The Antibiotic Apocalypse

https://medium.com/editors-picks/892b57499e77 – Imagining the Post-antibiotics Future

I read this piece during a spare moment at work. It terrified me.
Can you imagine a world where a scraped knee could kill a child? Where mothers don’t live long enough to see their children after childbirth? Where a sore ear could cause lifelong deafness?
It would be like returning to the 18th century.
A world without antibiotics is a terrifying prospect, not least because the advantages of modern science mean that we take our defence against infections for granted. It is clear that we need to take steps to prevent these important medicines from becoming completely ineffective, and it is important that these steps are taken by patients and doctors, hand in hand. Patients need to recognise that not every common minor illness requires antibiotic treatment. Obviously, severe bacterial infections necessitate such tough medicines, but for minor viruses like the common cold, antibiotics won’t help. At the same time, doctors need to ensure patients are informed of the proper uses for antibiotics, and guide them through alternative treatments for their minor ailments.
I came down with a cold not long ago. Nothing more than a sore throat, blocked nose and a cough. But the cough stopped me from doing my job of answering phones. I took the day off and visited the doctor for the necessary medical certificate – and left with a script for antibiotics.
I know what you’re thinking. The doctor knows best, he has years of medical schooling – but it is common knowledge that antibiotics will not treat a cold. My main concern was that I was prescribed these powerful drugs without having any further tests done. How could he be sure I needed them? He couldn’t. I dumped the script in the bin and, after a couple of days of rest coupled with codrals, I ‘miraculously’ recovered.
But it worries me that our first defence against serious bacterial infections can be so readily misused. No wonder then, that resistance to antibiotics is growing, when bacteria are given opportunities like this to develop their resistance to our medical weapons.
Obviously, as the article mentions, there are other factors contributing to the decreasing effectiveness of antibiotics. But it is important that patients and doctors alike recognise that antibiotics are effective only when used for their true purpose- fighting bacteria. Having spoken to others, I know I am not the only one who has been prescribed these drugs unnecessarily. Unless we want to see them fail completely, we need to start treating antibiotics with respect, using them only when necessary and as prescribed. The alternative world presented in the article above is only too close to becoming our reality.

Surprise epidemic strikes on Cup Monday

Productivity levels in Victorian businesses slumped on Monday, as the state suffered in the grip of a sudden epidemic.
The illness crippled the Victorian workforce, rendering its victims so sick that they were unable to attend work that day.
Data obtained from a sample of workplaces from across the state show a sharp increase in the number of people who called in sick to work on Monday, leading to claims of an epidemic sickness on that day.
According to workplace managers and bosses, symptoms given on Monday morning included feeling hungover, stomach upsets, headaches and dizziness. The number of absences caused several organisations to run on skeletal staff for the day – incidentally, the day before the Melbourne Cup public holiday. Productivity and service output dropped as a result, and many businesses recorded losses for the day.
The symptoms, which vary widely in their severity and type, are inconsistent with a single known illness. However, the number of absences would seem to confirm speculation of an epidemic.
In some cases, the sickness persisted into Wednesday, with employees not returning to work following the public holiday until Thursday.
And with many workers not supplying medical certificates to prove their condition, the question of what ailment afflicted so many people remains.
However, one small business owner, who has requested he remain anonymous, thinks he has the answer.
“It’s the lure of a long weekend,” he said, “Aussies famously love a day off – any excuse will do!”
His claim is likely to fuel debate to introduce a public holiday on Cup Monday as well as Cup Day – ensuring that in future years, should the epidemic strike again, workers will have another day on which to rest and recuperate.

Readers: please note the above article is entirely fictional and no disrespect or harm is intended to any party. Any resemblance to any person living or dead is unintended and purely coincidental.

I Gave Money to a Homeless Man Today

I gave money to a homeless man today.

He was not more derelict, or dirty, or impoverished looking, than others. He had no attractive wares to sell, was not actively calling for money, and did not have a starving pet with him.

He was sitting in a doorway midway up the street, wrapped in a surprisingly clean looking doona. Before him, the vessel that invited the generosity of passers-by: a used plastic coffee-cup.

The city is full of similar images of poverty and despair. Men and women of all ages, wrapped in whatever scraps they can find to keep out the biting wind, with hollow objects sitting on the ground in front of them, signals of their desperation for any spare change that might be offered.

Often, these people are ignored; they are the symptoms of a problem that no one really wants to confront in the course of their day. So, invisible, the beggars remain in their niches and crevices, holding out for change.

The man I saw was no different in this respect. Except that, rather than simply walking past, I decided to stop this time. 

Something in his expression caught me. Our eyes met, and I recognised the usual emotions of despair and resignation. But there was something else too. Something like hope, not just for the possibility of some spare coins, but also more generally. He had his face turned into the wind, looking back into the CBD, and his expression was completely calm.

I stepped up and deposited my offering in his cup. I mumbled a hello, and his response was raspy and parched, but grateful.

I don’t know anything about this poor man, other than that he happened to be the beggar I passed in that doorway that afternoon. Perhaps I imagined the emotions I read in that expression. Certainly his position is not unique; homeless people all over the city must feel the same as this man. But I like to think that the change I spared him may have genuinely helped him to have a more comfortable night, and perhaps add a spark to the hope that seemed to burn behind those accepting eyes.

Vale

The family gathered every day to see how you were doing. From the beginning,there was hope, definitely a few more months. There would be horrible treatments, terrible pain, devastating darkness – but we would pull through, together. Your sister was so strong,so caring, a rock for everybody to lean on. Practical and steady, she held your hand and listened while you struggled. A week after the diagnosis, the pain had worsened. Your voice was so weak, pathetically so. It was frightening, seeing you so helpless and pale, your face screwed up in pain as you drifted in and out of consciousness. You had always been so strong and well- what happened? and why? it wasn’t fair or right- but we were determined to make you well again and bring you home. Our family is strong and determined and stubborn, renowned for that, so of course we would have our way. You were delirious, unable to recognise the faces of your sons, but your hands clung to the warmth and security that they offered when they held you. You didn’t want to let go, and we wouldn’t let you.

Suddenly, things got worse. They told me you were deteriorating and that it wouldn’t be long now.
I didn’t go in, that last night. I didn’t visit, because I was scared, and tired, and I believed you would still be there the following afternoon for one more hug.
But then, at 12:24pm, that fateful message blinked on my screen: nana has just died.
Words can’t describe the pain, the burning tears, the sensation. I came straight to the hospital to say goodbye, for one last hug and kiss and to tell you I loved you and would miss you – did you hear me? Could you see the way your family grieved? How loved you were? You were so pale, a truly unhealthy colour, and so still! It wasn’t like you at all. But your face was peaceful at last, all your cares forgotten as you settled into that long sleep, your last sleep. You looked at ease. We joked – is she still foul mouthed, my mother laughed, while my father, your son, replied quietly, yes, she won’t answer me. As he left the room to give us some privacy to say goodbye, he said, shake her, see if she will wake up. You would have liked that one.
We turned to discussing memories, and then the practicalities of the funeral. And it was then that your sister, so big and strong and solid throughout, broke down for the first time. Her face crumbled, she buckled- but she regained control, and we thanked whatever power was out there that you were out of pain now forever, and reunited with the love of your life in a much better place.
But it was over so quick – barely a week between the diagnosis and the final sleep. The beginning of your next journey. You always did love a good journey.
So many questions I never asked, so many things I never shared with you. I’m trying not to have regrets, but if I could go back, oh the things I would do differently. But I’m told you know now, you can see everything. In death, all things are clearer and all of life’s questions are answered. I hope they were, it is comforting to think so.
We grandchildren want to make you proud. We hope you are watching over us, you and grandpa, and that our actions light up the sky for you. We owe you that. Rest in peace nana.

The following was written for the funeral:

It’s hard to know where to start on occasions like this. How do you cram a lifetime’s worth of memories with a bold, fun, kind-hearted, loving Nana like ours into a few short minutes?
There are so many memories to choose from. The toys seem like a good place to start. Entire boxes full of them, enough to fill up more than the hours we spent there. And if there weren’t enough, we would always get a Happy Meal toy when we had McDonalds for tea that night. There were dress ups too, old clothes that had had their day but that put smiles on all our faces and led to plenty of imaginary games and hilarious photos.
Nana liked to travel – she would pack up the caravan and head off on an adventure to some place that we had never heard of, or sometimes a place that we had heard of, but either way we were always jealous. She never forgot to send postcards though, just to let us know what fun she was having. Sometimes there were souvenirs, and photos that truly did tell a thousand words.
There were always treats in the cupboard – bowls full of chocolate bars, jars crammed with sweet biscuits, a fridge loaded with icy poles. There was a tub of jelly ice-cream at one stage, served with a dollop of cream – but you couldn’t have more than one helping. Of course, she had our best interests at heart. And boy did Nana make the best Milos.
Sometimes the treats weren’t so good though – like lumpy milk, which was promptly spat across the table in horror, all over breakfast. Calm and level headed, Nana soon had it cleaned up.
She was like that – never stressed or worried. I can vividly recall the way she saved me from a huntsman spider in her car. We arrived home, and she asked me to climb out the driver’s side door, just because she wanted to see if I could do it. Of course I wanted to prove that I could do it, so off I went. From the outside, she opened the passenger door to show me the real reason – the giant, hairy eight-legged monster on the inside of the door. While I screamed, she simply beat it, with her bare hand, onto the ground and stomped on it. I’ve never been that brave.
As we all got older visits became less about the toys and the treats and more about the talks. Nana was always there to listen and give an opinion. She could provide the most down to earth, practical advice – or deliver the most outlandish suggestion with a completely deadpan face, so that you didn’t know whether to do what she told you or laugh it off.
But one thing never changed – visits to Nana’s house were always an adventure, filled with fun, warmth and laughter. Sometimes you would rediscover an old toy or favorite book, and spend a while reminiscing. Other times, we would all shout across the table about the most recent news item, or a hated TV show, or that person you worked with that you just couldn’t stand.
There’s so much that could be said about Nana, about how cheerful she was, how much fun she was, how practical and brave she was. Right through to the end, she fought. And we are so proud of her for that.
And while we will miss her terribly, and everything she ever did for us, we are glad she is no longer in that terrible pain, and comforted by the fact that we are sure Grandpa was waiting for her, with arms wide open. And we have so many special memories to remember her by, that will ensure that she lives on in our hearts.
One thing that was always very special was the way Nana signed off her cards. She never missed an occasion, not a birthday or a Christmas. And every one was signed, “all my love”.
Now it’s our turn. All our love Nana, always.

The Premier’s Autistic Son

The Premier’s Autistic Son

So inspiring, and just a beautiful story. Wonderful to see such kind-heartedness and realism in politicians.