Adventures in ignorance, aka Queensland. Part one of many.

On the evening of Thursday, March 29, at approximately 1830 hours, I was feeling dizzy, ill, and congested. My blood sugar was slightly below 4.0 mmol/l, but against my better judgement, I decided to take a walk and try to clear my head. That proved a costly mistake when as I closed the door, I realised that I had forgotten to take the housekeys with me.

At first, I made several calls. One was to my mother, telling her what had happened and asking her if she could contact people in the locality who might be able to help. I also called emergency services and asked about getting the local police to help me get back into my house. The operator reminded me at the time that I would be liable for any costs getting back in such as fixing the locks after the fact and such. They did so in a manner more consistent with speaking to a child than an adult from the city of Parramatta who has an IQ in the 130s. So the first mark of shame goes to the emergency services number in Queensland. Just because you happen to be morons does not mean everyone you speak to is a moron. Show some respect in future, please. You might not think I have earned it (you are wrong), but what you show people in conversation does have a way of getting returned to you.

By this time, I had consumed enough apple juice, jelly beans, and strawberry-flavoured milk that when I tested my blood glucose twice over a ten minute interval, it jumped from about 3.X to 5.0 mmol/l. Anyone who is familiar with how my blood sugar works knows that this is quite a rise. Putting that aside for a moment, I called the ambulance to come and take me to the local hospital. I was still sweating cold and feeling dizzy. By the time I reached the hospital, however, a second blood test revealed my blood glucose was at 11.X, which is a massive jump given that the trip to the hospital could not have taken more than fifteen minutes.

Repeated requests to have my blood glucose properly monitored were ignored until my blood sugar was at 15.X and moving up. One symptom of such heightened blood glucose is excessive mouth mucus production and thirst. So I drank more tap water after that than I did the entire week prior. And then I vomited on the floor in the room I was left to wait long periods in. Oh, and when they did finally get around to giving me a dose of the wrong kind of insulin, the doctor only saw fit to “write up” five units of short-acting. For those who need some context, if I have a blood glucose of 20.0 mmol/l or more, I generally inject at least 30 units of Humalog in order to bring it down to an acceptable level. Because I weigh more than 110 kilograms, am male, and had at this time eaten enough to equal a loaf of bread in simple carbohydrate, five units would do precisely fukk and all. And I made sure, in different wording, that the people responsible for this knew.

They decided to discharge me at ~0150 hours that morning. Probably in retaliation for me vomiting on the floor and expressing concerns about how inadequately they were caring for me. I sat and waited for the next available bus that would pass the hospital. I am a far more patient man than I used to be, for a number of reasons, but when the battery in my iPood ran out at approximately 0400, it became hell. Walks were taken, broadcast television on a cheap-ass plasma panel was watched, and at 0557 hours, a bus was caught. More walks, a visit to the doctor, a visit to the chemist, and a visit to the real estate agent later, I was finally in the door of my own house. Then I tested my blood glucose. Now, I will grant that I ate a pack of hotcakes at McDonald’s between arriving in the suburb of my residence around 0630 and finally getting in the door around 0915, but when one’s blood glucose is at 15.0 mmol/l mere hours after a night in the hospital, that basically means that hospital sucks.

Caboolture, the northernmost suburb that is considered to be a part of Brisbane by the planners, is derided by those who live further in for a good reason. In the city of Brisbane, it has the highest level of unemployment, the highest level of crime (or near to), and the worst record in animal cruelty according to the RSPCA. That is where the hospital I refer to is located. So if you find yourself visiting Brisbane for any reason, stay the hell away from what I heard one local resident call Cabullshit. And if you cannot avoid the place for some reason, make sure you have something on hand to say that if you are injured or gravely sick for whatever reason, you do not want to be in the care of their medics.

(It should be noted at this stage that whilst there are good medics in Cabullshit Hospital, they are the exception rather than the rule. You are literally taking your life in your hands going there.)

In fact, after my experiences, I believe that anyone who wants to see a Queenslander that does not make them believe genocide might not be such a bad thing after all should steer clear of anywhere to the North of Strathpine. That area is to places like Chermside like Blacktown is to Parramatta. And mind you, most of Brisbane would have to make a Herculean jump to reach Blacktown’s level. The central business district of Brisbane itself would need to expand by a hundred percent to equal Parramatta’s. And this is to say nothing of the fact that the last woman I had a lengthy relationship with described Sydney as “quaint”, “cute”, and the like.

The thing about Queenslanders, and especially all of Brisbane, is that some of them really believe they are living in anything more than an overgrown village. As I said, Parramatta and Sydney are barely sprouts in world terms, but the ego of Brisbane’s populace is just mind-boggling in these terms. Not to mention the oft-made boast that in X number of years (the first time I heard this, they said 2010), Brisbane will be bigger than Melbourne. If their infrastructure remains the same or continues to grow at the rates I have witnessed, any further expansion in the population of Brisbane is only going to result in further suffering and misery, especially on the part of the children, the bottom 60 percent of incomes, and the disenfranchised.

Anyway, getting back to the main thrust, shortly after I returned home, tried (and failed) to catch up on some needed sleep, and took some pills, my mother came to visit. My mother and I… our relationship is tense, but we are trying to at least salvage it. But that is only because she has some understanding of what I think of Queensland as a place and people. We made a visit to the suburb known as Chermside, and its shopping mall that Brisbane folk love to crow about in spite of its terminal case of Tiny Dick Syndrome compared to Parramatta’s shopping mall (five stories, two buildings that dominate two blocks, and this is only a significant fraction of Parramatta’s commercial real estate). Whilst in the specialist camera store, obtaining photo prints and buying a cabled remote for my camera, I caught sight of the person who qualifies as the one Queenslander I would be upset to see hurt or ill. I will not mention her name here because if people come after her because I mentioned that I cared if she lived or died here, I would have to come after them, and I would rather spare myself the effort.

But she and I have had textual conversations about a lot of things, including much of what I write about here. In some of these conversations, she has told me that she has grown up in this city, and it has been a positive experience. I believe her. But the thing is, when you exclude somebody, and continue to exclude them, and rub their face in it to the extent that Brisbane has done with me, well, let us just say you should expect writings like these as a minimum.

Also worth noting is that whilst Western Sydney and Parramatta have a crossed culture to a degree that the rest of Australia could benefit from, Queensland in general has almost none of it. I am told there are small alcoves where people of Middle Eastern descent can be found, but the city for the most part seems to be a complete monoculture. It is all white middle class, white trash, or tourists. When I lived in Parramatta, it was possible to run across people who spoke any one of a dozen languages in addition to English. To call Western Sydney an environment where intellectual stimulation can be found far more easily than in all of Queensland is a massive understatement.

So if the Queensland citizen I referred to in positive terms earlier is out there reading this at any point, I would just like her to read and understand the following. I can understand that you might disagree with what I think of the people of Queensland. I can understand you might be disturbed by my feeling that you are the only Queenslander I have met whom I could not bury up to the neck and ride over with a ride-on. But understand that they can help what they are. I, for the most part, cannot.

If you have read this far and understand why I have written as I have, then thank you. If you can look me in the eye and say you grok what I have written, thank you even more.

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