The Fluidity of Expiry Dates

After an ultrasound, the niggling pain in my upper arm now has a diagnosis.

I have degenerative calcification in my shoulder. As the name suggests, the degenerative part is due to age. Specifically middle-age.

I am officially middle-aged.

To some, middle age is seen as the start of end. The loss of youth. A thing to be feared.

“But then you turn 30. Oooohh, what happened there? Makes you sound like bad milk! He TURNED; we had to throw him out. There’s no fun now, you’re Just a sour-dumpling. What’s wrong? What’s changed?

You BECOME 21, you TURN 30, then you’re PUSHING 40. Whoa! Put on the brakes, it’s all slipping away. Before you know it, you REACH 50 and your dreams are gone.” – George Carlin

George Carlin’s views on aging are funny because for many people they speak the truth. Always one to march to the beat of my own drum, including the occasions when I’m out of time with myself, I’m delighted with middle age.

Because I’ve outlived my expiry date. I was not supposed to get ‘old’.

My expiry dates have been flexible and fluid, but nonetheless real. My mother was told that my chances of seeing thirteen were 50%. The median life expectancy of a person born with Cystic Fibrosis in the early 70’s was seven.

As medical technologies advanced, statistical probabilities changed as did median life expectancies. I saw the median life expectancy raised to fourteen, to twenty-one. Currently thirty-seven is the ‘doomsday’ number. Ironically, at thirty-seven I found myself in respiratory failure, with the clock ticking down in real time.

A transplant saw me cheat my way past that expiry date. A life-saving transplant which heralds a new set of statistical probabilities and expiry dates.

Yet, despite these facts and figures, here I am.

Still standing.

Still breathing.

So yes, I’m delighted to be middle-aged – even if that means I’m bringing a degenerative shoulder along to my party.

Ultrasound Images of my Degenerative Shoulder

Dear Wade

I’d heard a lot about you before we met. You were Katrina’s ex and everyone had talked you up as serious eye candy. I’d been told I would be impressed, but I was determined not to be. Instead, I’d hooked my thumb in your direction, curled my nose up and sighed, “So this is Wade huh? Gotta say he doesn’t live up to the hype.” Katrina laughed and later told me she’d never seen you stuck for words before.

Despite this, somehow we ended up the best of friends. It started with a game of pool at the pub, then in the blink of an eye we were out on the town at least once a week, often more – it didn’t matter if it was a night out at The Charles, multiple games of pool, or even as your plus one at family events, so long as we were there together. We were drinking partners, you and I  – you did the drinking, while I took care of the driving.

My old gunmetal grey Escort became your snooze mobile. Whether you’d had one beer or many, you’d always fall asleep on the way home, leaving me to pour you into bed. If you were staying at your Dad’s it was my job to try and keep you quiet so you didn’t wake the household. I’m not sure I always succeeded — you were a chatterbox and naturally loud even when I gave you my best librarian shhhhhhhh!

The task was harder if you were staying at your mum’s, I had to navigate the stairs.  With me being 5ft nothing, a fireman’s lift was out of the question and on more than one occasion I dragged you by the armpits up those stairs.  Even on the nights when you climbed the stairs yourself, you’d want to sit and chat every few steps making a simple staircase journey last an hour or more. But no matter where you were staying I always got you to bed, took your boots off and gave you a kiss on the cheek before leaving and locking the door behind me.

Our relationship confused many people, we were so close that those who saw us together assumed we were dating, but we never had a physical relationship. Perhaps our friendship was too important, perhaps the timing was never right. But whatever our relationship was, we brought out the best in one another. I managed to talk you out of many crazy schemes, while you taught me to be fearless.


After I moved, our lives travelled in different directions. When you called and asked me to visit you in remand, I had no hesitations. You, however,  attached a condition to my visits, if I was asked to be subjected to a strip search I was to refuse. You weren’t that important. My reply that of course I would go through with a strip search, if only to hold it over your head for the rest of your life, was met with raucous laughter. All my visits went smoothly, and I never did get those bragging rights, instead, I shared my writing dreams with you, and your challenges sent my writing in unexpected directions.

We’d been out of touch for a few years when Jarryn’s karate lessons moved to a club. Instead of watching him, I had my nose in a book when I felt eyes upon me. I looked up to see you grinning broadly at me. At the time you were working behind the bar, so from then on, instead of reading a book while Jarryn did his high kicks, I’d nurse a coke and we’d chat between customers. You were a father now and each week you’d proudly show me photos.

I never saw you again after Jarryn gave up karate, but I often thought of you through the years – I’ve never been able to listen to “I Love Rock ‘n’ Roll” without thinking of the night we belted out our screeching rendition at karaoke. I was sad when it was mentioned recently in passing that you had died a few years ago, and my heart broke when I learnt the circumstances surrounding your death.

Perhaps, for me, it was for best that I hadn’t paid attention to the news because I get to remember you as my friend and not as a headline. I get to remember your hair blowing in the breeze as you held your head out of my Escort window, your cheeky grin when you’d been up to something mischievous (handcuff keys delivered a week too late springs to mind!!), the many times you held my hand as we danced (or head banged in-sync) at The Charles, and so much laughter.

I’ll always think of you as my ‘drinking’ partner.


Love always,


Jarryn’s Thoughts on The Simpsons

Many moons ago when Jarryn was eight we were watching The Simpsons, Homer was, as usual, doing something incredibly stupid while Bart was up to no good.

“Homer is just like my Dad,” Jarryn said.
“Well then,” I said, “If your Dad reminds you of Homer, who reminds you of you?”

Jarryn in his "Yeah ... Nothing Rhymes with Bart" shirt

Jarryn in his “Yeah … Nothing Rhymes with Bart” shirt

I was, of course, expecting that answer, and it followed that I would be compared next to Marge. Minus the blue hair, I would probably fit neatly with that comparison.
I asked the question anyway.

“So if Dad’s Homer and you are Bart, who do I remind you of?”
The answer came promptly and without any hesitation.

That threw me off guard.
Lisa? Not Marge? I couldn’t help myself; I had to ask.
“Why? Why Lisa?”

“Well Mum, because your smart and you know lots of stuff, but you’re always grumpy.”

Righto sorry I asked.