have been completed), he still denied there was an incident because.... the referee didn't record it. 

So I went to the NSW NRL. And here's where it got really interesting. They did their job - calling me as soon as they read my email with expressions of concern. And then they gathered some reports from the referees and linesmen. 

And they wrote me a letter. 

They considered this an "accident" that can happen from time to time in a game like rugby. 

The referee and linesmen reported nothing untoward during that game that they could recollect. 

Both clubs had been approached for comments. 

They also included in the letter the regulatory accreditations of the referees, linesmen, groundsmen, water boys etc. (But failed to confirm if the people on the field were actually accredited).

They were happy for me to provide some solutions on how to make the game safer. 

Here's where I'm torn. 

The way to make this game safer for my children is for them not to play. Ever. Because  according to the team at NSW NRL who have the power to educate and make our kids safe are happy with - "accidents like this happen from time to time"

Because teenage boys are big and they are allowed to jump on a player holding a ball even after the referee has called "held"

Because referees are normal people who sometimes miss an "illegal tackle".

Because even after a referee has called held, and then supposedly does not see another big teenage boy jump on the back of a player already on the ground holding a ball yet gives the penalty kick, cannot remember an "incident". 

Because even if a player is taken to hospital in an ambulance, has two surgeries, the club manager doesn't even have the courtesy to ask how a member of his club is. 

Because I am very lucky and grateful that I still have my son. 

My son is now lying in a hospital bed again after getting a post surgical infection. This is his final year of high school and this will be his third week off school due to this incident. Oops, I mean "accident which can happen from time to time". His HSC is not looking great. 

He has lost his social surroundings, a sport that he loves and to me it seems he has lost motivation. 

To say I am slightly angry at the sport, and the response we have been given is an understatement. And yet I am still torn about my younger son and when I should pull him out of the game. 

Young Dying Mum needs your help.

There was a moment in my day today when the universe stood still - if only for a second. My heart stopped beating, the clouds stopped moving and everyone around me walked and talked in slow motion. And then it clicked back into place and my mind was racing. 

What can I do? How can I help? How much time? Shit. Shit. Shit. 

The word "shit" just kept going around and around in my head and eventually it was the only word I could say. 

My friend. My lovely young friend. A struggling single mother of a beautiful pre-teen boy was no longer in remission. All I could say was "shit". 

Her son was likely to be burying her before testosterone managed his teenage life; sadly she would be the second parent he's buried, and it broke my heart. There is no guarantee life is meant to be fair, but "shit" - this isn't in the playbook either. 

After collecting my thoughts and my struggle with more than one word, I managed to ask her if she were given a cheque for something tangible, what would she spend it on. 

She would like to take her son on an 'around the world trip' to share some magical moments together in some magical places. 

And that's when I realised how I could help. 

Travelling is the lolly of my life. I could relate to her wish for one last "hoorah" exploring places with the most important person in her life. Even knowing the risks of her medical condition and knowing that no travel insurance company would likely insure her.... I thought her wish was fantastic and totally appropriate. 

So here's my public pledge. I am going to help make this happen. 

In August, our sons rugby team are going to hold a Trivia night in the inner city (Sydney) to raise money to send them on an amazing adventure. A gorgeous medical friend has offered to help repatriate her (if something happens while she is away) and I can assist in writing her travel/medical emergency response plan for her holiday. 

Here is where the universe answers. I need prizes to auction. Her cause needs exposure. I need a contact for affordable accommodation. I need an airline to offer flights. I need kind people to reach into their hearts and donate money. I need a miracle to pull this idea off. 

If you can help, or know of anyone who can help, please pass on my details. 

Time is of the essence.