Octopus Garden

I recently read "Lily and the Octopus" by Steven Rowley. Lily is a dog, and one day her human notices she has a tumour which he visualises as an octopus (a talking, malevolent octopus).  The previous book I read, "The Comet Seekers"  by Helen Sedgewick also features a brain octopus (although not referred to as such). It is weird that the two books that I have picked up recently, to avoid thinking about my own octopus, have had this in common. As my sister succinctly put it: "the universe is weird sometimes". 

So, it seems I have an octopus hidden in my head. It is on my pituitary gland so is not a brain octopus, just brain-adjacent which is much better. It is small for an octopus - 3.5cm - but big for the inside of my head (as far as I am concerned). It turns out, it has probably been there for years, and I am very lucky to have found it before experiencing the truly bizarre and horrible side-effects associated with this kind of octopus - headaches really don't seem too bad when compared to some symptoms.  

M's artwork

It seems a weird thing to blog about, but maybe other people have had some of the same questions and can relate? Like, what do you wear to hospital? Why do they tape your eyes shut when under anesthetic? (That seems really weird). And has the octopus changed me in slow subtle ways that I didn't notice because it has been growing there for a number of years? (OK, that one is just for me and is an irrational fear, but I stand by the anxiety about what to wear) And why haven't I thought to ask how long the surgery is? Why do they make you go to the hospital at such an uncivilised hour (6am - in Winter!!)? And, possibly what keeps me up more than the octopus itself, how will I be able to afford octopus management? 

Is stressing about this and, worse, writing a blog, a little dramaqueen-esque? This is especially true in light of the crazy disasters happening in the country, the storm, the fires, the Zuptas and the world... This personal drama seems small by comparison. But blogs are inherently self-indulgent, right? Anyway, I started out not being sure about who to tell, or how to tell people, (it doesn't come up naturally in conversations) or whether I come across like someone desperately-seeking-attention, but now the news is out there and spreading without my help so I figured I could indulge a little.

Adult Sardine otolith (slightly chipped).
They are very pretty, delicate structures

Firstly... I am fine, I am obviously stressed/scared but I would be weird if I wasn't, right? The octopus has been there for years, so right now the only thing that is different is that I know about it. I had a totally freaked out weekend where I didn't really know what was happening (sorry to the poor people who dealt with me over that period) but am feeling calmer now. I have since seen my brain - which is pretty awesome (seeing it, that is, the brain itself is pretty average looking). And I have had everything explained to me and seen pictures with way too much detail. I have also seen up my nose - which is an experience I do not recommend (and I am not sure how children get stuff stuck up there - it hurts to shove stuff up your nose). I have seen my inner ear bones which I got a weird kick out of, although I reckon sardine otoliths (inner ear bones) are probably prettier. 

I know that the octopus has kindly shoved important brain-things out to the side rather than wrapping its tentacles around them, which means it will be easier to operate. Oh, and I know that, despite my family's teasing, my nose is not too small! The neurosurgeon and everyone I have spoken to have all been incredibly kind, and careful about explaining things to me. I now know words and facts that I didn't know before and can casually throw them into conversations... but I won't. I can now also blame the octopus when I do something dumb - even though this octopus doesn't work like that, I am going to anyway. I am tired of the anticipation of it and stressing at 3am - although I have gotten through a good number of books which is a bonus. Tuesday is both too far and too near. 

I am very grateful to know about the octopus, (NOT so stoked about it's existence, but c'est la vie). I am incredibly lucky that my GP took my headaches seriously and sent me for a scan. I will never find words to describe my gratitude to him - he is a very good doctor and not just on this occasion (Dr Parr - Brampton Family Practice - he is one of those rare doctors that doesn't give antibiotics when you have a virus and diagnosed my gall stones when others didn't). I am grateful to have such a supportive boss - who also dealt with me kindly in the panicked stage. Obviously, you all already know that I have the best family in the world (I am very grumpy about missing our family holiday,  and Kulula ripping me off, but am pleased that it means the next family holiday will also include T!) And am also incredibly lucky to have had so much support and so many people wishing me well from far-flung corners of the world. I feel kind of embarrassed and humbled to be the recipient of all those good wishes. So, I want to say thank you although those two words are really too small for what I really want to say. Don't worry I am in good hands and they will downsize this octopus and stop him getting any crazy ideas! And then, I will be back, with another self-indulgent, overly-long blog. 

Adorable frog...

If you want to do something to make me happy, sign our petition to ban microbeads or send an email to appeals.southern@capetown.gov.za asking them to do a FULL EIA before allowing (or rather, not allowing) development on the Kenilworth Racecourse Conservation Area - home of adorable frogs (and other important species and rare/endemic stuff). 







Also, I really love actual octopuses, they are among my favourites - despite the fact that the plural is a less than awesome word.  And they definitely are too smart to be eaten (another book I have been reading, Last Days of the Bus Club by Chris Stewart, said that you shouldn't eat octopus because they love beauty and use shells etc. to decorate the entrances of their burrows - the boring scientist in me thinks there might be a sexual selection aspect at play, but I do try shut her up occasionally).