It's not about not giving a fuck, it's about giving the right fucks.

Did I say that? Or hear it somewhere? Don't know. Don't care too much either.

On my shittiest days, I reckon I feel the same as this kid I read about in one of those 'make you smile and count your blessings again' magazines. I copied his words down and keep them well hidden from Mum and Dad. They'd stress about them. Even more than usual... if that's possible. Mum'd turn away to hide her tears, and Dad would go gruffy in his voice and keep on clearing his throat. They're like totally bombed out with this gig of mine.

Yair well, this kid (he's a juvie, actually), he knew he'd be dying before too long. It's that muscle-chewing disease - chews 'em up or paralyses, or something. The hardening creeps up your lungs - until you can't breathe any more. Shit of a way to go. I'm really into the first line he wrote -

I need to know how to stop giving a fuck about things like dying wa-a-a-y sooner than most people,

and his last one, too -

and finally, I'm going to die, dude... DIE!

In between, he raged about never having a partner, 'cos he's still a teenager, and I reckon he's like a sort of artist and already losing touch with his paintings or drawings, whatever. And before too long, he'd have to have a trach in his neck – it's a tube thing so you can breathe - even be able to talk and be heard, he said. Already having trouble with his voice, he said.

This kid really got me thinking. Thinking and feeling so dirty on myself. Poor sucker's dying and I'm comparing losing one lousy leg to his god-awful luck ? I've still got my life - such as it is. Such as it will be. Aarrgh, stop it already... just STOP IT for fuck's sake. Positives is what I gotta think and do. It's what whats'er name said - the physio chick. Think-think-think her name - might help to distract me from this pain. Ha! And I thought the freaking physical pain was something. This stinking thinking pain is bringing me right down, man.

SHANI... that's what her name is! Knew it'd jump up and hit me right between the brain cells soon as I stopped searching for it. Oh yair - Shani. Good old Shani. Like she'd know how it feels to be a one-legged kid. Not even cripples are all the same. Some have both legs. Maybe not working right, but still, they'd have two...

"Just take it one day at a time," she says. Like there's a goddamn choice? "Don't waste your breath and energy on depression," she says. Yair, right lady - like I'm on top of the world, twirling on one set of toes. Ha! Screw it, I know, for God's sake, I KNOW. It wastes too much time you could be spending learning how to live again. It chews you up and spits you out in little useless pieces. I KNOW!

There are days... oh man! Days when it's like I already bit the big one... or wished I had. No getting away from it when I sleep. I hate to sleep. Those dark hours are filled with the nightmare of THE accident; THE moment when my world stopped turning in the direction I thought. The if onlys come back to haunt me. Like - if only I hadn't borrowed Dad's jeans to go out plowing, if only I'd put the safety guard on the fucking harvester. I close my eyes and all I can see is those great blades catching the trousers, catching my knee, chewing and smashing everything... and then the Black Hole. Deep? Man, I didn't know up from down for hours, they say. Until they told me they had to amputate.

And suddenly, I've gone full circle and I'm back at the beginning of THAT day. How come that memory is clear as a bell, while the rest... ? They tell me shock and denial and stuff are what makes the brain wipe some stuff out. But this is like a film replay.

* * * * * * * * * *

Oh shit!  "Zip's broken, Mum. Can't walk around with my fly undone. What do I do?"

"Aww c'mon Jake... " She clicks her tongue and sighs loudly. She's exasperated with me... again!

"They're not the ONLY jeans you own. With all the washing I do for you, I surely know that. Just get out another pair."

"... but one lot's in soaking that tractor grease out, and the others split from uhrr... (phew! Caught myself just in time. Mum wouldn't like 'from arsehole to breakfast time'), uhrr... here to there!"

She raises one eyebrow. I can see she's struggling to stop a smile... like she knows what I nearly said.

"And then there's only your good ones, I know, I know." She reaches up and ruffles my hair. I'm taller than her now, even though I'm still a teenager. Doesn't stop me playing the 'poor little boy' bit if I reckon it'll help. Pretty damn good at that – had years of practice, after all.

"You'll have to use a pair of Dad's old work jeans. He's got a few." Now she smiles as she looks at my skinny hips. "You'll have to seriously tighten a belt to keep your Dad's dacks up. It's been a long, long time since his middle looked anything like yours," and she glances down even lower. "Not like your feet. Can't believe you're both the same size now! Ha... my little boy." She shakes her head and that lovey look makes her eyes go sort of dreamy. Better snap her out of this lot before she gets too mushy altogether.

"I know what you're gonna say next." I change to a kinda firm, but sweet and ladyish voice.

"Be careful! Yes Mum. Don't try and do it all yourself! No Mum.' Dad'll be home soon! Yes Mum (yawn... but turn head away so she can't see) - and don't forget the safety guard!"

I duck the tea-towel thrown at me and take off out the door, detouring to grab a few hot biscuits from the baking tray.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

There I go again. The shaking's gonna start next. Quick. Think something else... something funny? Yair, right! Except of course, when my mates visited. Well-meaning, but could NOT get their feet out of their mouths, could they? "Take it one step at a time," said one. Caught a bit of a blush there, didn't I? And later, when another said, "You have to put your best foot forward" a silence fell down, so thick you could've heard a hypo needle drop. Suddenly everyone got busy ogling their feet.

Mum says I ought to keep a journal sorta thing about my battle, starting right here in hospital. She reckons it'd help me, especially looking back on where I've been and "how you've progressed," she says. Reckons it'd help others, too. Should be thinking about anything at all outside myself, she says. Make something worthwhile come from this disaster. The idea kinda worked for me for a bit... then it slipped away and the whole thing felt stupid. Maybe I should try again. That infection setback rocked me SO bad. But, guess it could be good for others to know the bad beat goes on. Relentlessly.

On one of the endless hospital days, I could hear in my Mum's voice and see in her eyes how fed up she'd become, and after trying to reason with me for ages (and I admit to feeling SO shitty and broken that day), she finally said, "For all of our sakes, but mostly your own Jake, force a book out of your dumbed-down brain. Why not write it ALL about YOU! Don't worry about Dad and I and everyone else who's trying to help. Just make it all about you, like you do EVERY day, these days!" Her voice shook bad, along with her chin - and her hands. Then she burst into tears. Ohh shit. Bad. That's bad and a half. I mean, for her to sound-off like a weirdo school-teacher, or something. Phew... it freaking freaked me out.

Dad took her to the hospital canteen for a coffee and to calm her down then came back by himself. He had more ideas on this writing game plan thing, like if you can find a special thing you can enjoy - even come to love - time will pass faster, and help the mental and emotional healing. He reminded me (though I didn't want to hear it) how good I'd been with my studies. He reckoned I'd enjoy writing my story a whole heap more, without those long study hours and deadlines and exams and crap. He reckoned there are government agencies might be interested in even publishing it. You know, those ones always on your arse about further education. He reckoned I might even create a classic (ha! As if!), telling me whatever I produced, it would surely make my life abso-freaking-lutely better. Well he didn't put it in quite those words, still he meant I could win back a bit of pride in myself. That's what he said. And he hugged me... hard.

They're not too bad, my 'oldies'. Made me think outside the square as the brains-trust mob say. Sounded more sensible than those dodgy mates who reckoned I ought to do it all - drugs, grog, dope - 'live dangerously, dude. Wotcha got to lose?' Nah. Sounds like a waste of space to me. Insane lame-arses.

Then I met this other old codger in rehab. He'd lost both legs to sugar problems - diabetes, he said. He told me about a young kid blown up by a bomb the other day, over in some Arab country - another one of the poor buggers getting maimed and killed over there. And he said, "And here you are son, still breathing, and SOON you'll be walking again... with help, I know - but walking, kid! Yer gotta live whatever life you can, the best you can, with the time you have," and he ruffled my hair in a kindly fashion. "It's the one thing we can all do... until we die. And we're all gonna shuffle off someday!"

One of the best bits of advice I reckon I've had came from that psycho-something-or-other guy, who suggested I choose a particular time in my week (say Sunday at 9pm) to wallow deep in self-pity for an hour if needed, then suck it up and get on with planning the week ahead. And LIVE it, without any more 'sorry for yourself' time, until the next week at the allocated moment. I've given it a couple of go's... and man, it works like all get-out. You know, it's still Hugh Mungus tough when things go wrong or I start to let the weakies and the weepies take a hold and dwell on what I can't do anymore, but this slows down the pity party.

I promise myself not to take anyone else down with me into my hellhole any more. I didn't know how much I'd been screwing with the feelings and stuff of the people who love me most. Sure heard that loud and clear when Mum had her say. And Dad too, brought me just about to my knees (uhrr knee... dammit) when he told me so quietly how much I was hurting both of them.

I'm gonna do it better. I am. Might even learn how to ditch the swearing, along with the self-pity!

Might...