I was in the bank Monday, withdrawing my weekly cash allowance (self-imposed). The teller, a young lady named Megan, asked me how my weekend was. I told her a little story explaining a highlight as there were no customers behind me and it was nearing 12.30 when the branch closes for an hour. I asked her whether she had a good weekend and what was a highlight. She replied she went to Adelaide to help her partner buy a suit. He'd never owned one before and needed one for his wedding, they were getting married soon. I asked her when and she said the day after the King's Birthday weekend coming up soon. The registry office is only open on Tuesdays, they are getting married there.
I have a nice rapport with Megan, since I first met her a year ago when she started work at the bank. I told her of my very good friendship with Megan Kelly in the 1970's. We have drifted but I have much fondness for Megan K, now O'Brien. Sister of my friend Mark in Wangaratta she was fun loving with a sense of humour that would brighten anybody. I told bank teller Megan that my Megan back then was the only person who could have me enjoy dancing. I was not a dancer and frankly loathed it at the many functions of the day. But with Megan I was OK with it and grooved along with no reluctance. Megan K's youthful joy and laughter often appears in my memories fondly.
Megan today explained they weren't having a wedding celebration. They'd have the long weekend off to prepare, the Tuesday off to tie the knot at the registry, then back to work Wednesday. Other than her partner's father coming from Cairns to be a witness, there'd be no family to share the occasion, something they were both happy with. I gave her early congratulation and wished her well. I'll drop in a box of chocolates for her the week before the wedding. Her partner is named Nicco she told me in answer to my question. He's Dutch South African by origin.
The barber who cut my hair a couple of weeks ago had an amazing story. As I waited while he did the bloke before me, I overheard him say he'd been on cortisone for many years and it wrecked his bones. When my turn came, I asked him "Why the cortisone, if you don't mind me asking?"
He was a sickly kid during childhood after his family migrated from England when he was three. Doctors couldn't find what was wrong him until eventually he was diagnosed with acute Chrone's disease, which was not supposed to happen to one so young. I'm not sure how old he was at this point and my recall of his story may not be 100% accurate. Somewhere along the way whatever was going on with him caused him to have rheumatoid arthritis and a lot more cortisone. After some time, he was nearly buggered, in hospital for a long time. they were going to cut his leg off, he was all set, they'd painted orange on his leg so there could be no accident like cutting off the wrong leg. I knew what he was talking about as before my recent carotid clean out they'd coloured the side of my neck to make sure they did the right one. There was a Canadian doctor present (on some exchange arrangement) at the last prep session who suggested if this patient could be given to him to treat with a new bio injection treatment, he reckoned he could save the leg. It worked, but over time the weekly and now self-administered injection had adverse side effect.
He lived on Hindmarsh Island. His wife was at work. He was home alone and didn't feel well. He went to the toilet to vomit and collapsed over the bowl. Heart attack. This was last November. He said he would have died were it not for freakish lucky breaks. His wife would have come home to find him dead in the toilet. His son was coming from Morphetvale in his car to go to the schoolies function in Victor Harbor, an annual sheebang attended by thousands. He had been looking forward to it and planning for it. He was driving to VH and something made him change his mind. He inexplicably decided to forego the schoolies and go and see his dad instead. When he got there, he found him unconscious in the toilet. He bundled him in his car with great difficulty and drove him the half hour or so to VH emergency.
The barber remembers little of this, but he recalls a lady in the waiting room letting out a blood curdling scream when his son brought him in and laid him on the floor. Staff came running. He remembers a nurse leaping over him and rushing outside, that's all. She was running to catch an ambulance crew who were around the corner at the ambulance ramp driving away. By a miracle they were a highly trained crew of paramedics who had transferred a patient, a job not normally done by these cardiac guys but fortuitously they were there. She literally banged on the back of the ambulance as it was driving off.
The barber learned these details later. The paramedics rushed him to Flinders Hospital some 50 minutes away, all the time doing CPR or whatever it's called, pumping the chest to keep him alive, breaking ribs in the process. He was operated on and survived. Apparently, the position of his blocked artery meant the normal outcome is an explosion causing death, but by a third miracle it didn't happen and he's a rare survivor of that particular event.
I asked him how old he was. 48. I thanked him for sharing his story and gave him a healthy tip. I wished him well and said I hoped he made it to 72, like me walking around healthy. I left the shop, thinking I'm so lucky.
