He knows this face. The dark eyes are round and large like a doll's and the broad brown face framed by short hair. There is a trace of lipstick on the mouth that struggles against smiling, then gives up the fight as the Filipina lady's face becomes smiling, golden and beatific.
"You are feeling much better, Mr. Douglas?" She reaches out her hand to support him. He accepts, but takes care to lean on his cane.
"How did I get here?" he asks sinking back onto the bed. "What is your name again?"
"Esperanza."
"Esperanza. That is a nice name." Without assistance he shifts against the squashed creased pillows. "Very nice name."
She doesn't leave, but sits at the foot of the bed, looking first at the window, clearly struggling to begin a sentence.
"You had a stroke. That's what your son has said."
"Why am I here?"
"They were afraid of moving you.
"Moving me where? To hospital?"
"I guess so. I brought up some Ensure for you to drink." She passes him the opened can. She has put a straw in it. A pink straw. "Here this is going to help you get stronger."
"How long have I been here?" He sucks gently through the straw. Then almost gulps it down.
"Since before Christmas. You must be very hungry."
"They've been starving me."
His son is a doctor. He didn't see him for thirty? Forty years. Not since he was in med school. Six months and some days ago he tracked him down to this address. Without phoning he knocked on the door of this big ostentatious house. Esperanza opened the door. He introduced himself, asked to see his son, who didn't believe him at first, not till, in the small reception room, his poor broken father told him everything that only a father could know about the little boy he was. Inquiries were made, blood tests, DNA tests and there was no denying the obvious. Mr. Douglas was homeless and staying in a shelter and his son reluctantly let him in. That night in the room where he woke this morning he lost consciousness.
to be continued
Sunday, 31 May 2015
Saturday, 30 May 2015
Vengeance
It is the end of May and the newly green trees blaze like torches in the morning sun. He has looked on this view for...he doesn't know how many years. It could be ten, or a hundred, or three years. He has really been here, up in this room and only in this third story attic room for just less than six months. When they first brought him here the street trees were a visual cacophony of naked branches, a confusion of skeletal hands and bone fingers clawing up at him as though to grasp and seize him and drag him down into the street. Perhaps to rescue him from this place. After that he remembers very little as though having been asleep throughout, simply waking from time to time for the tiny meals, the sponge baths, the pills, to be walked to the lavatory...
Today is the first day he has been really awake. He stretches his numb arm as far as it will extend. This is the first day he has had feeling in his fingers. Did he have a stroke? Maybe he just lay on this side too long. The window is open and the cool breeze has chased out the stench of illness and sad decay. Birds are singing and the muffled roar of distant traffic rouses his ears. He still cannot remember what happened or how he got here.
He only remembers his age: ninety-one, a veteran of the Second World War, a prisoner of war in a German camp for the last six months. Age twenty-one. It is all clear to him now, he remembers the stench, just as a few minutes ago it has blown out the window. Who opened it?
He needs to pee. Badly. There is no bottle handy. He could wait for the girl to come in, or let go, or...
He is up and standing, leaning against the headboard of the bed for support. His legs are weak but he can stand. He reaches for the aluminum hospital cane leaning by his left just under the window. He can stand leaning on it, though his knees feel like water.
He is out in the hall, groping for support the sloping garret wall while advancing forward with shuffling steps with the cane. Here is the bathroom. The door is open. He just makes it and sits down on the toilet.
He remembers to flush, and to wash his hands while leaning against the sink. On his way back she appears, her round face glowering like an avenging angel. "Mr. Douglas", she says, "What are you doing out of bed?"
to be continued
Today is the first day he has been really awake. He stretches his numb arm as far as it will extend. This is the first day he has had feeling in his fingers. Did he have a stroke? Maybe he just lay on this side too long. The window is open and the cool breeze has chased out the stench of illness and sad decay. Birds are singing and the muffled roar of distant traffic rouses his ears. He still cannot remember what happened or how he got here.
He only remembers his age: ninety-one, a veteran of the Second World War, a prisoner of war in a German camp for the last six months. Age twenty-one. It is all clear to him now, he remembers the stench, just as a few minutes ago it has blown out the window. Who opened it?
He needs to pee. Badly. There is no bottle handy. He could wait for the girl to come in, or let go, or...
He is up and standing, leaning against the headboard of the bed for support. His legs are weak but he can stand. He reaches for the aluminum hospital cane leaning by his left just under the window. He can stand leaning on it, though his knees feel like water.
He is out in the hall, groping for support the sloping garret wall while advancing forward with shuffling steps with the cane. Here is the bathroom. The door is open. He just makes it and sits down on the toilet.
He remembers to flush, and to wash his hands while leaning against the sink. On his way back she appears, her round face glowering like an avenging angel. "Mr. Douglas", she says, "What are you doing out of bed?"
to be continued
Friday, 29 May 2015
Ice Cream
Today is the first day I have really felt entirely completely well. I didn't realize that so much of my recovery from hospital would be emotional and mental. The loss of privacy, and the lack of dignity in the way patients are treated can really undermine one.
Today, as I mentioned to a couple of co-workers, I have my sharp teeth again, but to fear not given that I never draw blood when I bite. (though sometimes I do come pretty darn close)
I also had my first ice cream this summer (even though it's still spring but the heat is summerlike), a cone which I enjoyed on my way to Costco where I walked to pick up my other prescription.
This is my first time in Costco. Huge, industrial, ugly and just the kind of environment that brings out the uglier characteristics in shoppers. I will never become a member.
Today, as I mentioned to a couple of co-workers, I have my sharp teeth again, but to fear not given that I never draw blood when I bite. (though sometimes I do come pretty darn close)
I also had my first ice cream this summer (even though it's still spring but the heat is summerlike), a cone which I enjoyed on my way to Costco where I walked to pick up my other prescription.
This is my first time in Costco. Huge, industrial, ugly and just the kind of environment that brings out the uglier characteristics in shoppers. I will never become a member.
Thursday, 28 May 2015
Bitter Little Pills
I just got another prescription filled today, for Cabergoline which is the tiny bitter little pill that I take to shrink the benign tumour on my pituitary gland. I swallow half a pill twice a week. It is bitter and I swallow it quickly. There are possible side effects but so far nothing seems very different. I get the pills at the Canadian Cancer Society where the medication is one hundred percent subsidized, otherwise I would be shoving out sixty-five bucks every month for this opportunity of staying alive a little bit longer. I did have to yell and scream a bit about this while in the hospital when on the day of my release the good doctors and pharmacist gave me the heads up about my long term therapy and treatment. I did not take this news lying down but made it abundantly clear that even if not taking the bitter little pills would kill me there is no way I could afford to pay for them so I'd might as well take my chances and put my life in God's hands. I was reassured that they would do their utmost to ensure that I would not have to pay one single nickel for the pills.
My other medication is a thyroid supplement called Synthroid. I take three little pills a day. They taste sweet though I still swallow them with water or orange juice. I need this medication because apparently the tumor on my pituitary has paralyzed my thyroid and gone a bit crazy flooding my system with prolactin which is the hormone that women secrete in order to lactate. I was asked while in hospital six times by as many doctors if I have ever lactated. My stock answer: No, I have never been in the "family way".
Not that this is important, but I am a man by the way, but still there is something about this prolactin business that doesn't really surprise me. I am asexual, androgynous and, as I have recently figured out, agender. Maybe I'm suppose to secrete prolactin and they simply have mistaken my biological sex with my gender, or should I say, my lack of gender.
Knowing that I will be on medications for a long time, likely for whatever remains of what I hope to be a long and healthy and productive life, I have to learn to adapt, to make time to visit places that dispense the medications. A nuisance perhaps but I think still a most rational concession to this fact of mortality.
My other medication is a thyroid supplement called Synthroid. I take three little pills a day. They taste sweet though I still swallow them with water or orange juice. I need this medication because apparently the tumor on my pituitary has paralyzed my thyroid and gone a bit crazy flooding my system with prolactin which is the hormone that women secrete in order to lactate. I was asked while in hospital six times by as many doctors if I have ever lactated. My stock answer: No, I have never been in the "family way".
Not that this is important, but I am a man by the way, but still there is something about this prolactin business that doesn't really surprise me. I am asexual, androgynous and, as I have recently figured out, agender. Maybe I'm suppose to secrete prolactin and they simply have mistaken my biological sex with my gender, or should I say, my lack of gender.
Knowing that I will be on medications for a long time, likely for whatever remains of what I hope to be a long and healthy and productive life, I have to learn to adapt, to make time to visit places that dispense the medications. A nuisance perhaps but I think still a most rational concession to this fact of mortality.
Wednesday, 27 May 2015
Mixed Textures Of Beauty And Banality
Sorry about the pretentious title for this post but it is still pretty accurate. I am currently eating fresh strawberries for dessert following a simple meal of toast, hard boiled eggs, cheese, a yellow bell pepper, tomato slices and tahini. I love tahini, but only buy it occasionally. I don't know why it hasn't become a constant staple. I like it at least as much as peanut butter. I spoon it out of the jar or dip bread in it. It is rich in protein, calcium and healthy fats. When I was homeless and a kind lady took me into her home for the last two weeks of my ordeal till I found a room in a shared apartment, she asked me what foods she could buy for me. Tahini was high on the list. It is a comfort food and sometimes I can't get enough.
I began a new drawing today, of another Colombian bird, called a black collared jay:
Gorgeous, eh? I started it at home during breakfast, then continued to work on it inside a local coffee shop before I went to a meeting at work. Co-workers and supervisor were kind enough to let me continue drawing during the meeting. Doing artwork in a meeting seems to do wonders for my attention span and I tend to remember a lot more details of the meeting.
During lunch I walked for about two and a half miles near the neighbourhood where my paternal grandmother lived (and by extension temporarily my own immediate family) for many years. Despite the many rather ugly new houses (why are new houses almost always ugly?) the streets were still so full of trees and abundantly blooming gardens that it didn't appear to matter.
There is an Anglican parish church near the team where I was working today. It was open so I went inside to sit down on a pew. It is a small and very old church. I was hoping to absorb the silence but instead became absorbed myself into the silence. The presence of the Holy, of the Divine, was rich and palpable in this place and I felt incredibly privileged to sit in there for five or ten minutes, to spiritually refuel before resuming my work just one block away.
I was at a second meeting, largely devoted to a presentation of the future site of the team where I work, an integrated site that will include housing, market and social. I don't know if I will still be working there then as I am getting old and in five years I will be preparing for retirement. Or maybe not?
I then went to work with a client in southeast Vancouver, then walked for a long time, absorbing the beauty of flowers everywhere, especially a huge abundant spray of the reddest poppies I've ever seen against the grey stucco of a very ordinary postwar bungalow. In a produce store on Fraser Street I bought broccoli, tomatoes and bell peppers, then walked further to the train which took me home.
For a while the evening sun transformed the fresh leaves and rhododendron flowers of the garden across the way into a vision of green fire, rubies and blood.
I feel tired now, since working on the drawing for a while and soon I will be going to sleep.
I began a new drawing today, of another Colombian bird, called a black collared jay:
Gorgeous, eh? I started it at home during breakfast, then continued to work on it inside a local coffee shop before I went to a meeting at work. Co-workers and supervisor were kind enough to let me continue drawing during the meeting. Doing artwork in a meeting seems to do wonders for my attention span and I tend to remember a lot more details of the meeting.
During lunch I walked for about two and a half miles near the neighbourhood where my paternal grandmother lived (and by extension temporarily my own immediate family) for many years. Despite the many rather ugly new houses (why are new houses almost always ugly?) the streets were still so full of trees and abundantly blooming gardens that it didn't appear to matter.
There is an Anglican parish church near the team where I was working today. It was open so I went inside to sit down on a pew. It is a small and very old church. I was hoping to absorb the silence but instead became absorbed myself into the silence. The presence of the Holy, of the Divine, was rich and palpable in this place and I felt incredibly privileged to sit in there for five or ten minutes, to spiritually refuel before resuming my work just one block away.
I was at a second meeting, largely devoted to a presentation of the future site of the team where I work, an integrated site that will include housing, market and social. I don't know if I will still be working there then as I am getting old and in five years I will be preparing for retirement. Or maybe not?
I then went to work with a client in southeast Vancouver, then walked for a long time, absorbing the beauty of flowers everywhere, especially a huge abundant spray of the reddest poppies I've ever seen against the grey stucco of a very ordinary postwar bungalow. In a produce store on Fraser Street I bought broccoli, tomatoes and bell peppers, then walked further to the train which took me home.
For a while the evening sun transformed the fresh leaves and rhododendron flowers of the garden across the way into a vision of green fire, rubies and blood.
I feel tired now, since working on the drawing for a while and soon I will be going to sleep.
Tuesday, 26 May 2015
Pharma Crap
Today I had my first fight with Pharmacare. On the advice of an activist nurse I phoned them to confirm my status (confirmed, more or less) and learned also that because I have earned just above fifteen thousand dollars in the past year that I still have to pay an additional three hundred a year on medications before the coverage (a measly seventy percent) kicks in. When I told the soulless twit on the line that I would probably have to decline the prescription (for my thyroid and potentially life threatening) he responded with bland indifference so I hung up on him. This is of course outrageous. I earn twelve whopping dollars an hour as a mental health peer support worker and my employer (I am not going to name them because they could be particularly nasty and vindictive should they come across even a hint of negative criticism and especially from a contract employee at the bottom of their food chain) still does not intend to give us a raise after more than five years. This is not an income that anyone could be expected to live on with some dignity and our health system is especially delinquent in that they would rather save money on the backs of their poorest beneficiaries and contract workers than wisely budget and invest for the long term. I fortunately also live in BC Housing, pay but a courtesy of rent and therefore am getting by okay so I will shut up and be grateful for the time being.
The activist nurse has since found me an affordable deal on said medication if I get it at the pharmacy at Costco, not exactly in my neighbourhood but still within a mile or so of where I live. It's only for once a month, thirteen bucks a pop, and my other prescription, through the Canadian Cancer Society (for my pituitary) is already paid for. So really despite the other said indignities I really can't complain, can I?
In other words, I might have to sacrifice a couple of iced Americanos a month, at the very max, and yes I can afford and absorb this. I am still unconvinced that I really need this intervention but, as I sometimes have already said, time will tell.
They do seem to be interested primarily in spending as little money as possible and as I mentioned today to this nurse I sometimes wonder if there is a kind of very mean Darwinist streak that guides and motivates these people at the top: kind of like an unconscious drive to further oppress, crush and exterminate those who are already weak and poor since we are, to them anyway, their evolutionary inferiors. Survival of the fittest and all that.
The good fortune is that in my more enlightened moments I refuse to believe in conspiracy theories and I actually am convinced that despite our huge capacity for being vicious, selfish and nasty, that we humans are also essentially good. Corrupted perhaps, but still wanting to strive for to be better. At times anyway. If this weren't so I don't think there would be some of these wonderful people around in our medical system, such as the activist nurse, my endocrinologist and others who have already been striving to see that I get the best deals and have to pay the lowest possible cost for these potentially life-saving remedies.
On the other hand we have ISIS in the Middle East and Stephen Harper in Ottawa but here I digress and but for a handful of douchebags I still have nothing but good to say about our species (though at times with a little bitch-slapping thrown in!)
The activist nurse has since found me an affordable deal on said medication if I get it at the pharmacy at Costco, not exactly in my neighbourhood but still within a mile or so of where I live. It's only for once a month, thirteen bucks a pop, and my other prescription, through the Canadian Cancer Society (for my pituitary) is already paid for. So really despite the other said indignities I really can't complain, can I?
In other words, I might have to sacrifice a couple of iced Americanos a month, at the very max, and yes I can afford and absorb this. I am still unconvinced that I really need this intervention but, as I sometimes have already said, time will tell.
They do seem to be interested primarily in spending as little money as possible and as I mentioned today to this nurse I sometimes wonder if there is a kind of very mean Darwinist streak that guides and motivates these people at the top: kind of like an unconscious drive to further oppress, crush and exterminate those who are already weak and poor since we are, to them anyway, their evolutionary inferiors. Survival of the fittest and all that.
The good fortune is that in my more enlightened moments I refuse to believe in conspiracy theories and I actually am convinced that despite our huge capacity for being vicious, selfish and nasty, that we humans are also essentially good. Corrupted perhaps, but still wanting to strive for to be better. At times anyway. If this weren't so I don't think there would be some of these wonderful people around in our medical system, such as the activist nurse, my endocrinologist and others who have already been striving to see that I get the best deals and have to pay the lowest possible cost for these potentially life-saving remedies.
On the other hand we have ISIS in the Middle East and Stephen Harper in Ottawa but here I digress and but for a handful of douchebags I still have nothing but good to say about our species (though at times with a little bitch-slapping thrown in!)
Monday, 25 May 2015
Endocrinologist
Today I saw the endocrinologist, my first medical appointment since leaving hospital more than two weeks ago. I hardly seem to remember being there, it feels so long ago, but no, it wasn't. As I told the endocrinologist, who also saw me when I was in the emergency ward, it really feels like it happened a long time ago, so well and so much better I feel now. He told me that the benign tumour on my pituitary gland had basically paralyzed my thyroid and that I should expect to be on medication for this mysterious condition for many years to come. He also congratulated how well I look now.
I am trying to take care to not let the emotional turmoil from my health concerns to otherwise cloud my judgement. This is not easy. I find that I am still very upset with some people and situations even though there is probably no just reason for feeling so.
I am upset with one of my workplaces. No one there acknowledged me while I was in hospital. Not even so much as a phone call during or after my hospitalization. The other three places where I work offered me tremendous support with visits, gifts, cards and expressions of real friendship. In the other place where I work, one of the mental health teams in Vancouver, I have spoken with various coworkers on the phone about client needs. No one has expressed concern or asked about my wellbeing, yet they knew that I was in hospital.
I am of course thinking of resigning but I feel it is wise to wait and see. I need to get past the emotion and to not assign blame. Besides, my other worksites went overboard with gifts of money, fruit, lovely comfort food and visits galore. Perhaps I could see it as three out of four ain't bad?
And really do I need to feel cared for by coworkers? But what if I have been in this work place for ten years?
In the meantime I am going to see if I can get my hours increased in the workplaces where I am feeling the love, making at least financially painless what might be my inevitable resignation from this other mental health team.
It could also be they are anxious to get rid of me and only need to come up with a pretext, or at least to invent one for firing my sorry ass.
Time will tell.
I am trying to take care to not let the emotional turmoil from my health concerns to otherwise cloud my judgement. This is not easy. I find that I am still very upset with some people and situations even though there is probably no just reason for feeling so.
I am upset with one of my workplaces. No one there acknowledged me while I was in hospital. Not even so much as a phone call during or after my hospitalization. The other three places where I work offered me tremendous support with visits, gifts, cards and expressions of real friendship. In the other place where I work, one of the mental health teams in Vancouver, I have spoken with various coworkers on the phone about client needs. No one has expressed concern or asked about my wellbeing, yet they knew that I was in hospital.
I am of course thinking of resigning but I feel it is wise to wait and see. I need to get past the emotion and to not assign blame. Besides, my other worksites went overboard with gifts of money, fruit, lovely comfort food and visits galore. Perhaps I could see it as three out of four ain't bad?
And really do I need to feel cared for by coworkers? But what if I have been in this work place for ten years?
In the meantime I am going to see if I can get my hours increased in the workplaces where I am feeling the love, making at least financially painless what might be my inevitable resignation from this other mental health team.
It could also be they are anxious to get rid of me and only need to come up with a pretext, or at least to invent one for firing my sorry ass.
Time will tell.
Sunday, 24 May 2015
Reaffirmation And Recovery
Today, the Day of Pentecost on the church calendar, I reaffirmed my commitment to Christ through my membership and participation in the Anglican Church of Canada and through the agency of our Bishop Melissa Skelton. There has been, I believe, a silent build up to this moment, played out over the past year. As I mentioned to a few at church today this is rather like a dark shadow being lifted from me.
My history with the Anglican Church has not been an easy one. I have been through five parishes in thirty-three years and only this year that I have been where I am now at St. Anselm's do I feel that I am in a healthy, supportive and nurturing environment.
I was first confirmed in 1982 under duress from a very traditional and conservative rector of a very traditional and conservative parish. Not a great beginning. I was considered too charismatic and evangelical by many of the people there and I also in my youthful zeal had an unfortunate tendency of speaking my mind rather often.
A build up of miscommunications resulted and I soon discovered how cruel, unforgiving and ruthless many so-called Christians could be. A particularly corrupt clergyman, who since was basically run out of the priesthood given some of his own egregious behaviour, still succeeded in turning many people against me and this is what triggered the deterioration of my mental health in 1997, culminating for me in a period of homelessness and extended underemployment and extreme poverty.
There is nothing like being betrayed and experiencing the destruction of your mental and emotional wellbeing by those who are supposedly there as Christ's representatives. It is one of the cruelest ironies that can ever befall one. Or, we could say, three hundred thousand burned heretics and witches can't be totally wrong.
The bad relations, poor communications and mistreatment snowballed and followed me in each parish I moved to. I appeared to be living under a curse, one that lasted for thirteen years. To this day I am also certain that there were also individuals implicated in the black arts also trying to destroy me during that time, in retaliation for some of the places that ministry and outreach had been taking me.
In the past ten years I have been enjoying a tremendous trajectory of healing and restoration in my life. In the middle of the night, last night, I was awake and praying for forgiveness for all those who had hurt me, naming each by name.
I believe that a process has been completed. I also wonder if the breakdown in my physical health early this month might have been partly due to the accumulated stress over the years.
Still, as I am starting anew, I am also very vulnerable right now, and from all of you who read this I am soliciting your prayers, your friendship and support. I still might need to be protected from myself given some of my outspoken tendencies so I am asking all of you to please watch me. As many of you know I am also very alone in the world, without any living family still interested in me. I cannot realistically expect the church to become my family but I do need to know that this time I will not be abandoned or betrayed by Christ's Body.
Thank you.
My history with the Anglican Church has not been an easy one. I have been through five parishes in thirty-three years and only this year that I have been where I am now at St. Anselm's do I feel that I am in a healthy, supportive and nurturing environment.
I was first confirmed in 1982 under duress from a very traditional and conservative rector of a very traditional and conservative parish. Not a great beginning. I was considered too charismatic and evangelical by many of the people there and I also in my youthful zeal had an unfortunate tendency of speaking my mind rather often.
A build up of miscommunications resulted and I soon discovered how cruel, unforgiving and ruthless many so-called Christians could be. A particularly corrupt clergyman, who since was basically run out of the priesthood given some of his own egregious behaviour, still succeeded in turning many people against me and this is what triggered the deterioration of my mental health in 1997, culminating for me in a period of homelessness and extended underemployment and extreme poverty.
There is nothing like being betrayed and experiencing the destruction of your mental and emotional wellbeing by those who are supposedly there as Christ's representatives. It is one of the cruelest ironies that can ever befall one. Or, we could say, three hundred thousand burned heretics and witches can't be totally wrong.
The bad relations, poor communications and mistreatment snowballed and followed me in each parish I moved to. I appeared to be living under a curse, one that lasted for thirteen years. To this day I am also certain that there were also individuals implicated in the black arts also trying to destroy me during that time, in retaliation for some of the places that ministry and outreach had been taking me.
In the past ten years I have been enjoying a tremendous trajectory of healing and restoration in my life. In the middle of the night, last night, I was awake and praying for forgiveness for all those who had hurt me, naming each by name.
I believe that a process has been completed. I also wonder if the breakdown in my physical health early this month might have been partly due to the accumulated stress over the years.
Still, as I am starting anew, I am also very vulnerable right now, and from all of you who read this I am soliciting your prayers, your friendship and support. I still might need to be protected from myself given some of my outspoken tendencies so I am asking all of you to please watch me. As many of you know I am also very alone in the world, without any living family still interested in me. I cannot realistically expect the church to become my family but I do need to know that this time I will not be abandoned or betrayed by Christ's Body.
Thank you.
Saturday, 23 May 2015
A Letter to A CBC Radio Host
First of all I really hope you don't mind that I am writing to you on my blog. I am a regular listener and I often wonder if there might be others as well as myself from out in Vacuum Land who would like to mention these or similar things to you.
I enjoy your program, the positive tone and all the inspiration towards living creatively and enjoyably and of course you sound like a lovely and very warm person. I am sure that you are well enjoyed every morning Saturdays and Sundays and that many of your listeners would love to have coffee or brunch or cocktails with you sometime.
I have only one slight misgiving. I almost always feel left out when I listen to you and your many guests. You see, I'm a bit of a teetotaler and tend to live modestly so I am not really that interested in craft beer or fine wines. I am an artist. Here is a page of some of my acrylic paintings if you care to have a peek: http://aaronbenjaminzacharias.blogspot.ca/2014/11/paintings.html and often enjoy your conversations with artists. I am also poor, earn only a little more than minimum wage and live in social housing. In other words I am probably not a member of your target audience.
I think I could best say some things about your program this and last weekend in order to illustrate my concern. This morning, Saturday, you were broadcasting an interview with ninety-five year old lawyer Constance Isherwood who is still working. It was interesting and inspiring of course, but given that this has often been the tone of your program about aging, it also raises some issues for me. Namely, what about those of us who do not age well? There appears to be a growing expectation that as we age we are going to have to do it in such a way that we remain active, working and as fully involved in life as we were in our twenties and if we have not succeeded in this, if we somehow become sick and frail, socially isolated and abandoned by our families and a financial burden to the health care system then it must be our own fault.
We didn't eat right, or exercise enough. We smoked. We drank too much. Or we had the misfortune of being stranded living in a polluted community making us more vulnerable to cancer and heart disease. Or we failed in the gene pool competition. Or we grew up in dysfunctional and abusive households, became traumatized, unable to secure a decent education and lived our entire lives in working poverty, were abandoned by our loved ones and became vulnerable by default to all the diseases of old age, became a burden on the health care system, and died before we were ninety.
This is for me especially poignant. Because I have many years experience working with and caring for the elderly (though I currently work in mental health support). Because I have also had experience in palliative care and am not a stranger to death and dying. And because I am myself no longer young.
In fact, just this month, I was hospitalized for the first time in my adult life. I suffered from a kind of multiple systems breakdown, am now doing well in recovery and receiving excellent follow up medical care. However, I am almost sixty, so it should be no wonder that I am appreciating this recent hospitalization and health challenge as a kind of initiation into Geezer hood.
I would be the last one to deny that I am aging. Already younger people have been giving up their seat on the bus for me for the last five years or so (yes, that's right, a lot of younger people in Vancouver actually do offer their transit seats to the elderly.) I graciously accept, given that I think it is great to encourage good habits in the young. It is also a matter of common courtesy since it is just as much a kindness to accept a kindness as it is to offer a kindness. Curiously, I know a fellow the same age as me who admits to feeling insulted whenever a younger person offers him their bus seat. My reply? How pathetic!
This is not to say that I do not believe in aging well or in accepting one's responsibility for their health and wellbeing. What I am saying is that to everything there is a limit. We are not going to live forever. None of us. And I cannot help but see in this whole competitive business of becoming a super senior and be still running marathons at age one hundred and ten as a kind of collective denial and, yes, a fear of the inevitable.
Our bodies all slow down and deteriorate as we age. Eventually we all die. Some of us take longer than others. I have a friend in Colombia who lives in Bogota, age sixty-seven. At the incredibly high altitude there he gleefully can run up a flight of stairs as though he were a teenager. There is no way I could keep up with him especially at 8500 feet above sea level, and especially given that I am used to the oxygen dense climes of sea level Vancouver. Am I envious? Not really but I do admire my friend Jorge.
Aging well is every bit about acceptance as it is about taking good care of ourselves. Since this recent hospitalization I am reminded more concretely than ever that I have a shelf life and my time on this earth is limited. I am not going to observe this fact by training for marathons or dancing the night away when I am eighty. I am however going to seize, treasure and cherish each and every moment that remains for me. I am also going to continue to be as kind and generous, loving and considerate of others as I can. I want every footprint that I leave behind to be a footprint of inspiration to those who come after me, which is to say not to try to beat the odds and live like you are still under forty but to strive one's utmost to be a better and more compassionate human being.
Suggestions? Perhaps try to include those of us in your programming who do not fit the well-heeled middle and upper middle class demographic that your program represents. A lot of us struggle to get by and many of us also are CBC listeners. Please don't leave us out.
In your desire to sound positive, please also remember that rodeos (as you were talking about the Cloverdale Rodeo last weekend) are disgraceful forums for animal cruelty. You also mentioned golf. Maybe also put in a mention that golf courses waste millions of litres of drinking water?
But especially, please remember those of us who are less fortunate than you. But not as objects of pity. Get to know some of us. Maybe interview us on your program and see for yourself and share with your more fortunate listeners about our struggles and many triumphs as we also seek to live with dignity in a society that has very little time for us.
Friday, 22 May 2015
NOW!!!
Recovery of course involves patience, and relaxing our expectations of how well we are going to do. I still find it difficult to walk for extended periods without feeling, not tired, but weak, but I also notice that as I keep pushing forward I actually do okay. Still, even though I will continue to try to push my limit it is equally important to know when and how to rest. I think I did around six and a half miles walking today and I still feel okay. Not perfectly there, but getting there anyway.
There are a lot of things to be grateful for: that despite the nuisance of all the follow-up medical appointments awaiting me, possibly for the rest of my natural life, I live in a country where this kind of care is available for everyone, regardless of their socio-economic status. I also am still able to live, on my low income, in one of the most expensive cities in the world. Regardless of what neoliberal economics and all the previously democratic governments they have taken hostage have done to shred our social infrastructure I have actually found a decent, if small apartment to live in for more than a dozen years, that is affordable to me and safe and well-maintained and well-managed. All I need now is patience, which I am telling God to give me--NOW!!!
We have our problems here. It has become prohibitively expensive for people on low and modest incomes to live in my city Vancouver. Young people are moving out in record numbers, despite the lame excuses being bleated out this morning on the radio by our own Mayor Moonbeam (aka Gregor Robertson) that Vancouver is also attracting a lot of new people (all carrying bags of money with them, of course).
The pushback is building and soon there is going to be so much opposition and noncooperation with this government's obscene bartering of our city's most precious asset, which is the people who live here, to satisfy the greed of morally bankrupt property developers that we are eventually going to see things change. The people are beginning to speak and soon we are going to shout and then the walls are going to come tumbling down!
There are a lot of things to be grateful for: that despite the nuisance of all the follow-up medical appointments awaiting me, possibly for the rest of my natural life, I live in a country where this kind of care is available for everyone, regardless of their socio-economic status. I also am still able to live, on my low income, in one of the most expensive cities in the world. Regardless of what neoliberal economics and all the previously democratic governments they have taken hostage have done to shred our social infrastructure I have actually found a decent, if small apartment to live in for more than a dozen years, that is affordable to me and safe and well-maintained and well-managed. All I need now is patience, which I am telling God to give me--NOW!!!
We have our problems here. It has become prohibitively expensive for people on low and modest incomes to live in my city Vancouver. Young people are moving out in record numbers, despite the lame excuses being bleated out this morning on the radio by our own Mayor Moonbeam (aka Gregor Robertson) that Vancouver is also attracting a lot of new people (all carrying bags of money with them, of course).
The pushback is building and soon there is going to be so much opposition and noncooperation with this government's obscene bartering of our city's most precious asset, which is the people who live here, to satisfy the greed of morally bankrupt property developers that we are eventually going to see things change. The people are beginning to speak and soon we are going to shout and then the walls are going to come tumbling down!
Thursday, 21 May 2015
Uphill
But that is always the route to full recovery. Today I walked some seven miles and had two work assignments. This afternoon it did feel as though I was walking uphill but on my doctor's advice I am gradually pushing my limits until I feel fully recovered. This morning I was blessed with a cancellation, and I still get paid for the time, and treated myself to a walk through the West End and a very enjoyable coffee shop stop to drink an iced Americano and work on a drawing.
When I arrived at the bus stop I had walked three miles and still felt pretty good. Following a review meeting with a client and the occupational therapist I bussed to my last appointment way at the other end of town. Following an extended coffee visit in the local Starbuck's with my client (I only go to Starbuck's if there are no other options and that happens to be the only coffee shop in this neighbourhood) and a short walk together, I decided to walk partway, or four miles, home.
This is when I really felt the challenge. I stopped in a cheap produce market and continued to walk as far as the Canada Line train. I have to admit that now that I'm home I don't feel particularly tired though I am glad to be finally home from work.
It is an easy formula for recovering my complete strength since my week of hospitalization early this month. I started by trying to recover walking my usual five miles a day. After a week of this I can walk about three miles without getting tired. Extending the limit to seven miles a day means I will soon be walking five miles without tiring, and so on.
There is no real recovery without real effort.
And the weather today is fabulous!
When I arrived at the bus stop I had walked three miles and still felt pretty good. Following a review meeting with a client and the occupational therapist I bussed to my last appointment way at the other end of town. Following an extended coffee visit in the local Starbuck's with my client (I only go to Starbuck's if there are no other options and that happens to be the only coffee shop in this neighbourhood) and a short walk together, I decided to walk partway, or four miles, home.
This is when I really felt the challenge. I stopped in a cheap produce market and continued to walk as far as the Canada Line train. I have to admit that now that I'm home I don't feel particularly tired though I am glad to be finally home from work.
It is an easy formula for recovering my complete strength since my week of hospitalization early this month. I started by trying to recover walking my usual five miles a day. After a week of this I can walk about three miles without getting tired. Extending the limit to seven miles a day means I will soon be walking five miles without tiring, and so on.
There is no real recovery without real effort.
And the weather today is fabulous!
Wednesday, 20 May 2015
Life Goes On...And On...And On...
I am listening to a series of recorded messages on speakerphone while waiting to contact an agent with the City of Vancouver. I simply dial 311 and Bob's Yer Uncle. Following the usual dizzying and options paralyzing menu and recorded infomercials I have finally contacted an agent. They are usually more prompt but it is just past five thirty in the afternoon and they are bound to be swamped with calls.
311 quite simply is the number you call if you discover road kill, garbage, off leash dogs, pedestrian safety hazards or other quotidian concerns and generally the agents are very good, concerned, helpful and see that something gets done. I am one of their frequent callers, usually about road kill, or sidewalk kill, given all the dead pigeons, rats, crows and other critters one can encounter on the city sidewalks.
Today it is a dead pigeon, squashed and flattened on the crossing of Fourteenth and Main. I saw it yesterday, and being busy with clients I had taken on an outing, I was too distracted to even think of calling the auspicious number. Just ten minutes or so ago it took hearing a song on the radio about road kill (a dead skunk to be exact) that prompted my memory and reminded me of my responsibilities if somewhat belatedly about good citizenship.
The upshot is that there has been no report of the pigeon being laid to its eternal rest but a report will of course be made. This is one of many things I love about this city.
I am still feeling better, by the way, though still a bit wobbly. I saw my doctor today and he assured me that I am recovering well and that this weakness is a natural result of hospitalization. I did force myself to take a good walk through the wealthy neighbourhood, Shaughnessy, including a couple of park bench breaks and then ran into an old friend whom I haven't seen in almost fifteen years. He is now a father of a two year old. He himself is already well into his fifties and I do hope that he and his son are so blessed that he will live long enough to cuddle his grandchild, though he will probably already be in his mid eighties by then.
The weather today is fabulous. The world has not ended.
311 quite simply is the number you call if you discover road kill, garbage, off leash dogs, pedestrian safety hazards or other quotidian concerns and generally the agents are very good, concerned, helpful and see that something gets done. I am one of their frequent callers, usually about road kill, or sidewalk kill, given all the dead pigeons, rats, crows and other critters one can encounter on the city sidewalks.
Today it is a dead pigeon, squashed and flattened on the crossing of Fourteenth and Main. I saw it yesterday, and being busy with clients I had taken on an outing, I was too distracted to even think of calling the auspicious number. Just ten minutes or so ago it took hearing a song on the radio about road kill (a dead skunk to be exact) that prompted my memory and reminded me of my responsibilities if somewhat belatedly about good citizenship.
The upshot is that there has been no report of the pigeon being laid to its eternal rest but a report will of course be made. This is one of many things I love about this city.
I am still feeling better, by the way, though still a bit wobbly. I saw my doctor today and he assured me that I am recovering well and that this weakness is a natural result of hospitalization. I did force myself to take a good walk through the wealthy neighbourhood, Shaughnessy, including a couple of park bench breaks and then ran into an old friend whom I haven't seen in almost fifteen years. He is now a father of a two year old. He himself is already well into his fifties and I do hope that he and his son are so blessed that he will live long enough to cuddle his grandchild, though he will probably already be in his mid eighties by then.
The weather today is fabulous. The world has not ended.
Tuesday, 19 May 2015
Oops, I Lied
Well, maybe not entirely. I just wasn't expecting this minor setback today. But it isn't really a setback. Rather, this was my first full work day since I was hospitalized and it was tiring. It's one thing to enjoy a walk in the woods as yesterday and feeling not a bit of wear, but getting back into fulltime work is going to knock me out a bit, at least for the first few days.
The irony is that if I don't keep pushing forward like this I will not completely recover. The key is moderation.
The good news is that I got through everything and actually worked every well today with clients and coworkers. I did often feel as though I was walking uphill but now it is the end of the day and I don't feel particularly tired.
We are not superhuman. Neither are we helpless. We nurture our strength while respecting our weakness. I think that by maintaining this balance we can really begin to grow.
The irony is that if I don't keep pushing forward like this I will not completely recover. The key is moderation.
The good news is that I got through everything and actually worked every well today with clients and coworkers. I did often feel as though I was walking uphill but now it is the end of the day and I don't feel particularly tired.
We are not superhuman. Neither are we helpless. We nurture our strength while respecting our weakness. I think that by maintaining this balance we can really begin to grow.
Monday, 18 May 2015
The Joy Of Recovery
Well, I guess we could say that recovery is its own reward, eh? I think today I can safely say that I feel one hundred percent recovered. I just did a five mile hike, with a rest of an hour and a half or so in a café in between, in the woods, without tiring myself or feeling in any way weak or challenged. The process began for me the day after I was admitted to hospital. It took the form of hope but a sense of hope that felt for me very tangible and very real. I had just wrestled with a sense of despair that I would not fully recover this time, that my health and strength and energy would go on being challenged and undermined and that I would either have to quit my job and try to get on disability, in the meantime having first to spend all my savings before the government would dole out a single nickel. That was how I felt my first morning.
I don't know what happened but I at that point made this decision. That I was going to recover. That I would accept whatever restrictions and limitations that my health condition would place on me for however long, but that I was still going to triumph and flourish within these restrictions and continue celebrating this gift of life that is so dear and so precious.
I think this is also when the change in my body began. I chose to accept and celebrate these moments in the hospital as a kind of gift from God: the care from the nurses and doctors, the opportunity to rest, learning more about my condition from the various tests and examinations. Then came the visits, the gifts, the support from others, always so very important to recovery. It also became clear that I had not lost my sense of humour.
I began to do eye exercises to combat the double vision. I began to flex, stretch and exercise my hands and feet to contravene the paralysis. Although they didn't want me to walk unassisted, I stubbornly would go back and forth to the bathroom unassisted, using the wall for support. When one of the nurses, the only lousy nurse I had to deal with during my hospital stay, alarmed my bed without notifying me first, I let her have it. I stood up to the bitch and told her if she ever did anything like that again to undermine my trust then there would be consequences. Then I demanded that she not work with me again. This standing up for myself I believe helped strengthen and further prepare me for recovery.
Tuesday morning I noticed that with some effort my eyes could sustain a single image, but it was hard. I kept practicing. The physiotherapist gave me a walker and I dressed in hospital pajamas along with the gown so with some sense of decency I could wander the halls with my new toy. Monday I had already begun a new drawing, despite the partial paralysis of my hands only to discover that I could still draw quite well. I found the computer lounge and struggled with my paralyzed fingers to write emails.
Wednesday I dressed in my street clothes, went for a walk in the roof garden and sat in the cafeteria for a while. My eyes were already focussing better though I still needed to keep one eye shut while walking. I also practiced walking short distances without the walker.
Thursday I was given a cane by the same physiotherapist. I had my second shower since Wednesday. My eyes were focussing nearly perfectly. Most of the strength had returned to my right hand and foot. I was walking better.
Friday morning, with my cane, I took a two and a half mile walk in the West End before breakfast. I asked to be discharged by noon. When it turned out that the doctors were taking their sweet time to see me I indicated to the nurse that they had better hurry up because one way or the other I was leaving by twelve. They hurried up.
A friend drove me home and we visited for a while, then, without the cane I walked to a local coffee shop to visit with another friend, followed an hour or so later by one of my supervisors and a co-worker coming by with a lovely cash gift and card and we had a very enjoyable visit together. After this I hobbled home, feeling already tired, and made my first dinner in a week, a lovely vegetarian stew with pasta.
The days that have followed since I have gradually been rebuilding my strength, each day walking a little bit more, sitting to rest a little bit less. Each day, I have been feeling stronger, less wobbly, less tired.
Today I would say that I feel completely well again. I believe that I had a virus, likely picked up in Colombia and that my immune system was down from the rigours of travel. I also am still viewing this time of illness, hospitalization and recovery as a kind of initiation into my senior years. This does not mean that I am going to lose anything, simply it is helping me focus constructively on the fact that my time on this earth is limited and I have to take great care not to squander or waste the years that I have left.
Thank you Lord Jesus.
I don't know what happened but I at that point made this decision. That I was going to recover. That I would accept whatever restrictions and limitations that my health condition would place on me for however long, but that I was still going to triumph and flourish within these restrictions and continue celebrating this gift of life that is so dear and so precious.
I think this is also when the change in my body began. I chose to accept and celebrate these moments in the hospital as a kind of gift from God: the care from the nurses and doctors, the opportunity to rest, learning more about my condition from the various tests and examinations. Then came the visits, the gifts, the support from others, always so very important to recovery. It also became clear that I had not lost my sense of humour.
I began to do eye exercises to combat the double vision. I began to flex, stretch and exercise my hands and feet to contravene the paralysis. Although they didn't want me to walk unassisted, I stubbornly would go back and forth to the bathroom unassisted, using the wall for support. When one of the nurses, the only lousy nurse I had to deal with during my hospital stay, alarmed my bed without notifying me first, I let her have it. I stood up to the bitch and told her if she ever did anything like that again to undermine my trust then there would be consequences. Then I demanded that she not work with me again. This standing up for myself I believe helped strengthen and further prepare me for recovery.
Tuesday morning I noticed that with some effort my eyes could sustain a single image, but it was hard. I kept practicing. The physiotherapist gave me a walker and I dressed in hospital pajamas along with the gown so with some sense of decency I could wander the halls with my new toy. Monday I had already begun a new drawing, despite the partial paralysis of my hands only to discover that I could still draw quite well. I found the computer lounge and struggled with my paralyzed fingers to write emails.
Wednesday I dressed in my street clothes, went for a walk in the roof garden and sat in the cafeteria for a while. My eyes were already focussing better though I still needed to keep one eye shut while walking. I also practiced walking short distances without the walker.
Thursday I was given a cane by the same physiotherapist. I had my second shower since Wednesday. My eyes were focussing nearly perfectly. Most of the strength had returned to my right hand and foot. I was walking better.
Friday morning, with my cane, I took a two and a half mile walk in the West End before breakfast. I asked to be discharged by noon. When it turned out that the doctors were taking their sweet time to see me I indicated to the nurse that they had better hurry up because one way or the other I was leaving by twelve. They hurried up.
A friend drove me home and we visited for a while, then, without the cane I walked to a local coffee shop to visit with another friend, followed an hour or so later by one of my supervisors and a co-worker coming by with a lovely cash gift and card and we had a very enjoyable visit together. After this I hobbled home, feeling already tired, and made my first dinner in a week, a lovely vegetarian stew with pasta.
The days that have followed since I have gradually been rebuilding my strength, each day walking a little bit more, sitting to rest a little bit less. Each day, I have been feeling stronger, less wobbly, less tired.
Today I would say that I feel completely well again. I believe that I had a virus, likely picked up in Colombia and that my immune system was down from the rigours of travel. I also am still viewing this time of illness, hospitalization and recovery as a kind of initiation into my senior years. This does not mean that I am going to lose anything, simply it is helping me focus constructively on the fact that my time on this earth is limited and I have to take great care not to squander or waste the years that I have left.
Thank you Lord Jesus.
Sunday, 17 May 2015
Life Does Go On
As I have been obsessing over the intricacies of my recovery I was treated today to the brutal reminder that other people suffer, many more gravely than I. In church today we were reminded of our ministry to the homeless and later over coffee with a friend who does a lot of social activism we spent a good part of the visit thinking out loud of what we could do to help bring social change to our communities.
I am feeling about ninety-eight percent recovered now, still feel a bit wobbly at times, but otherwise I would say it is time to leave behind my own tiny sufferings and start thinking again about others.
It would seem from our conversation today that greed, capitalism, and the lack of a moral compass appear to be the main culprits for the social inequality and growing crisis of homelessness we are living with these days. Capitalism, of course, is so successful because it caters to human greed and selfishness like no other. I and my friend are among the few of the legendarily selfish and self-indulgent baby boomers who ever made a real and lasting effort to resist the prevailing greed and selfishness of our generation.
In my case the price has been very high, complicated by other personal and existential factors, the which I have already gone into in other posts on this blog. Many people viewing the trajectory of my life would probably sneer at what a loser I am. I have no family, have never owned a car, or my own home, have always worked at low paying jobs, and have also gone through periods of considerable lack and want, all the while clinging to my Christian faith and doling out my life in service to others. I am happy, yes, at peace, and my enjoyment of the mindful moments of each day has yielded me a rich and abundant harvest of joy.
To many observers the price I have paid is too high, too steep. People are not interested in suffering for their values and ideals. Most would far rather drink the Kool-Aid and be comfortable and numb. And this can be very tempting though it is rather like the frog in the gradually heated till boiling pot of water.
There is nothing really attractive or appealing about sacrifice. For many it is something scary. Without it there can be no growth and no real change.
I do feel inspired by the number of young people, the so-called Millennials who do seem to be socially conscious and I think that if they can be encouraged to stick to their ideals and accept sacrifices that they will become a powerful force for positive change.
In the meantime we do seem to be paralyzed: by right wing governments, the power of corporations and banks, the lure of wealth, and the Darwinist savage capitalism that is tearing our communities apart. The solutions? I don't have any. But we can continue to work together in our own networks and spheres of influence. We will still find opportunities to do something even if it seems very small. I think this is where we are going to have to work from for now and that this will in time get us ready for the big changes that are soon to come.
I am feeling about ninety-eight percent recovered now, still feel a bit wobbly at times, but otherwise I would say it is time to leave behind my own tiny sufferings and start thinking again about others.
It would seem from our conversation today that greed, capitalism, and the lack of a moral compass appear to be the main culprits for the social inequality and growing crisis of homelessness we are living with these days. Capitalism, of course, is so successful because it caters to human greed and selfishness like no other. I and my friend are among the few of the legendarily selfish and self-indulgent baby boomers who ever made a real and lasting effort to resist the prevailing greed and selfishness of our generation.
In my case the price has been very high, complicated by other personal and existential factors, the which I have already gone into in other posts on this blog. Many people viewing the trajectory of my life would probably sneer at what a loser I am. I have no family, have never owned a car, or my own home, have always worked at low paying jobs, and have also gone through periods of considerable lack and want, all the while clinging to my Christian faith and doling out my life in service to others. I am happy, yes, at peace, and my enjoyment of the mindful moments of each day has yielded me a rich and abundant harvest of joy.
To many observers the price I have paid is too high, too steep. People are not interested in suffering for their values and ideals. Most would far rather drink the Kool-Aid and be comfortable and numb. And this can be very tempting though it is rather like the frog in the gradually heated till boiling pot of water.
There is nothing really attractive or appealing about sacrifice. For many it is something scary. Without it there can be no growth and no real change.
I do feel inspired by the number of young people, the so-called Millennials who do seem to be socially conscious and I think that if they can be encouraged to stick to their ideals and accept sacrifices that they will become a powerful force for positive change.
In the meantime we do seem to be paralyzed: by right wing governments, the power of corporations and banks, the lure of wealth, and the Darwinist savage capitalism that is tearing our communities apart. The solutions? I don't have any. But we can continue to work together in our own networks and spheres of influence. We will still find opportunities to do something even if it seems very small. I think this is where we are going to have to work from for now and that this will in time get us ready for the big changes that are soon to come.
Saturday, 16 May 2015
Getting There
I still tire easy, but not as easy as yesterday. I am feeling restless today, which means I am getting ready to do more. Recovery has been swift. I wonder if I am over dramatizing about facing old age but I don't think so. I do not see myself as a little old man. I see myself as being initiated into a new phase of life. I am not about to start walking with a cane, unless I happen to really need one. I am not going to start suddenly complaining about young people, who are no worse and perhaps even a little better than we were forty years ago. I do not believe the world is going to hell, nor that technology is going to be our doom.
This is a period of change. I do have to accept some trade offs: I might have to be on medication for, if not the rest of my life, then maybe for alternating periods. I will be trying to seek that balance of knowing my limits but knowing when to challenge them. I am not about to dress in skinny jeans, nor am I going to get a tattoo or start hanging out in trendy watering holes (I don't drink anyway). Nor am I going to pile myself with sweaters in the middle of summer and start walking short distances with a pronounced stoop.
What I do happen to know is that my time on this earth is limited. I might be around for another four or five decades, maybe four or five years. I could last till one hundred or croak next year at sixty. This does not matter so much. I want to live each moment as though this is the most important moment. I want to see the beauty around me and get past my compassion fatigue to appreciate and embrace even the most annoying people.
I shall continue to do, enjoy and celebrate art, I shall continue to bore and annoy all of you through this blog, and I shall continue to give a shit about the world because these are things that keep me alive and I intend to stay alive until I am called to my real and eternal home.
I am not about to stop living.
This is a period of change. I do have to accept some trade offs: I might have to be on medication for, if not the rest of my life, then maybe for alternating periods. I will be trying to seek that balance of knowing my limits but knowing when to challenge them. I am not about to dress in skinny jeans, nor am I going to get a tattoo or start hanging out in trendy watering holes (I don't drink anyway). Nor am I going to pile myself with sweaters in the middle of summer and start walking short distances with a pronounced stoop.
What I do happen to know is that my time on this earth is limited. I might be around for another four or five decades, maybe four or five years. I could last till one hundred or croak next year at sixty. This does not matter so much. I want to live each moment as though this is the most important moment. I want to see the beauty around me and get past my compassion fatigue to appreciate and embrace even the most annoying people.
I shall continue to do, enjoy and celebrate art, I shall continue to bore and annoy all of you through this blog, and I shall continue to give a shit about the world because these are things that keep me alive and I intend to stay alive until I am called to my real and eternal home.
I am not about to stop living.
Friday, 15 May 2015
Post Recovery Walking
I suppose I could say that I feel about ninety-three percent recovered since my hospitalization last week. I have regained full use of my hands and feet. My vision is normal. I can stand and walk unassisted. I no longer need to sleep midday following a little activity. The chest congestion has mostly cleared up. I do find that walking is still a bit tiring and I still feel a bit on the light-headed side while being physically active. My balance is much better now and I almost never feel as though I'm about to fall.
I expect that as I keep pushing forward, slowly and gently, that within days I will feel completely restored. It is a matter of being patient. There is the lurking concern-I wouldn't exactly call it fear-that they could discover cancer in my body, but I neither fear this nor do I suspect it.
Perhaps I am stupidly optimistic. I have gone from being a drama queen catastrophizer to an almost relentless Pollyanna optimist. This now is my way of coping. On the other hand it doesn't appear to have been harming my speed and rate of recovery.
I know that my declining years are beginning. I m almost sixty. The body has a shelf-life. I could last for another year or two, or a half century. I have no way of knowing. I can either wreck any current and future enjoyment of life by holding onto regrets and ancient grudges or I can release all in a spirit of joyous reconciliation, seize and embrace and extract the most beautiful essence of every moment of each day of every year I have left.
I have already made my decision.
I expect that as I keep pushing forward, slowly and gently, that within days I will feel completely restored. It is a matter of being patient. There is the lurking concern-I wouldn't exactly call it fear-that they could discover cancer in my body, but I neither fear this nor do I suspect it.
Perhaps I am stupidly optimistic. I have gone from being a drama queen catastrophizer to an almost relentless Pollyanna optimist. This now is my way of coping. On the other hand it doesn't appear to have been harming my speed and rate of recovery.
I know that my declining years are beginning. I m almost sixty. The body has a shelf-life. I could last for another year or two, or a half century. I have no way of knowing. I can either wreck any current and future enjoyment of life by holding onto regrets and ancient grudges or I can release all in a spirit of joyous reconciliation, seize and embrace and extract the most beautiful essence of every moment of each day of every year I have left.
I have already made my decision.
Thursday, 14 May 2015
Recovery Is Boring
And so is writing about it. And likely reading about it. Fortunately these post hospital stay posts are brief and to the point. One week ago I could barely type. My hands were still partially paralysed and I was walking with a cane. I have made rapid progress.
Two Sundays ago I was at my absolute worse. I could not walk unassisted and had double vision. I somehow struggled through a sponge bath that morning, dressing myself and making my bed. Then, after some reflection, I called an ambulance. I needed to be transported in wheelchairs and stretchers. I spent twelve hours in hospital emergency drifting in and out of consciousness.
I feared with my numb fingers that I would never do art again. The day after I was admitted in hospital I began a new drawing. I still could not stand unassisted. The following day they gave me a walker, freeing me to walk throughout the hospital. The following day I was dressing myself and wearing street clothes, and longing for clean underwear. My vision was also improving and the nurses noticed that strength was returning to my hands and feet.
Thursday, one week ago today, I was given a cane. My vision was normal again. Friday morning I walked two and a half miles in the West End, my first foray away from the hospital grounds. I was discharged that day, visited with friends and colleagues in a coffee shop, then went home and made a tasty bean and pasta dish from scratch.
Each day since I try to move a bit further but it has to be slow and gradual. I do not want to relapse. I took Monday and Tuesday off from work, then started again yesterday.
Today is the first day that I have walked more than five miles without having to sleep once arriving home. I am also successfully battling a viciously itchy allergic rash with antihistamines and this might also have been tiring me.
I still don't feel one hundred percent. Perhaps ninety-two, up from ninety yesterday.
This is a dull, monotonous and bland as sliced white bread kind of process.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
Two Sundays ago I was at my absolute worse. I could not walk unassisted and had double vision. I somehow struggled through a sponge bath that morning, dressing myself and making my bed. Then, after some reflection, I called an ambulance. I needed to be transported in wheelchairs and stretchers. I spent twelve hours in hospital emergency drifting in and out of consciousness.
I feared with my numb fingers that I would never do art again. The day after I was admitted in hospital I began a new drawing. I still could not stand unassisted. The following day they gave me a walker, freeing me to walk throughout the hospital. The following day I was dressing myself and wearing street clothes, and longing for clean underwear. My vision was also improving and the nurses noticed that strength was returning to my hands and feet.
Thursday, one week ago today, I was given a cane. My vision was normal again. Friday morning I walked two and a half miles in the West End, my first foray away from the hospital grounds. I was discharged that day, visited with friends and colleagues in a coffee shop, then went home and made a tasty bean and pasta dish from scratch.
Each day since I try to move a bit further but it has to be slow and gradual. I do not want to relapse. I took Monday and Tuesday off from work, then started again yesterday.
Today is the first day that I have walked more than five miles without having to sleep once arriving home. I am also successfully battling a viciously itchy allergic rash with antihistamines and this might also have been tiring me.
I still don't feel one hundred percent. Perhaps ninety-two, up from ninety yesterday.
This is a dull, monotonous and bland as sliced white bread kind of process.
I wouldn't have it any other way.
Wednesday, 13 May 2015
Still Recovering
I still haven't figured out what's going on with my health. There seems to be always something malfunctioning. I find myself now drowsy from the antihistamine I was put on to fight the itchy body rash that came from the pink dye in the B12 tablets that I bought because of the deficiency that was found in my blood work while I was in hospital.
Now I am an outpatient. My income is likely to be impacted and lowered by the various medical appointments I will have to keep. They want to track my eyes, my hormones, the nerves in my hands and feet. There is a lot to keep track of and I find myself feeling a bit lost in the midst of all this.
How much more time do I have? Is this the beginning of my decline into age and death? Well, I am sixty next year and I am a survivor of abuse and traumatic stress which also marks me for an early grave.
I expect that I will be able to fit and integrate everything to do with my health care. I also expect that I will still have enough hours of work to sustain me and that again I will have enough savings and good enough health to enjoy another trip.
It is too early to arrange for my funeral.
Now I am an outpatient. My income is likely to be impacted and lowered by the various medical appointments I will have to keep. They want to track my eyes, my hormones, the nerves in my hands and feet. There is a lot to keep track of and I find myself feeling a bit lost in the midst of all this.
How much more time do I have? Is this the beginning of my decline into age and death? Well, I am sixty next year and I am a survivor of abuse and traumatic stress which also marks me for an early grave.
I expect that I will be able to fit and integrate everything to do with my health care. I also expect that I will still have enough hours of work to sustain me and that again I will have enough savings and good enough health to enjoy another trip.
It is too early to arrange for my funeral.
Tuesday, 12 May 2015
The Rash
I saw a doctor in the clinic this morning about my rash. It is now very ugly, red and hot. And itchy. He diagnosed it as an allergic reaction and we believe the culprit to be the dye in the B12 tablets I have begun to take. The doctor also seems baffled about the nature of the illness from which I have just recovered. It is a very hard condition to decipher but I understand they are going to work on it.
I wasn't given a soothing ointment unfortunately but instead I have been given antihistamines and I will not be taking the B12 or the thyroid medication in the meantime. The rash now appears to be fading, it is still itchy but not as intolerable as before.
I did try to stretch my limits a bit more today. I walked further and longer and into Stanley Park. I even treated myself to a dish of red curry in a Thai restaurant I like on Davie Street. The street view of Davie Street is often interesting and colourful with its eclectic mix of people. There is also a lot of visible poverty and many clearly sad and desperate looking folk in the area. But they also get on with life and each of us in our way can find still find sources for enjoyment. Some of the desperately poor street people are out panhandling. I often don't know what to do. I seldom give money any more, knowing that it would likely be used in ways that could be harmful.
I still tire easily and I needed to return home for a nap for a couple of hours, before going out for a pot of tea in a local café. I clearly feel that I haven't had quite enough to do today, even though I did get out and around and get some things done. I am still recovering and reaching towards a greater level of wellness. Tomorrow I return to a half day of work.
I wasn't given a soothing ointment unfortunately but instead I have been given antihistamines and I will not be taking the B12 or the thyroid medication in the meantime. The rash now appears to be fading, it is still itchy but not as intolerable as before.
I did try to stretch my limits a bit more today. I walked further and longer and into Stanley Park. I even treated myself to a dish of red curry in a Thai restaurant I like on Davie Street. The street view of Davie Street is often interesting and colourful with its eclectic mix of people. There is also a lot of visible poverty and many clearly sad and desperate looking folk in the area. But they also get on with life and each of us in our way can find still find sources for enjoyment. Some of the desperately poor street people are out panhandling. I often don't know what to do. I seldom give money any more, knowing that it would likely be used in ways that could be harmful.
I still tire easily and I needed to return home for a nap for a couple of hours, before going out for a pot of tea in a local café. I clearly feel that I haven't had quite enough to do today, even though I did get out and around and get some things done. I am still recovering and reaching towards a greater level of wellness. Tomorrow I return to a half day of work.
Monday, 11 May 2015
Post-Recovery Rash
I don't know what else to call it. I began developing an itch in my back Wednesday and once I was released from hospital Friday the itch gradually grew and this morning has developed into an ugly rash. I apparently have brought something with me from my hospital experience that I will be very happy to have done with. It is simply a red, ugly hive-like itchy rash on my inner arms, parts of my torso and back.
I wonder if it's psychosomatic, perhaps from the stress of being in hospital and having to share a room with a particularly loathsome individual. Fortunately when I called the community health clinic about it today they have been able to book me in for an early appointment tomorrow.
This is the irony of hospital care. We go to these places to get well but too often pick up secondary infections or we become traumatized and then vulnerable to other problems. There is something imbecilic about bunking together ailing patients who do not know each other and expecting them to do well.
On the plus side, I am feeling stronger today and did fairly well on a long walk. I expect to be ready and prepared to begin work as scheduled in two days. I still feel mostly gratitude about how well everything's gone so far.
I wonder if it's psychosomatic, perhaps from the stress of being in hospital and having to share a room with a particularly loathsome individual. Fortunately when I called the community health clinic about it today they have been able to book me in for an early appointment tomorrow.
This is the irony of hospital care. We go to these places to get well but too often pick up secondary infections or we become traumatized and then vulnerable to other problems. There is something imbecilic about bunking together ailing patients who do not know each other and expecting them to do well.
On the plus side, I am feeling stronger today and did fairly well on a long walk. I expect to be ready and prepared to begin work as scheduled in two days. I still feel mostly gratitude about how well everything's gone so far.
Sunday, 10 May 2015
Initiation
I mentioned to my priest today that I appear to be undergoing a kind of initiation. This awareness began to hit me during my recent trip to Colombia where I spent all my time in Bogota. When I saw the seven eagles gathering in the air then flying south in the direction of Colombia two weeks before my trip I took it as a sign about the success of this trip. I now wonder if it refers also to a general shift that appears to be happening in my life.
What seemed particularly unusual about this trip has been the intense sense of connection to others, both in Bogota and people reading my travel blog. Sometimes I felt as though I were hosting a movable party. When I returned and dealt with some health consequences of returning from a high altitude with compromised iron and B12 levels in my system my life appeared to be returning to normal. I was again alone a lot and accustoming myself to my long-accustomed sense of social isolation. But it was rather different this time. I was busier than usual with individuals and groups at work and spending more than usual time visiting with friends.
Last Sunday I became unaccountably ill, alone and isolated. Without support from anyone I called and waited alone for the ambulance. When I arrived in hospital emergency I was alone where I languished and drifted in and out of consciousness during the next twelve hours. My only human contact was from various concerned and caring professionals. I did not know how to contact any of my friends or others who could come in and see if I was okay or even wait with me during some of this time. There was no one to advocate for me.
After I was admitted in hospital upstairs a shift occurred and people were visiting, bringing treats, reminding and affirming that I am loved and valued. In the meantime I went through a rapid gradual healing and recovery. My near paralyzed hands and feet over the days regained strength and dexterity; my eyes returned to normal, and I gradually became strong again.
Today in church I have enjoyed sustained and quality contact with others and then it occurred to me while I was in the coffee shop with my priest: that since in two weeks time I will be renewing my vows of commitment to the Anglican Communion, this has all been none other than an initiation. I expect that in consecrating my life to a community of believers that this will also be a time of new beginning, a time of casting off the old husk of distrust and isolation, and an opportunity of channelling the wild creative energy that pulses in my life for the greater good.
A new page is turning...
What seemed particularly unusual about this trip has been the intense sense of connection to others, both in Bogota and people reading my travel blog. Sometimes I felt as though I were hosting a movable party. When I returned and dealt with some health consequences of returning from a high altitude with compromised iron and B12 levels in my system my life appeared to be returning to normal. I was again alone a lot and accustoming myself to my long-accustomed sense of social isolation. But it was rather different this time. I was busier than usual with individuals and groups at work and spending more than usual time visiting with friends.
Last Sunday I became unaccountably ill, alone and isolated. Without support from anyone I called and waited alone for the ambulance. When I arrived in hospital emergency I was alone where I languished and drifted in and out of consciousness during the next twelve hours. My only human contact was from various concerned and caring professionals. I did not know how to contact any of my friends or others who could come in and see if I was okay or even wait with me during some of this time. There was no one to advocate for me.
After I was admitted in hospital upstairs a shift occurred and people were visiting, bringing treats, reminding and affirming that I am loved and valued. In the meantime I went through a rapid gradual healing and recovery. My near paralyzed hands and feet over the days regained strength and dexterity; my eyes returned to normal, and I gradually became strong again.
Today in church I have enjoyed sustained and quality contact with others and then it occurred to me while I was in the coffee shop with my priest: that since in two weeks time I will be renewing my vows of commitment to the Anglican Communion, this has all been none other than an initiation. I expect that in consecrating my life to a community of believers that this will also be a time of new beginning, a time of casting off the old husk of distrust and isolation, and an opportunity of channelling the wild creative energy that pulses in my life for the greater good.
A new page is turning...
Saturday, 9 May 2015
Still Recovering
This is my first full day, my second day home from hospital. I am still not at one hundred percent but showing signs of improvement. Both my hands are fully functioning now and I am able to type normally. I walked at least three miles today following a morning nap and did grocery shopping without a cane and I didn't miss it though I paused to rest on a bench twice, then in a café for an iced Americano. I also stopped to pick up some vitamin B12. My days of vegetarian smugness are over. I will continue to go meatless but as of today I have lost my bragging rights.
When I got home I had lunch and put the finishing touches on the drawing I did while in hospital. Here is a Google image of the bird:
It's called a Pompadour Cotinga, yet another bird from Colombia. They croak like frogs and I believe it got it's name when a preserved (dead) specimen was found in the hairdo of Madame Pompadour. Well, what did you expect: that it should sing like a nightingale and owe its fame to the private aviaries of John Gould? It's a striking if not exactly gorgeous bird and I began drawing it the day after I was admitted in hospital. Suffering some paralysis in my hands I wanted to assure myself that I was still able to draw. I named the drawing "Bird of Hope" and credit being able to do this while in hospital to some of my process of healing.
I then researched the subject of my next drawing (another bird of Colombia, of course, a hummingbird called a Lazuline Sabrewing:
Ain't he a beauty?), then went down for a nap while listening to interesting talk on the radio, mostly dedicated to mothers, since it is Mothers' Day tomorrow, and some of the weird angst that mothers often go through over their kids.
I have stayed home or close to home, taking care to not over do things. I am eating well again but still tire a bit easily and expect to be going to bed early tonight.
I consider myself enormously blessed.
When I got home I had lunch and put the finishing touches on the drawing I did while in hospital. Here is a Google image of the bird:
It's called a Pompadour Cotinga, yet another bird from Colombia. They croak like frogs and I believe it got it's name when a preserved (dead) specimen was found in the hairdo of Madame Pompadour. Well, what did you expect: that it should sing like a nightingale and owe its fame to the private aviaries of John Gould? It's a striking if not exactly gorgeous bird and I began drawing it the day after I was admitted in hospital. Suffering some paralysis in my hands I wanted to assure myself that I was still able to draw. I named the drawing "Bird of Hope" and credit being able to do this while in hospital to some of my process of healing.I then researched the subject of my next drawing (another bird of Colombia, of course, a hummingbird called a Lazuline Sabrewing:
Ain't he a beauty?), then went down for a nap while listening to interesting talk on the radio, mostly dedicated to mothers, since it is Mothers' Day tomorrow, and some of the weird angst that mothers often go through over their kids.I have stayed home or close to home, taking care to not over do things. I am eating well again but still tire a bit easily and expect to be going to bed early tonight.
I consider myself enormously blessed.
Friday, 8 May 2015
Hospitalization
Regular readers of this blog might be noting that nothing new has appeared on this page since last Saturday. Sunday morning last week I woke up with double vision. I was weak and unsteady on my feet. I knew I was seriously ill and in need of immediate medical care so I called an ambulance.
Following twelve hours in emergency I was admitted, sharing a room with an obnoxious young recovering addict. Everything else about my stay flowed wonderfully. I am enjoying a rapid healing, am walking normally with normal vision and getting appropriate medical support for a hormone imbalance. There is much about my health crisis that still puzzles doctors and they are making me a subject of medical research.
I have no doubt that much of my healing comes from God and also is channelled through the excellent care I have been receiving as well as the prayers and support of friends. I am truly blessed. Now comes the remaining process of recovery and wellness.
I have just enjoyed today my first home cooked meal, a vegetarian stew of Roma beans with pasta. I feel a bit pooped from cooking. It is just amazing how much energy must go into our own self care and for this reason I am the more amazed by the hard and skilled work that is expended for us by our medical health care teams.
I am overwhelmed with gratitude.
Following twelve hours in emergency I was admitted, sharing a room with an obnoxious young recovering addict. Everything else about my stay flowed wonderfully. I am enjoying a rapid healing, am walking normally with normal vision and getting appropriate medical support for a hormone imbalance. There is much about my health crisis that still puzzles doctors and they are making me a subject of medical research.
I have no doubt that much of my healing comes from God and also is channelled through the excellent care I have been receiving as well as the prayers and support of friends. I am truly blessed. Now comes the remaining process of recovery and wellness.
I have just enjoyed today my first home cooked meal, a vegetarian stew of Roma beans with pasta. I feel a bit pooped from cooking. It is just amazing how much energy must go into our own self care and for this reason I am the more amazed by the hard and skilled work that is expended for us by our medical health care teams.
I am overwhelmed with gratitude.
Saturday, 2 May 2015
Thirteen Crucifixiions, 118
The door of the common room opened, and Lazarus saw Chris enter with
a youth his own age, who he found vaguely familiar. He had sat in reflective silence for the last
hour since Adam had gone to bed. And
now—
“Lazarus”, Chris
said jovially, with tired strain etched into his aging face, “I would like you
to meet Peter, who will be staying for the night. Could you please see him to room number
four?”
“Certainly. Where were you?”
“Out for a little
boat ride and that’s where we met. He’s
leaving the country tomorrow but needs a safe place for the night. Now if you don’t mind, I should be off to bed
soon.”
Friday, 1 May 2015
Gone To The Dogs
It's late and I'm tired, but here goes. I'll make this one short and sweet. This afternoon I was walking along Tenth near Cambie, one of Vancouver's major bike routes. Four young men decided to ride their bikes on the sidewalk since that block of the street was closed for road repair. Fair enough. I want to age gracefully so I'm not one for confronting strangers, regardless their age, on infractions, real or imagined.
Then, a rather imposing looking senior male, appeared on his front porch and announced to me how those rude young people should know better than ride their bicycles on the goddamn sidewalk, which in Vancouver is illegal. I replied that they were redirected because of road work and he snorted that they could have taken the next street instead and then he began to rant about how horrible young people are nowadays and that our city has gone to the dogs. I simply agreed with him to shut him up and continued on my way, given that I was running late on my next work assignment.
The world is not coming to an end, not any time soon. There have always been and always will be rude morons among our youth. There have also always been and always will be saints and simply wonderful young men and women as well.
Yes the city has gone to the dogs. Almost everyone wants to have one and gets a dog no matter how inappropriate the neighbourhood or their tiny apartments or condos. And they let them run off leash and destroy parks where they're not allowed and a few of them are unpleasant, will threaten other dogs and sometimes passing humans as well.
But people need affection and love and not many are about to get it from other humans. Yes, owning a dog is not an entitlement but a privilege but most dog owners seem to think of it as an entitlement. I used to get mad and annoyed about this, much as I did about people riding their bikes on the sidewalk. This kind of outrage really uses up an awful lot of energy.
It really is much better, and much easier to be kind. Now I prefer to smile and say hi to cyclists on the sidewalk while getting the heck out of their way and stopping to pat friendly dogs while chatting with their silly humans.
I like to think of this as aging gracefully.
Then, a rather imposing looking senior male, appeared on his front porch and announced to me how those rude young people should know better than ride their bicycles on the goddamn sidewalk, which in Vancouver is illegal. I replied that they were redirected because of road work and he snorted that they could have taken the next street instead and then he began to rant about how horrible young people are nowadays and that our city has gone to the dogs. I simply agreed with him to shut him up and continued on my way, given that I was running late on my next work assignment.
The world is not coming to an end, not any time soon. There have always been and always will be rude morons among our youth. There have also always been and always will be saints and simply wonderful young men and women as well.
Yes the city has gone to the dogs. Almost everyone wants to have one and gets a dog no matter how inappropriate the neighbourhood or their tiny apartments or condos. And they let them run off leash and destroy parks where they're not allowed and a few of them are unpleasant, will threaten other dogs and sometimes passing humans as well.
But people need affection and love and not many are about to get it from other humans. Yes, owning a dog is not an entitlement but a privilege but most dog owners seem to think of it as an entitlement. I used to get mad and annoyed about this, much as I did about people riding their bikes on the sidewalk. This kind of outrage really uses up an awful lot of energy.
It really is much better, and much easier to be kind. Now I prefer to smile and say hi to cyclists on the sidewalk while getting the heck out of their way and stopping to pat friendly dogs while chatting with their silly humans.
I like to think of this as aging gracefully.
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