“It’s great. Everybody suddenly rates my good strokes as outstanding and my poorer strokes as almost outstanding.”
Tennis God, Roger Federer’s response when asked in 2004 what it was like to be World Number 1, which is a mighty decent pun to use upon reflection of my own strokes - they have also both indeed been outstanding (Good Strokie *#2*) and almost outstanding (Poorer Strokie *#1*). Turns out Rogey (term of endearment for my dear kindred spirit) and I truly are the perfect match (yet another pun intended - mmmhmm this Kitty does love a pun!), even after all these years (...apart/having yet to meet each other).
There is a reason why people say 'I was going to be a nurse, but I didn't have the patients/patience' - and I'm it! In order to investigate what the underlying reason was for my cute bloke-luring strokes, London's St George's Hospital had a team of world-class surgeons (Special K at your service!) cut a rough diamond-shaped, approximately 3 cm length x 1.5 cm width, piece of skull out (pn: a part of my make up which has never been seen again by this Kitty! Perhaps they sold it on eBay for 5 bucks!) and then stole a piece of my brain (typically referred to in the serious medical world as a brain biopsy). Primarily, it was taken to try identify why my brain kept having strokes and secondarily, to check how clever and witty I was (incredibly for both attributes. Naturally). Now don't let the brain biopsy's surgery performed under general anaesthetic aspect fool you; this ordeal was absolutely petrifying. There was a 1% chance of death risk that I had to acknowledge and accept a few weeks post Strokie #2 - all before my family had even arrived in Great Britain from Australia - and something that had me crying into the bosom of my ever supportive girlfriends and any offering woman in the Neurology Department (exclusively female only ward - 'twas indeed a shame they were unisex wards! *shame for the lads*) of St George's Hospital and frantically discussing my options and the justifications for such with the gentle nurses and Klubbers, which due to my short term memory loss, were most likely discussed with myself (including diagrams and logic for scary biopsy, as well as jokes in my notebook for easy reference) several times an hour, every hour. The patience my dear beautiful Klubbers had to have when dealing with this Special K would be more than that of a saint!
The very first moments my lovely little sister arrived in the creepy ole neuro ward at St George's Hospital to collect her brain-damaged big sister (to take me back Down Under). Jack Attack had been messaging me non-stop about what was going on and promised she would do my hair to cover the shaved spot.
She ain't no liar - within minutes of arriving she was all over it!
YEAH JACK ATTACK!
The last time we had seen each other was in the first few hours of January 1st 2012 - at a NYE party - and now she had travelled across to the opposite side of the world to pick up her ghastly unwell BIG sister. How strange this chapter must have been on her.
What an Aussie Battler!
The last time we had seen each other was in the first few hours of January 1st 2012 - at a NYE party - and now she had travelled across to the opposite side of the world to pick up her ghastly unwell BIG sister. How strange this chapter must have been on her.
What an Aussie Battler!
December 2012
*Please Note: No sarcasm here - the brain biopsy surely beat another option of going on certain drugs that meant I'd go through menopause at 30 (being proactive upon hearing this option, I had swiftly organised my younger sister to make me some babies in the future! May still use that card because her genes are better *evidently*) and alllllso, the brain biopsy 'twas also quite the conversation starter with friends and family alike - still is!
Scars get the fell-as!
Insight into the damaged Special K mind.
Occipital and temporal lobes have been affected by the two strokes with a clear chunk of damage (/dead brain) in the bottom RHS visible in this shot (LHS also has damage - a stroke per hemisphere).
Having fun at hospital (naturally) - so much room for activities.
FREE GLOVES for my SCHOEY! One amazing soul (entertainment is a necessary component in hospital!)
December 2012
So it was in fact, my patient nurses and doting Kitty Kat Klubbers that I turned to for clarity, support (I even started thinking about my Will!) and optimism during such confusion and sadness in my life. Poor/Lucky Murse Gilly even had to be ordered to our neuro ward one night when he was elsewhere (how dare he abandon me - his favourite/funniest patient!) because I wouldn't/couldn't calm down without his specific reassurance. I was in such distress, that I even resorted to the support of an ex-flame who instantly calmed me with tales of a loved one having the exact same procedure (biopsy) and survived. So I wasn't Special K after all! It was the first time in my life that I was thrilled to have someone kind of like me (obviously not nearly as witty).
One of my many new besties whilst at hospital - a little old lady (Dumb & Dumber style!) we all knew as Mary (perhaps Swanson orrrrr Samsonite since we're on the D&D trail). My Klubbers loved her too and they didn't even 'get' to listen to her tales late at night nor did she give them as many cookies! She is one amazing Scot! LOVED my hospital buddies.
November 2012
These supportive words were from my dear British students who I missed to the extent I'd cry at the mere mention of them (for many months post strokes), so colleagues would have to give their individualised cards and art pieces when I was mentally prepared, as a simple drawing (that was the best!) caused massive breakdowns. An expected reaction to someone who loves their career as much as I do! Why wouldn't I when one student misspelled my last name as 'Laid' to which entertained my somewhat supportive buddies tenfold! How I love these little people forevermore!
It was an extremely challenging Kitty Chapter, to be brain damaged, at St George's Hospital (all the way out in Ldn's Zone 3!), with strangers spooning me every night (they insisted!) and forcing myself to do countless procedures and surgeries that I didn't quite understand the reasoning for (whyyyy must I have a camera shoved down my throat for a brain issue?! Whyyyy are you shaving my head if I could die/results may *and did* come back inconclusive?! Why are you taking so much of my pee alllll the time - what has it got to do with my brain, you sickos?!), missing out on booked holidays abroad with my beautiful Klubbers (upcoming Amsterdam and Bulgaria trips were instantly lost - and that was just what was booked when Strokie #2 hit in October 2012) and generally living my normal exciting youthful life, worrying about what had happened/was happening to my Special K brain and as a result, unable to teach, nursing a pseudo broken heart, missing my dear 4L immensely (which caused crying as if I was Ben Stiller in There's Something About Mary), as well as the endorphins and sense of purpose the daily grind gives you. As you'd expect, I was so completely traumatised by the whole experience (when not distracted by food) that I needed regular evening spoons with my dear visitors as well as with my beautiful Italian co-patient who was also in my ward. A woman whom I had only met during my 2012 birthmonth, but someone I couldn't possibly imagine my hospital life, nor maintaining my sanity during such a challenging life chapter, without. As anyone who is dealing with tragedy, denial was indeed first and all my focus was on longing for my dear family from Down Under to come be with me, refusing to accept what all my Klubbers, nurses, therapists and doctors were insisting had happened to my little brain (what would they know?!), yet all the while, unable to retain more than a few minutes (initially, a mere few seconds that grew more in retention every day - still is!) worth of my life (and that of others) at a time each day. An inability which made myself totally aware of such a newfound deficit. Quite a confronting situation for this Kitty to not be able to use my typically well-oiled machine that is the brain in my prime years. When I wasn't thinking about 4L, my pseudo broken heart, delicious English chocolate or where I got my 'new' maroon pants, I'd be worrying about the daily surgeries and/or investigations I was having. In particular, my birthmonth's brain biopsy, which had the chance of death. The likelihood of dying from such a surgery was extremely small, but this Kitty wasn't exactly feeling overly confident in my abilities at life.
Just a few days post brain surgery and I'm relishing in all the attention! Check out the sweet scar and shaved head! Knowing what brain damage and surgery that can be done when strokes hit, this is absolutely minor.
Plus, it's pretty rad.
Plus, it's pretty rad.
December 2012
In the end, such a morbid concern turned out to be a fruitless, simple-yet-petrifying ordeal - with the aim to elucidate the pattern of my blood vessel inflammation - when the brain biopsy results came back inconclusive and I survived (evidently)! Everyone wants a piece of the Kitty-Brain-Pie! Fortunately, my darling medical gurus used a cerebral angiogram (x-ray test of the brain's blood vessels where my docs used a dye that gives you the sensation of going to the toilet as it goes through your veins. Keep calm and carry on *peeing*, Kitty! It was almost a fun test! Almost being the operative word there) to identify characteristic patterns of inflammation in my affected blood vessels, where they then established a nervous system disorder known as Vasculitis as the cause for my two massive, yet cute strokies. An extremely rare (and special) disorder I was born with that list stroke as one of its many symptoms amongst other health concerns (it all makes sense now, right Klubbers?!). Being too witty is most likely a clear indication of dear ole little Vasco, but the redundant brain biopsy means I do now look rather sexy-chic with a cute little shaved spot (and my skull's blatant sexy peephole) at the back of my head, with friends making jokes about such a new (perhaps improved) Kitty Look within hours post-operation (I wouldn't expect any less from my dear Kitty Kat Klub!). One even made light of such a confronting haircut (just like a typical Australian would!) by asking if I looked like the beautiful Natalie Portman shaved head style, to which my response was that I was more likely channelling Bill Murray (....well I am quite enjoyable to look at. Hilarious *and modest* too!).
That conversation where a former flame likened myself to the most attractive women that have sported shaved heads (to which I replied with perhaps the most handsome balding man), hours post my live or die brain surgery, is a perfect example of my Klubbers' unique humour that has continuously engulfed my life (and theirs!) during such immense confusion, sadness and suffering, to which I truly regard as the ultimate positive sign of the special (K) person I am and how I'm (/we're) going to actively and successfully combat such a disorder with a smile on my/our dial (95% of the time). Furthermore, I had one lovely colleague hang out with me at hospital and later, after he had left, send me a message suggesting I reconsider my stay at St George's Hospital upon seeing the cemetery across the road (location, location, location!) was full to capacity (in the event you do no get the Kitty-Stab, he was implying the hospital was not doing a very good job at saving lives)! Of course, I absolutely loved receiving such a morbid message (my kind of humour after all!) and knew that an Englishman being able to make a quality joke about the dead centre of town when I was so petrified about death myself, where I had just survived two strokes caused by my little ole Vascullitis - a disease which can be fatal - meant that my strokes did indeed serve a purpose! Englishman, although heavily reliant on dry and dark humour, proves himself to be funny - quite the lasting effect there, Miss Laird!
Mere minutes after waking from brain surgery, friends are already mocking me.
LOVE.
November 2012
It was an incredibly confronting situation for this Kitty, to be facing the idea of death at 26 years old without my immediate family by my side, in a cold country on the opposite side/end of the world, absolutely confused and bewildered about what was going on in my life, yet it was just an everyday occurrence for the surgeons - after all, it was their day job. The superb surgeons (I feel like there was even one from Sydney *Kitty Stalker*! But don't trust my memory!) at St George's Hospital only had to listen to my angst for a few minutes before knocking me out (perhaps it was a tad kill two birds with one stone scenario for the surgeons when I was unconscious and therefore unable to offer them my usual Chitty-Chat - an accurate nickname for this Special K from her dear Schoey - to them during the brain biopsy!). However, my doting nurses had to constantly put up with my Chitty-Chat and if they weren't working, I'd ask after them (just the lucky ones that were put into my long term memory bank - i.e. sweeeeet ole GILLY-O!) because I missed the kind way they spoke about the scary brain operation and the countless other, invasive, traumatising procedures performed on this Kitty, sat next to my bed well into the lonely nights offering graphic tales and anecdotes about their lives outside of hospital and/or helped calm me in regards to my memory loss concerns when I thought I was going to be stuck as Special K forevermore ('I'll get you some pudding to help you calm down'/'I've seen worse than you recover. Get over it Kitty Kat!').
My doting nurses/employees would tell me the following day that I had asked after them when they weren't working (how dare they abandon me/have a day off!), offering congratulations on the short term memory progress as well as trying to imply that they were my favourite St George's Hospital staff member. Of course my response was always, 'you ought to be flattered I even remember you at all!' (such true words, Kitty!). Always a believer in your profession's ultimate rewards coming from your direct positive effect on others, I knew that Murse Gilly was absolutely chuffed at my ability to retain him then - and even now - yet the leader of our Commonwealth eludes me. It is no wonder Gilly was honoured to hold such a special (and honourable) place in my long-term memory bank!
Occasionally, the good ole nurses had to remind me that I hadn't yet had a shower for that day (implying to do so, dirty Kitty!), but I always reflected on this memory deficiency with optimism; at least they didn't have to shower me themselves, like stroke patients do so often require. They only had to step in with the friendly reminder (and they always were ever so friendly!) and I'd be off with some freshly-washed/new PJs and familiar smelling hair/body products that my beautiful friends had so lovingly brought in for me (there's only so much chocolate they could give me after all!). Of course, the ten minutes spent having a shower meant my short term memory had been reset, so when I'd come back to my room (I'd recognise my room by peaking in various ones until I recognised, say, my Italian Big Spoon, Gilly and/or my darling 4L students' art work that was on display - long term memory guides!), I'd be utterly confused about exactly which bed was mine, secretly wishing there was a witty, handsome gentleman (who laughs loudly at my Dad-style jokes) in a nearby bed to spoon, or perhaps even an Italian woman eager to tell me tales about her intriguing life, feed me chocolate and hug me during the lonely nights (...and bam! Just like that my latter, stronger desire came true with my dear Pina!). The patients who shared my ward were awfully understanding of my confusion and memory deficit, steering me in the right direction and when I'd occasionally get into another patient's bed (that was empty at the time! I'm not that brain damaged! C'mon!), thinking it was mine, we'd laugh at my Special K ways. You must find the humour aspect in such a unique (and frequent) occasion for the life of a brain-damaged soul! It also helped that Mother Duck was/is a mental health nurse who would tell me she's seen worse (probably referring to my younger sister in the mornings) and explained why my brain was having such a hard time at remembering, whilst also calling St George's Hospital straight after such chats to ask/tell them to up my calming drugs. I knew there was a reason why I had chosen Mother Duck to be my Mum for more than just her unique travel buddy abilities!
Hospital Life - Kitty Style
Friends Galore (& all the while, in a onesie)
St George's Hospital, London
November 2012
The psyche of a brain damaged person was in such an unfamiliar and bizarre place in the first few months post Strokie #2, that on top of my frequent misconception that I was definitely in a coma, I kept asking my nurses/employees, fellow patients/spoon buddies and my daily visitors/Klubbers if they liked my hair extension because I honestly thought I had been given a vanity saviour after my brain biopsy to prevent me looking like a better looking/funnier version of my brothers. Klubbers were at first concerned at how crazy I seemed, but then I was so adamant that I had a hair extension to cover the hole in my skull and flicked my hair (...that apparently covered the cute shaved spot) with such confidence, that it became quite the joke at my expense by my family, friends and even Murse Gilly - with myself joining in on such an entertaining Kitty Roast in the end ('twas really just trying to make my Klub laugh!). Upon reflection, it makes perfect sense that I should have had a hair extension to cover the blatant shaved spot! Now, I have accepted such an East London look and insist all of my loved ones (+ acquaintances/anybody) stroke the hole in my skull (with my skin covering it), with most finding it rather disgusting, morbid and disturbing. Surprisingly, I've grown quite attached to it and am often tapping the spot (of course, the hair has grown back, but the bone has yet to completely) and when I do these slight taps, I get slight tingling spasms in different parts of my head/neck, which feels as if the inside of my head is hollow! Perhaps it is - it would make an awful lot of sense! Unfortunately, I have been informed that the bone will grow back eventually, so if you are wanting to feel such a gateway to my brain, get in (the hole) quick! Hole in one jokes are most welcome.
Being a teacher, I am forever a learner and this brain injury (to the power of two) is no exception. Not only have I learned how truly fascinating our brains are with their abilities to re-route despite major damage, but I have also experienced, firsthand, the change in my Kitty-persona, as well as my logic, priorities and life's endeavours, whilst also understanding more about the dear kind souls that make up my world, the vast range of people within our world, the role they both play in my growth as a human being and how important they, particularly, my Klubbers, are to my own life's goals and its ultimate happiness. Whilst this is an extremely challenging life experience and one I do not recommend nor glorify by any means, it has given me immense knowledge and appreciation of the human body and of life itself. In particular, I'm only now grasping just how brilliantly programmed our brains are, as well as the sheer importance they hold over our entire being and how such a vital thinking and being tool can be - through no fault of our own - completely taken away or at the very least, drastically altered in an instant by the tiniest of damage to your nervous system when the blood vessels become inflamed (aka: Vasculitis).
Due to my (recently acquired) firsthand experience of just what constitutes short term memory loss, I have found that it doesn't necessarily mean knowledge and/or memories you recently acquired like so often presumed to be so (this is partly 50 First Dates' fault with its inaccurate portrayal of such). Even though I met the superb Murse Gilly in early November 2012, I retained his glorious self almost immediately (he was indeed honoured every day when I'd greet him with a warm, eager smile and for instance, comment on his haircut *that showcased short term memory* because he was that big a deal to my mind!) and I will remember him forevermore because he was a special and vital person in my recovery, hence his place in my long term memory bank as of November 2012. When we take information in, our brains process such information instantaneously into categories - of course, there's the well-known and valued long term memory (with information split into explicit, implicit and autobiographical categories) and then there's also the ever troublesome short term memory (aka the conscious mind according to Dr Sigmund Freud - I do love my uni days', penis-envy theorist, dear Dr Freudy!), which comes from paying attention to our sensory memories. Even though they are similar, our short term memory bank is different to our working memory bank, which would be used to store information periodically and rid such unnecessary brain clogging a few minutes later (i.e.: the colour of the man's shoes next to you at the chemist) - although I doubt I'd have much going on in either memory banks! A tad hard for the average person to fully grasp, but I've always felt the best way to understand a concept is to actually experience it directly (i.e.: learning Spanish whilst in Spain is far easier and effective than listening to a pre-recorded tape teaching you the foreign language in Australia). Unsurprisingly, this unique Kitty life experience has made me realise that my brain is an extremely interesting organ (so is yours!) and even though my strokes were out was of my control, before we (/St George's doting neurologists) finally discovered I had a rare (/special) disease (that can be fatal - Kitty has dodged two bullets thus far! No biggie!) - which was (according to experts in GB - although my doctor Down Under has his doubts) the cause for my 2012 strokes - my life and the direction it takes and with whom I choose to share my future experiences with, is.
It all starts now with acknowledging such a life-changing event (squared) with optimism, perseverance, humour and a little pun (naturally) - my strokes have been just like Roger Federer said his tennis strokes were/are; outstanding.
The brain is truly fascinating. Each hemisphere (left and right) has its own unique functions, abilities and strengths. You will notice that your right-hand control, your left-brain is used and vice versa. This is the same for eyesight, weaknesses and balance (and evident with this Kitty's lack of RHS eyesight, weakness and balance from Strokie #1).
Amazing minds!
Using this above guide, identify whether you celebrate your left or right brain hemisphere. Try celebrating the other one more tomorrow - he/she needs the love!
Due to my (recently acquired) firsthand experience of just what constitutes short term memory loss, I have found that it doesn't necessarily mean knowledge and/or memories you recently acquired like so often presumed to be so (this is partly 50 First Dates' fault with its inaccurate portrayal of such). Even though I met the superb Murse Gilly in early November 2012, I retained his glorious self almost immediately (he was indeed honoured every day when I'd greet him with a warm, eager smile and for instance, comment on his haircut *that showcased short term memory* because he was that big a deal to my mind!) and I will remember him forevermore because he was a special and vital person in my recovery, hence his place in my long term memory bank as of November 2012. When we take information in, our brains process such information instantaneously into categories - of course, there's the well-known and valued long term memory (with information split into explicit, implicit and autobiographical categories) and then there's also the ever troublesome short term memory (aka the conscious mind according to Dr Sigmund Freud - I do love my uni days', penis-envy theorist, dear Dr Freudy!), which comes from paying attention to our sensory memories. Even though they are similar, our short term memory bank is different to our working memory bank, which would be used to store information periodically and rid such unnecessary brain clogging a few minutes later (i.e.: the colour of the man's shoes next to you at the chemist) - although I doubt I'd have much going on in either memory banks! A tad hard for the average person to fully grasp, but I've always felt the best way to understand a concept is to actually experience it directly (i.e.: learning Spanish whilst in Spain is far easier and effective than listening to a pre-recorded tape teaching you the foreign language in Australia). Unsurprisingly, this unique Kitty life experience has made me realise that my brain is an extremely interesting organ (so is yours!) and even though my strokes were out was of my control, before we (/St George's doting neurologists) finally discovered I had a rare (/special) disease (that can be fatal - Kitty has dodged two bullets thus far! No biggie!) - which was (according to experts in GB - although my doctor Down Under has his doubts) the cause for my 2012 strokes - my life and the direction it takes and with whom I choose to share my future experiences with, is.
My Kitty Kat Klubbers have truly been remarkable in their support by say, for example, insisting on planning their visits to our hometown (where I'm currently residing with Mother Duck) with Kitty quality time ensured and/or acting like a doting, selfless nurse when I stay with them in a foreign city (even Brisbane - where I went to university and commenced my career is now foreign to this brain-damaged soul!). They ensure to put their familiar bras on their door so that I do not go into their unsuspecting, naive housemates' rooms after going to the bathroom for a few minutes and they also feed me fruit n nut chocolate just so I feel some familiarity when there (/so I don't complain about their place having no chocolate). My dear seven siblings, Sarah, Daniel, Simon, Aaron, Brent and Curt and Jack Attack (even JA's significant others, Mark, and Walter-Woo!), care for me like the Special K I am. Even my nephews and niece have to partake in caring for this brain-damaged Kitty by taking me to events and helping me get around the unfamiliar cities (that were once familiar to me) when I visit them! I now know why my parents procreated so often - to ensure I had a thorough and doting support network! Furthermore, one Good (/Great) friend missed out on a booked weekend in Amsterdam with our dear Dutch/Canadian buddies just to be with me at hospital during my birth-weekend in 2012 and I have had other friends cancel events in their social calendar, weekends spent sleeping in, going on dates (sorry gentlemen, Kitty holds priority!) and/or enjoying a typically normal life in order to support/spoon this inflamed blood vessells/dead pieces of brain Special K. I know this is not the norm for a brain-damaged person/non-brain-damaged person and it is not only a reflection of the selfless sort of people they are, but also who I choose to be part of my Klub and how valuable I must be to them (i.e.: I constantly receive 'please send me your cheese jokes, Kitty!' style messages. You know how it is - valuable witty Kitty over 'ere!). Having discovered the hard way, being unwell when you're young means many fellow young people have turned their back, not wanting to have to be confronted with someone who is a) unwell and b) mentally challenged. I know this is a reflection of their naive nature and ignorance and am now offering such acquired wisdom to fellow young stroke survivors. It truly is a blessing to find out who truly loves you so that you keep your focus on them.
Because of the little strokies, I adore my loved ones more than I possibly ever could have and just thinking about them makes me instantly smile and brings back the spring in my step. Yet another positive to this life chapter.
Because of the little strokies, I adore my loved ones more than I possibly ever could have and just thinking about them makes me instantly smile and brings back the spring in my step. Yet another positive to this life chapter.
Always the most popular patient on the ward - check out my lovely mates (who brought in Aussie treats sent express from Down Under! PB ate most of it).
They have been spectacular sorts!
Charing Cross Hospital
London U.K.
July 2012
One of my most greatest friends helping to create a 'memory board' of birthday celebrations at 'pital to ensure the effort the beauties of this world put in was not lost on their Special K (as I'd get anxious about forgetting such and that it hadn't really happened). It was freezing as well as miserable and a weekend that was meant to be in Amsterdam with this incredible woman, yet we had such a lovely day with Zac Hanson, Miss P, PB, A.Banana and even dear work colleagues who came all the way from outside of London - Twickenham (to name but a few). Sweet, sweet people.
St George's Hospital
London UK
November 2012
Always one to be a self-advocator, I take responsibility of my own life as a 27-year-old brain-damaged Kitty Kat and actively seek ways to improve this little, newly-found endeavour of mine despite the extreme challenges I now face and how I may be affected by my decisions. As you may be aware, I am actively seeking ways to improve my restricted life that was pushed onto me when strokes struck at 26 through the decisions I make (still have some choices despite the sheer extent of control in my life = hurrah!) and these are clearly evident with my regular volunteer stint at a nearby supportive primary school (with hours continually growing yesssssss), occupational + speech and language therapy - that I was once doing two mornings a week and now also no longer require due to the improvement in my memory retention, the progress in decision making and articulation from such self-advocating measures and also from a range of daily at-home brain exercises (i.e.: cooking, various brain tasks orchestrated by dear Nurse Mother Duck, puzzles, sudoku and even Iphone apps) and regular rehabilitation with OTs away from hospital who specialise in stroke survivors (I'm their youngest client *rather than patient!*- probably/definitely their funniest too!). Furthermore, I do believe in the power of optimism alone and this positive attitude is further enhanced by ensuring I have a strong, positive support network through my dear Kitty Kat Klubbers (definitely have had to weed out the bad seeds). My ultimate objective here is to improve the quality of my life (and my loved ones' lives too - one day they won't have to look after me as much!) and get the ole brain back to its old, hilarious (your words) self where I have true purpose in life by teaching again. The docs all have faith in this Aussie Battler!
Hospital Life For Kitty
(& For Our Queen, the noble foot tickler, former British roomies, former hospital roomie/bestie and two of the dearest girlfriends that picked myself up when I was down - KTG and Zac Hanson, entertaning to no end)
LOVE!
St George's Hospital, London
November - December 2012
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