Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Showing posts with label family. Show all posts
Sunday, November 06, 2011
Friday, November 04, 2011
14 Days
Another depressing post ...
Doctors are often wrong. There were wrong about my brother, and they may well be wrong about my mother. They give her 10 to 14 days. She is not eating and can't use her hands, so is only having water fed to her through a straw. How long can she go on with only water to sustain her? We don't know yet if she will refuse her dialysis treatment, but now that she is no longer receiving anti-depressants, this is likely.
Of course, I am left to think about my father and my mother, because I will soon have no parents. I was always closer to my father. He was the gregarious, funny, joyous one in the family. He loved to have a good time and he liked to laugh and make jokes. He liked traveling (to beaches, mostly), making wine, operating the BBQ. My mother, on the other hand, was always quiet, reserved, and--let's face it--depressed. If I try to summon up a visual image of my mother, it is this: she sits at table or in a living room chair with a cigarette smouldering in an ash tray with a cup of instant coffee, reading either a Harlequin novel or a magazine such as True Romance.
She never got any exercise, never had any hobbies (aside from a short-lived effort at numismatics, cut short by my brother's thievery), and a brief foray into the bizarre world of liquid embroidery. She did accompany my father on trips to the Caribbean, but I really have no idea if she liked these excursions. Other than that, she was a couch potato, but she did read, unlike my father.
She once told me that she first became aware of her depression when was was a teenager, which might explain why she took up smoking at age fourteen. I have read that there is a link between smoking and depression. She also told me that she was careful never to reveal her depression because she legitimately feared that she would be placed in a psychiatric hospital, something she did have to face as an adult when I was away at University. One of the things I am grateful for is not having inherited her depression. I think I am clear of that one, but I do worry about Alzheimer's, which afflicted her mother, and is creeping into my mother's brain. I hope I dodge that one too.
Anyway, the plan is to head out to the far reaches or rural southern Ontario this weekend and visit with her. It's not going to be pleasant.
Doctors are often wrong. There were wrong about my brother, and they may well be wrong about my mother. They give her 10 to 14 days. She is not eating and can't use her hands, so is only having water fed to her through a straw. How long can she go on with only water to sustain her? We don't know yet if she will refuse her dialysis treatment, but now that she is no longer receiving anti-depressants, this is likely.
Of course, I am left to think about my father and my mother, because I will soon have no parents. I was always closer to my father. He was the gregarious, funny, joyous one in the family. He loved to have a good time and he liked to laugh and make jokes. He liked traveling (to beaches, mostly), making wine, operating the BBQ. My mother, on the other hand, was always quiet, reserved, and--let's face it--depressed. If I try to summon up a visual image of my mother, it is this: she sits at table or in a living room chair with a cigarette smouldering in an ash tray with a cup of instant coffee, reading either a Harlequin novel or a magazine such as True Romance.
She never got any exercise, never had any hobbies (aside from a short-lived effort at numismatics, cut short by my brother's thievery), and a brief foray into the bizarre world of liquid embroidery. She did accompany my father on trips to the Caribbean, but I really have no idea if she liked these excursions. Other than that, she was a couch potato, but she did read, unlike my father.
She once told me that she first became aware of her depression when was was a teenager, which might explain why she took up smoking at age fourteen. I have read that there is a link between smoking and depression. She also told me that she was careful never to reveal her depression because she legitimately feared that she would be placed in a psychiatric hospital, something she did have to face as an adult when I was away at University. One of the things I am grateful for is not having inherited her depression. I think I am clear of that one, but I do worry about Alzheimer's, which afflicted her mother, and is creeping into my mother's brain. I hope I dodge that one too.
Anyway, the plan is to head out to the far reaches or rural southern Ontario this weekend and visit with her. It's not going to be pleasant.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Funeral
I think one sign of aging is when you see certain people only at funerals. At my grandmother's funeral a couple of weeks back, I saw people (relatives really) whom I had not seen since my father's funeral a year and a half ago. It reminds me of younger days when I saw certain people only at weddings.
Anyway, my maternal grandmother passed away recently just short of her 92nd birthday. She lived a long life, so this was not a morbid affair, but one with humour and stories. She married at age 18, in a classic Ontario 1930s shotgun wedding, something that had been kept a closely-guarded secret for years. My grandmother refused to entertain questions about how old she was when she married in combination with the question of how old she currently was. I assumed that this was part of a larger plan to hide her age, but it was an effort to hide her shame, a shame she seemed to carry for most of her life. Once Alzheimer's crept in, I suppose she no longer thought about it.
Of course, by the time I had figured it out, pregnancy out of wedlock was no longer an issue, at least for most people. After all, my brothers had been spreading their seed far and wide with no regard for tradition, and that seemed like normal practice to me.
Alzheimer's is a horrible affliction and I hope I never have to confront it. The first time my grandmother failed to recognize me was a shock. After some time, she managed to put it all together, but more recently, she didn't have a clue, and that was very sad.
She is now resting (I'm not sure that I like this term) beside her husband who predeceased her by 29 years, and her grandson, who passed away at the age of 5. I remember him well.
Anyway, my maternal grandmother passed away recently just short of her 92nd birthday. She lived a long life, so this was not a morbid affair, but one with humour and stories. She married at age 18, in a classic Ontario 1930s shotgun wedding, something that had been kept a closely-guarded secret for years. My grandmother refused to entertain questions about how old she was when she married in combination with the question of how old she currently was. I assumed that this was part of a larger plan to hide her age, but it was an effort to hide her shame, a shame she seemed to carry for most of her life. Once Alzheimer's crept in, I suppose she no longer thought about it.
Of course, by the time I had figured it out, pregnancy out of wedlock was no longer an issue, at least for most people. After all, my brothers had been spreading their seed far and wide with no regard for tradition, and that seemed like normal practice to me.
Alzheimer's is a horrible affliction and I hope I never have to confront it. The first time my grandmother failed to recognize me was a shock. After some time, she managed to put it all together, but more recently, she didn't have a clue, and that was very sad.
She is now resting (I'm not sure that I like this term) beside her husband who predeceased her by 29 years, and her grandson, who passed away at the age of 5. I remember him well.
Monday, May 17, 2010
RIP
I am sad to have to write that my father passed away on Friday, May 14th. It's been a difficult year, with my brother's stroke and my mother's declining health: she is frail and depressed and looks ten years older than she is. I will make a return trip to the town of my birth for the funeral this week.
I am sad to have to write that my father passed away on Friday, May 14th. It's been a difficult year, with my brother's stroke and my mother's declining health: she is frail and depressed and looks ten years older than she is. I will make a return trip to the town of my birth for the funeral this week.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
Tuesday, May 04, 2010
My Dad & Brother
I headed out to the rural parts of Ontario last weekend to visit my father in hospital. He has been battling various types of cancer for a few years, but the illness now seems to be taking a greater toll. I am sure that the steady stream of pharmaceuticals are also inflicting some sort of hell on his brain and systems. He was not vocal at all, only managing a few mumbles, though since the visit, he has been more communicative.
My step-mom fed him soup and ice cream, I have to say that watching one's formerly vital father being fed is not a pleasant sight. It reminded me of when I fed my children. It's the same really: they turn their heads to refuse the offering; they decide they want more; they change their minds. He looked weak and frail, something I could never have imagined when I was young.
My dad's future is uncertain. Doctors are reluctant to offer an estimate on his remaining time, but seeing as though the cancer has migrated to his spine, his time here would seem to be severely limited. Even if he rebounds, he will not go home. My step-mom can't control him. It may have been the drugs, but he recently moved some furniture out of the house and threw a plant out the door as well. Even when he was at home, he wanted to "go home" and waited for the movers to take his stuff back to his real house, in his real town, and be with his real wife. This may be Capgras Syndrome, wherein those afflicted feel that a family member is an impostor.
My mother has been in a nursing home for two or three years, since she broke her hip. Her mother, now 90, is also in a nursing home. She has no idea who anyone is anymore. And then there is my brother. The good news is that the doctor was proven to be completely wrong in his diagnosis.
My brother, once thought to be on his deathbed, executed some sort of remarkable recovery. He can walk with the aid of a walker. He can talk. He has problems with short-term memory. His is weaker on one side. He remains, it has to be said, susceptible to further strokes.
My brother, should he continue to improve, will be placed in a rehabilitation facility. My dad, should he improve, will end up in a nursing home for some period of time. Most of my family will be in institutions.
I headed out to the rural parts of Ontario last weekend to visit my father in hospital. He has been battling various types of cancer for a few years, but the illness now seems to be taking a greater toll. I am sure that the steady stream of pharmaceuticals are also inflicting some sort of hell on his brain and systems. He was not vocal at all, only managing a few mumbles, though since the visit, he has been more communicative.
My step-mom fed him soup and ice cream, I have to say that watching one's formerly vital father being fed is not a pleasant sight. It reminded me of when I fed my children. It's the same really: they turn their heads to refuse the offering; they decide they want more; they change their minds. He looked weak and frail, something I could never have imagined when I was young.
My dad's future is uncertain. Doctors are reluctant to offer an estimate on his remaining time, but seeing as though the cancer has migrated to his spine, his time here would seem to be severely limited. Even if he rebounds, he will not go home. My step-mom can't control him. It may have been the drugs, but he recently moved some furniture out of the house and threw a plant out the door as well. Even when he was at home, he wanted to "go home" and waited for the movers to take his stuff back to his real house, in his real town, and be with his real wife. This may be Capgras Syndrome, wherein those afflicted feel that a family member is an impostor.
My mother has been in a nursing home for two or three years, since she broke her hip. Her mother, now 90, is also in a nursing home. She has no idea who anyone is anymore. And then there is my brother. The good news is that the doctor was proven to be completely wrong in his diagnosis.
My brother, once thought to be on his deathbed, executed some sort of remarkable recovery. He can walk with the aid of a walker. He can talk. He has problems with short-term memory. His is weaker on one side. He remains, it has to be said, susceptible to further strokes.
My brother, should he continue to improve, will be placed in a rehabilitation facility. My dad, should he improve, will end up in a nursing home for some period of time. Most of my family will be in institutions.
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Sometimes, Doctors are Wrong
Soon after visiting my brother in the hospital, he developed a fever. This turn of events seemed to strengthen the belief that the doctor had been quite correct. Everyone thought that this would be the thing to end it all, but then something almost miraculous happened.
After ten days of unconsciousness, he "woke up." This is amazing, unexpected news, but it is not exactly as good as is sounds. He cannot speak. He can only open his eyes for a few seconds at a time. His is so weak on the right side, that he cannot really move his right arm. He cannot swallow, meaning that they have to keep a tube in his throat. He cannot eat because his stomach will not function properly and nothing is kept down. He is on oxygen. Of course, since he cannot speak, it is unclear if he is suffering from any brain damage, aside from the obvious speech issue. He did manage to shake his head in reply to some questions.
What lies ahead, should he continue to come out of this, is months of rehabilitation and a long, slow recovery. I am not sure that recovery is the correct word since he will most likely have limited mobility and a poor quality of life. The doctor emphasized that my brother remains in grave condition and that he is very ill. The doctor is uncertain what lies ahead. In fact, his original prognosis might still hold true.
So, again, we wait.
Soon after visiting my brother in the hospital, he developed a fever. This turn of events seemed to strengthen the belief that the doctor had been quite correct. Everyone thought that this would be the thing to end it all, but then something almost miraculous happened.
After ten days of unconsciousness, he "woke up." This is amazing, unexpected news, but it is not exactly as good as is sounds. He cannot speak. He can only open his eyes for a few seconds at a time. His is so weak on the right side, that he cannot really move his right arm. He cannot swallow, meaning that they have to keep a tube in his throat. He cannot eat because his stomach will not function properly and nothing is kept down. He is on oxygen. Of course, since he cannot speak, it is unclear if he is suffering from any brain damage, aside from the obvious speech issue. He did manage to shake his head in reply to some questions.
What lies ahead, should he continue to come out of this, is months of rehabilitation and a long, slow recovery. I am not sure that recovery is the correct word since he will most likely have limited mobility and a poor quality of life. The doctor emphasized that my brother remains in grave condition and that he is very ill. The doctor is uncertain what lies ahead. In fact, his original prognosis might still hold true.
So, again, we wait.
Sunday, March 07, 2010
I Have two Brothers but I am Brotherless
My brother is going to die.
It's almost impossible to describe the overwhelming sense of sadness in that hospital room. With my sister, step-mom, my brother's step-daughter, and her child, we stood around trying to make sense of it all. Five days after his hemorrhagic stroke, he is still unresponsive. The doctor described two possible outcomes. The less likely is that he will surface and, in the best possible scenario, will de disabled and have massive brain damage. The other - more likely scenario - is that he will slip into a coma and die of something else, like an infection, perhaps pneumonia. So certain is he of this outcome, that we all agreed with a "do not resuscitate" plan. In short, my brother is going to die, but we don't know exactly when. It could take hours or days or weeks or longer. But, the timing is irrelevant: my brother is already gone.
The average hospital bed is not up to the task of containing a 475+ pound man. By some estimates, he is over 500 pounds, but that won't last, not in a hospital bed, especially since his stomach no longer functions: the food forced into him by a tube is regurgitated immediately. My brother fills the bed completely, like a child lying in a bed made for a toy doll. Cables and tubes connect him to an array of medical instruments: a heart rate monitor, a blood pressure cuff, two IVs, and a respirator with its long tube running down his throat.
Throughout the day, I experienced a deep sense of guilt and anger. My brother is such an asshole. It's difficult to write that about a family member, one who is on the verge of death, but he is an asshole and it has always pissed me off. I was supposed to be his friend. I was supposed to be close to him for my entire life. We were both supposed to have kids who would play with each other and come over at Christmas. We were supposed to go to the beach together. Or, he was just supposed to be around, to be an unconditional friend, to a part of my life. Instead, he bailed on his entire family, after being a jerk when he was an adolescent.
His three kids (the first of whom came when he was only 16) were sexually abused; the mother and step-father were sent off to prison, the kids being distributed to various foster homes, never to be seen again, though we are looking for them. Sure, he paid some child support, but only after court orders, and then that dried up when he went on a disability pension. He made no effort to find them. He didn't try to obtain custody after the trial when their step-father was found guilty of sexual assault and the mother found guilty of permitting it to happen.
I am angry with my brother for ruining so much of my childhood. From his violent behaviour toward me to the theft of family possessions, he was a complete bastard. What can you say about someone who would steal from his own family? At least my other brother, the one who left home when I was 4 years old, never stole from us. He sold drugs and paid the price, and then I never really saw him again. He disappeared and I have seen in a handful of times, and only twice in the past 25 years, maybe 5 times since I was four years old. It's like he was never my brother. He is a mystery to me and I can't even say that I know him.
In the hospital, staring at him in the bed, I was inexplicably on the verge of tears, for a man I never liked, for a man that failed to be a brother, who was a terrible son, a lousy human being, and a disinterested father. He spent his life barely able to survive, finally ending up a on disability pension because he was too obese to work. He has sleep apnea, hypertension, diabetes, asthma, troubles with blood clots, and a weak heart. By all accounts he ate massive amounts of unhealthy food and had an immense passion for smoking. I still insist that this is the outcome he wanted: he wanted to be pitied, to be the village freak, and he did it. In the end, I might compare him with Ignatius J. Reilly, but without the creativity, or maybe Homer Simpson, but a Homer without any sense of responsibility or love for anyone other than himself.
You may think this uncharitable, but it's true. The way he spoke clearly indicated that he loved attention. If he was sick, everyone knew about it. Everyone knew how many pills he had to take each day because he displayed them in his apartment for some sort of pitying effect.
After a conversation with the doctor, we went to have lunch, and then drove to his apartment. It's difficult to think about him as being dead, when his is still alive and breathing, but we were forced to investigate the bills, to pay the landlord the overdue rent, to plan for the emptying of the apartment.
The floor around his bed is scarred with burns from cigarettes that fell through his hands as he drifted off to sleep. Miraculously, there was never a fire. He gave up smoking six months ago when he needed oxygen. The bedroom has six oxygen tanks; he has a night-time breathing apparatus. Another oxygen machine sits in the living room. I looked around the dismal place and was stunned to see a shelf of family photographs.
I didn't speak to him over the past 25 years, maybe once or twice. I was angry with him and could never understand how my father could have forgiven him so easily. My mother too. But, I guess that's what parents do. Standing there, staring at the photographs, I began to feel angry with myself for being the holdout, especially when my sister said she had been speaking with him recently. And then, I saw two photos of me and my two kids (whom he has never met) on a shelf along with recent photos of my sister. My sister had sent him photos and he ran out to buy frames so he could display them.
I felt like such an idiot. In the back of my mind, I always assumed that our paths would cross, that we would speak again, that we could forget all of the garbage of the past, but now that's impossible. He is dying in a hospital, and I am pissed off, but I am not sure if I am angry about him dying or for him failing to be a brother. How is it that I ended up with two brothers who walked away from their family and never tried to keep in contact with any of us?
I got back in the rental car and headed back to Toronto, feeling a profound sense of loss for a brother I hardly knew.
My brother is going to die.
It's almost impossible to describe the overwhelming sense of sadness in that hospital room. With my sister, step-mom, my brother's step-daughter, and her child, we stood around trying to make sense of it all. Five days after his hemorrhagic stroke, he is still unresponsive. The doctor described two possible outcomes. The less likely is that he will surface and, in the best possible scenario, will de disabled and have massive brain damage. The other - more likely scenario - is that he will slip into a coma and die of something else, like an infection, perhaps pneumonia. So certain is he of this outcome, that we all agreed with a "do not resuscitate" plan. In short, my brother is going to die, but we don't know exactly when. It could take hours or days or weeks or longer. But, the timing is irrelevant: my brother is already gone.
The average hospital bed is not up to the task of containing a 475+ pound man. By some estimates, he is over 500 pounds, but that won't last, not in a hospital bed, especially since his stomach no longer functions: the food forced into him by a tube is regurgitated immediately. My brother fills the bed completely, like a child lying in a bed made for a toy doll. Cables and tubes connect him to an array of medical instruments: a heart rate monitor, a blood pressure cuff, two IVs, and a respirator with its long tube running down his throat.
Throughout the day, I experienced a deep sense of guilt and anger. My brother is such an asshole. It's difficult to write that about a family member, one who is on the verge of death, but he is an asshole and it has always pissed me off. I was supposed to be his friend. I was supposed to be close to him for my entire life. We were both supposed to have kids who would play with each other and come over at Christmas. We were supposed to go to the beach together. Or, he was just supposed to be around, to be an unconditional friend, to a part of my life. Instead, he bailed on his entire family, after being a jerk when he was an adolescent.
His three kids (the first of whom came when he was only 16) were sexually abused; the mother and step-father were sent off to prison, the kids being distributed to various foster homes, never to be seen again, though we are looking for them. Sure, he paid some child support, but only after court orders, and then that dried up when he went on a disability pension. He made no effort to find them. He didn't try to obtain custody after the trial when their step-father was found guilty of sexual assault and the mother found guilty of permitting it to happen.
I am angry with my brother for ruining so much of my childhood. From his violent behaviour toward me to the theft of family possessions, he was a complete bastard. What can you say about someone who would steal from his own family? At least my other brother, the one who left home when I was 4 years old, never stole from us. He sold drugs and paid the price, and then I never really saw him again. He disappeared and I have seen in a handful of times, and only twice in the past 25 years, maybe 5 times since I was four years old. It's like he was never my brother. He is a mystery to me and I can't even say that I know him.
In the hospital, staring at him in the bed, I was inexplicably on the verge of tears, for a man I never liked, for a man that failed to be a brother, who was a terrible son, a lousy human being, and a disinterested father. He spent his life barely able to survive, finally ending up a on disability pension because he was too obese to work. He has sleep apnea, hypertension, diabetes, asthma, troubles with blood clots, and a weak heart. By all accounts he ate massive amounts of unhealthy food and had an immense passion for smoking. I still insist that this is the outcome he wanted: he wanted to be pitied, to be the village freak, and he did it. In the end, I might compare him with Ignatius J. Reilly, but without the creativity, or maybe Homer Simpson, but a Homer without any sense of responsibility or love for anyone other than himself.
You may think this uncharitable, but it's true. The way he spoke clearly indicated that he loved attention. If he was sick, everyone knew about it. Everyone knew how many pills he had to take each day because he displayed them in his apartment for some sort of pitying effect.
After a conversation with the doctor, we went to have lunch, and then drove to his apartment. It's difficult to think about him as being dead, when his is still alive and breathing, but we were forced to investigate the bills, to pay the landlord the overdue rent, to plan for the emptying of the apartment.
The floor around his bed is scarred with burns from cigarettes that fell through his hands as he drifted off to sleep. Miraculously, there was never a fire. He gave up smoking six months ago when he needed oxygen. The bedroom has six oxygen tanks; he has a night-time breathing apparatus. Another oxygen machine sits in the living room. I looked around the dismal place and was stunned to see a shelf of family photographs.
I didn't speak to him over the past 25 years, maybe once or twice. I was angry with him and could never understand how my father could have forgiven him so easily. My mother too. But, I guess that's what parents do. Standing there, staring at the photographs, I began to feel angry with myself for being the holdout, especially when my sister said she had been speaking with him recently. And then, I saw two photos of me and my two kids (whom he has never met) on a shelf along with recent photos of my sister. My sister had sent him photos and he ran out to buy frames so he could display them.
I felt like such an idiot. In the back of my mind, I always assumed that our paths would cross, that we would speak again, that we could forget all of the garbage of the past, but now that's impossible. He is dying in a hospital, and I am pissed off, but I am not sure if I am angry about him dying or for him failing to be a brother. How is it that I ended up with two brothers who walked away from their family and never tried to keep in contact with any of us?
I got back in the rental car and headed back to Toronto, feeling a profound sense of loss for a brother I hardly knew.
Wednesday, March 03, 2010
Brother
My estranged brother has had a stroke. This is both odd and not odd. It is odd because he is young, only 17 months older than me. On the other hand, he is morbidly obese and he leads a very unhealthy lifestyle. (You can read more about my brother here and here).
He remains unresponsive in a hospital bed, about to be shifted to a different hospital where a neurologist can examine him. Initially, we were told that the prognosis is grave. Currently, I have no idea and am just waiting to get the updates.
My estranged brother has had a stroke. This is both odd and not odd. It is odd because he is young, only 17 months older than me. On the other hand, he is morbidly obese and he leads a very unhealthy lifestyle. (You can read more about my brother here and here).
He remains unresponsive in a hospital bed, about to be shifted to a different hospital where a neurologist can examine him. Initially, we were told that the prognosis is grave. Currently, I have no idea and am just waiting to get the updates.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Happy New Year, and all that
If I can't win the lottery, why can't someone I know win the lottery, like my father or sister? That would be almost as good, as I am fairly sure they would offer me some cash (unless I have completely misread them and overestimated their fondness for me). My grandmother is another story: her memory is deteriorating, and she would have great difficulty deciding what to do with all of that cash or even remembering who her relatives are.
When I walked into her house at Christmas (the door was not only unlocked, it was ajar, so that her neighbours can easily enter. I am not sure that this is a good idea. She wears a Lifeline around her neck, and two people call her daily to make sure that she is still alive. In November, she turned 89.
She looked at me blankly and I realized that I would have to give her my name. The first name wasn't good enough, so I had to add my surname. Still, she looked at me blankly. The two children were with me, so I guess I looked harmless enough, so she allowed me in without any fuss or complaints. I referred to my mother, sister, father, etc, to see if I could spark a memory. Finally, she seemed to get it, but then she suggested that I had never been to her house before, a house she has lived in for 33 years. She could not remember the names of the kids.
She announced relationships for every person she mentioned. Her daughter-in-law was not simply S_____, she was "S_____, my son's wife." You would have thought that she was talking to a stranger or someone she hadn't seen in 25 years. She offered us inedible candies, which were only marginally better than the Humbugs she used to dispense in my youth, Humbugs that were suspiciously without cellophane and which seemed always to be covered in pocket lint.
She ignored the gifts we brought to her, complained that she accidentally gave one of her grandchildren $5 too much at Christmas, and described in great detail how horrified she was about some gifts she had received. One top had a zipper all of the way up the front, right to her chin! She argued that no one would wear anything like that. The waist of the pants was too high or too low or something. She told this person never to buy her another gift.
Bah humbug, I suppose.
If I can't win the lottery, why can't someone I know win the lottery, like my father or sister? That would be almost as good, as I am fairly sure they would offer me some cash (unless I have completely misread them and overestimated their fondness for me). My grandmother is another story: her memory is deteriorating, and she would have great difficulty deciding what to do with all of that cash or even remembering who her relatives are.
When I walked into her house at Christmas (the door was not only unlocked, it was ajar, so that her neighbours can easily enter. I am not sure that this is a good idea. She wears a Lifeline around her neck, and two people call her daily to make sure that she is still alive. In November, she turned 89.
She looked at me blankly and I realized that I would have to give her my name. The first name wasn't good enough, so I had to add my surname. Still, she looked at me blankly. The two children were with me, so I guess I looked harmless enough, so she allowed me in without any fuss or complaints. I referred to my mother, sister, father, etc, to see if I could spark a memory. Finally, she seemed to get it, but then she suggested that I had never been to her house before, a house she has lived in for 33 years. She could not remember the names of the kids.
She announced relationships for every person she mentioned. Her daughter-in-law was not simply S_____, she was "S_____, my son's wife." You would have thought that she was talking to a stranger or someone she hadn't seen in 25 years. She offered us inedible candies, which were only marginally better than the Humbugs she used to dispense in my youth, Humbugs that were suspiciously without cellophane and which seemed always to be covered in pocket lint.
She ignored the gifts we brought to her, complained that she accidentally gave one of her grandchildren $5 too much at Christmas, and described in great detail how horrified she was about some gifts she had received. One top had a zipper all of the way up the front, right to her chin! She argued that no one would wear anything like that. The waist of the pants was too high or too low or something. She told this person never to buy her another gift.
Bah humbug, I suppose.
Monday, November 10, 2008
A Depressing Post
I logged in, planning to write, in my best Soup Nazi impersonation, "No post for you!" But, let's just see where stream-of-consciousness takes me.
I just got back from rural Ontario, which is always interesting. My father is fighting 5 types of cancer, but oddly, all of them are considered to be the least deadly types of cancer in each class. He has skin cancer, but not melanoma, for example. But, he looks pale, which makes his wardrobe choices all the more perplexing. His beige pants, beige shirt, and beige socks match his pale, ashen complexion, a complexion that would seem to demand some colour compensation. He just needed a hat to convince all of us that he was about to go on safari.
The loss of 25 or 30 pounds makes him appear completely different. His face is drawn; he has no energy; he needs to nap several times per day. For the first time, he looks old to me. He's lost something. He didn't make a single racy joke and, far more surprising, didn't offer any political commentary or investment advice. Occasionally, he stared off into the distance, and I really wondered what he was thinking about.
I wonder if having skin cancer makes him regret the hours he spent basking in the sun. Somehow, I doubt it. He loved the sun and would probably follow the same route again, given a second chance.
Time prevented an additional junket to visit my mother, now housed in a new home, close to my sister's house. It's here where she will live out her days eating meatloaf and watching her roommates die. I gather she is not enamored with the place, but that might change. At Christmas, I will have to ensure that I visit her in her new abode.
My, wasn't that depressing? I just have to add the title and hit publish.
I logged in, planning to write, in my best Soup Nazi impersonation, "No post for you!" But, let's just see where stream-of-consciousness takes me.
I just got back from rural Ontario, which is always interesting. My father is fighting 5 types of cancer, but oddly, all of them are considered to be the least deadly types of cancer in each class. He has skin cancer, but not melanoma, for example. But, he looks pale, which makes his wardrobe choices all the more perplexing. His beige pants, beige shirt, and beige socks match his pale, ashen complexion, a complexion that would seem to demand some colour compensation. He just needed a hat to convince all of us that he was about to go on safari.
The loss of 25 or 30 pounds makes him appear completely different. His face is drawn; he has no energy; he needs to nap several times per day. For the first time, he looks old to me. He's lost something. He didn't make a single racy joke and, far more surprising, didn't offer any political commentary or investment advice. Occasionally, he stared off into the distance, and I really wondered what he was thinking about.
I wonder if having skin cancer makes him regret the hours he spent basking in the sun. Somehow, I doubt it. He loved the sun and would probably follow the same route again, given a second chance.
Time prevented an additional junket to visit my mother, now housed in a new home, close to my sister's house. It's here where she will live out her days eating meatloaf and watching her roommates die. I gather she is not enamored with the place, but that might change. At Christmas, I will have to ensure that I visit her in her new abode.
My, wasn't that depressing? I just have to add the title and hit publish.
Monday, October 27, 2008
My Dad might be Getting his own Pair of Breasts
I realize that my dad might be the ultimate breast man, but I am fairly sure that he never wanted his very own pair of breasts. He is all about access, not ownership. A pair of breasts on a woman with visitation rights is what he always wanted. Now, he might actually be getting his own breasts.
No, he is not obese, not buying implants, and not changing gender. Instead, he will be undergoing Hormone Replacement Therapy. Anti-androgens reduce the production of testosterone, which feeds prostate cancer. The alternative treatment is orchidectomy, which sounds unpleasant to me and I am sure to him as well.
HRT, however, does have side effects akin to menopausal symptoms. These include hot flushes, osteoporosis, impotence, breast growth and breast tenderness. Despite that, the treatment should lengthen his life, and that's all that really matters.
By the way, this is post #800. I like to celebrate meaningless milestones.
I realize that my dad might be the ultimate breast man, but I am fairly sure that he never wanted his very own pair of breasts. He is all about access, not ownership. A pair of breasts on a woman with visitation rights is what he always wanted. Now, he might actually be getting his own breasts.
No, he is not obese, not buying implants, and not changing gender. Instead, he will be undergoing Hormone Replacement Therapy. Anti-androgens reduce the production of testosterone, which feeds prostate cancer. The alternative treatment is orchidectomy, which sounds unpleasant to me and I am sure to him as well.
HRT, however, does have side effects akin to menopausal symptoms. These include hot flushes, osteoporosis, impotence, breast growth and breast tenderness. Despite that, the treatment should lengthen his life, and that's all that really matters.
By the way, this is post #800. I like to celebrate meaningless milestones.
Sunday, September 21, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Then and Now
(Started 9:21 AM)
While strapping a helmet to my son's head, I reflected on my experience of learning how to skate. My mother tied a pair of used skates to my feet, pushed me out onto the ice, and sat in the heated area where she drank coffee and smoked. I had no instructors, no mentors, no guides -- aside from the speedy skaters flying past me on the expansive ice -- and no helmet.
Nor did I have a helmet when cycling or skateboarding. You'd have thought that children where expendable back then, especially considering that seat belts were rarely used, except for fun. Sometimes, my brother and I would buckle-up mostly for kicks and because it was a weird thing to do. That is even more interesting when I recall that my parents were not always sober when driving. I remember cruising down rural Ontario highways at 100 KM per hour after my parents had spent a night drinking with two other couples.
Six of them would pile into one car and hit the various booze houses. My brother and I stayed at a house with the children of these three unions, the eldest trying to exert some sort of control over chaos. At 2:00 or 3:00 AM, the parents would roll in and we divided into families: two families headed out into the darkness once again, and one family crawled upstairs to bed. After 45 minutes spent on the highways and side-streets, my dad would steer the huge Ford into the driveway and I would climb out, find my bed and sleep.
The most curious thing is that one of the drinkers in the sextet (there was no swinging, as far as I could determine) was a cop with the Ontario Provincial Police! But, this was back in the days when drinking and driving went together like ham and cheese. These were the days when kids could stand up on the front seat of the car to get a better view, or even crawl onto the back dash just to see if you could fit.
Oh, and there were no infant car seats. I think I was brought home from the hospital in a straw basket that my mother perched on her lap. Yup, kids were expendable and easily replaceable. I remember riding my tricycle and age three on the street in front of my house with no parents anywhere around. I knew enough to move aside when a car came. At age four, I walked to school by myself. The school was maybe half a mile away, but still. I sometimes wonder why I ever made it out of my childhood in one piece.
(Finished 9:25 AM)
(Started 9:21 AM)
While strapping a helmet to my son's head, I reflected on my experience of learning how to skate. My mother tied a pair of used skates to my feet, pushed me out onto the ice, and sat in the heated area where she drank coffee and smoked. I had no instructors, no mentors, no guides -- aside from the speedy skaters flying past me on the expansive ice -- and no helmet.
Nor did I have a helmet when cycling or skateboarding. You'd have thought that children where expendable back then, especially considering that seat belts were rarely used, except for fun. Sometimes, my brother and I would buckle-up mostly for kicks and because it was a weird thing to do. That is even more interesting when I recall that my parents were not always sober when driving. I remember cruising down rural Ontario highways at 100 KM per hour after my parents had spent a night drinking with two other couples.
Six of them would pile into one car and hit the various booze houses. My brother and I stayed at a house with the children of these three unions, the eldest trying to exert some sort of control over chaos. At 2:00 or 3:00 AM, the parents would roll in and we divided into families: two families headed out into the darkness once again, and one family crawled upstairs to bed. After 45 minutes spent on the highways and side-streets, my dad would steer the huge Ford into the driveway and I would climb out, find my bed and sleep.
The most curious thing is that one of the drinkers in the sextet (there was no swinging, as far as I could determine) was a cop with the Ontario Provincial Police! But, this was back in the days when drinking and driving went together like ham and cheese. These were the days when kids could stand up on the front seat of the car to get a better view, or even crawl onto the back dash just to see if you could fit.
Oh, and there were no infant car seats. I think I was brought home from the hospital in a straw basket that my mother perched on her lap. Yup, kids were expendable and easily replaceable. I remember riding my tricycle and age three on the street in front of my house with no parents anywhere around. I knew enough to move aside when a car came. At age four, I walked to school by myself. The school was maybe half a mile away, but still. I sometimes wonder why I ever made it out of my childhood in one piece.
(Finished 9:25 AM)
Wednesday, July 02, 2008
I'm Back, Baby I'm Back
Here's the best story from my weekend trip to Rural, Ontario to visit certain family members. While in the nursing home where my mother lives (probably for the rest of her life), my daughter decided to play the piano in the lounge area. Just then, an aged woman ambled in and said: "how wonderful." My son was trying his best to interfere with his sister's piano recital, but the old woman repeated her refrain: "how wonderful, how wonderful" even as the protests commenced and the voices of the children became louder and louder.
She went on: "I was a school teacher." I felt a bit sad for her, but also was happy that these two children, now getting seriously irritated with one another over piano access, brought her some joy. While my daughter played a lovely rendition of Doe, a deer, a female deer, the ancient women found a seat, spread out a large absorbent pad (I suppose in the event of spontaneous incontinence), had a seat, and stared out the window.
While chatting with my sister and my mother, I heard snippets of the babble coming from the old lady, such as: "a school teacher...lovely, I was a school teacher..." I suppose she had gotten lost in her reminiscences. Seconds later, without any warning, she let out a loud "bitch!"
The good news is that this caused my mother to laugh. "What's she going on about now?" my mother asked. "She's a crazy one." I laughed a bit too, and then wondered if she had been my one of my school teachers, but decided against the possibility.
***
I feel like I have been away from work for a week, mostly because I have. I was at a conference last week (sorry, no review for you today, or ever, if you are lucky). On Monday, when I should have been enjoying an extra long weekend, thanks to Canada Day falling on a Tuesday, I was at an appointment with a retinal specialist, who confirmed that I have two "potentially dangerous" retinal tears. I think half of Toronto was in his office that day. He lasered one tear after a wait with dozens of others needing similar treatments. I go back in three weeks for another laser weld job.
I have spent most of today in meetings, which is not a good thing.
Here's the best story from my weekend trip to Rural, Ontario to visit certain family members. While in the nursing home where my mother lives (probably for the rest of her life), my daughter decided to play the piano in the lounge area. Just then, an aged woman ambled in and said: "how wonderful." My son was trying his best to interfere with his sister's piano recital, but the old woman repeated her refrain: "how wonderful, how wonderful" even as the protests commenced and the voices of the children became louder and louder.
She went on: "I was a school teacher." I felt a bit sad for her, but also was happy that these two children, now getting seriously irritated with one another over piano access, brought her some joy. While my daughter played a lovely rendition of Doe, a deer, a female deer, the ancient women found a seat, spread out a large absorbent pad (I suppose in the event of spontaneous incontinence), had a seat, and stared out the window.
While chatting with my sister and my mother, I heard snippets of the babble coming from the old lady, such as: "a school teacher...lovely, I was a school teacher..." I suppose she had gotten lost in her reminiscences. Seconds later, without any warning, she let out a loud "bitch!"
The good news is that this caused my mother to laugh. "What's she going on about now?" my mother asked. "She's a crazy one." I laughed a bit too, and then wondered if she had been my one of my school teachers, but decided against the possibility.
***
I feel like I have been away from work for a week, mostly because I have. I was at a conference last week (sorry, no review for you today, or ever, if you are lucky). On Monday, when I should have been enjoying an extra long weekend, thanks to Canada Day falling on a Tuesday, I was at an appointment with a retinal specialist, who confirmed that I have two "potentially dangerous" retinal tears. I think half of Toronto was in his office that day. He lasered one tear after a wait with dozens of others needing similar treatments. I go back in three weeks for another laser weld job.
I have spent most of today in meetings, which is not a good thing.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
Glossary of a Three-Year-Old
Sunscream - the cream applied to one's body in order to avoid sun burn and, possibly, skin cancer.
Porkchoppers - a cut of meat cut at a right angle to the spine of the swine, sometimes containing a rib bone or segment of a vertebra. Alternately, pigs with extraordinarily long front legs. These pigs look much like radically-customized motorcycles, with stretched front forks.
Sunscream - the cream applied to one's body in order to avoid sun burn and, possibly, skin cancer.
Porkchoppers - a cut of meat cut at a right angle to the spine of the swine, sometimes containing a rib bone or segment of a vertebra. Alternately, pigs with extraordinarily long front legs. These pigs look much like radically-customized motorcycles, with stretched front forks.
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Ailing
My mother isn't dying, exactly. She probably has a good deal of life left in her, but you'd never know it to look at her. She's not old, really, but she looks it. Still recovering from a broken hip, she lies in a bed in a home because her mother, about to turn 89, can't look after her and will probably end up in some sort of retirement home herself.
I didn't ask if she is still wearing Depends and I didn't stay long enough to find out for myself, but I did wonder about the mixture of smells emanating from the facility. It was like the smell old, mixed with chicken soup, feet, and disinfectant.
The kids and I hovered by the end of the bed while I tried to communicate with her. No, she isn't quite sure how her hip was fixed, whether the surgeons used pins or not. No, she is not sure when she will be able to give up her walker, or when she will be able to walk farther than a few feet without assistance. "They tell me I'll be able to walk again," but she didn't sound very sure of her statement.
In the room she shares with three other women, there were two TVs competing with each other. The kids, not accustomed to the sight of people slowly dying, turned their gazes to the closest TV and watched a women in the final stages of labour, ultimately giving birth to a baby in a birthing pool. The scenes were tastefully done, but an old woman asked me pointedly if they should be watching such as thing as a woman having a baby. Imagine the nerve. Of course they can watch, I retorted, but I wish I had been blunter. She ambled past me in her walker, out to catch some excitement in the common room, I presume.
After 40 minutes, I could not longer resist the pleas to leave (but part of that probably had to do with the upcoming Easter egg hunt), and I had to admit that any longer might do psychological damage to me as well. We set off the door alarm on the way out, just as we did upon arrival.
My mother is on a waiting list for a bed in a home close to my sister's house. A bed should be free in two to four months, or, as soon as someone dies.
My mother isn't dying, exactly. She probably has a good deal of life left in her, but you'd never know it to look at her. She's not old, really, but she looks it. Still recovering from a broken hip, she lies in a bed in a home because her mother, about to turn 89, can't look after her and will probably end up in some sort of retirement home herself.
I didn't ask if she is still wearing Depends and I didn't stay long enough to find out for myself, but I did wonder about the mixture of smells emanating from the facility. It was like the smell old, mixed with chicken soup, feet, and disinfectant.
The kids and I hovered by the end of the bed while I tried to communicate with her. No, she isn't quite sure how her hip was fixed, whether the surgeons used pins or not. No, she is not sure when she will be able to give up her walker, or when she will be able to walk farther than a few feet without assistance. "They tell me I'll be able to walk again," but she didn't sound very sure of her statement.
In the room she shares with three other women, there were two TVs competing with each other. The kids, not accustomed to the sight of people slowly dying, turned their gazes to the closest TV and watched a women in the final stages of labour, ultimately giving birth to a baby in a birthing pool. The scenes were tastefully done, but an old woman asked me pointedly if they should be watching such as thing as a woman having a baby. Imagine the nerve. Of course they can watch, I retorted, but I wish I had been blunter. She ambled past me in her walker, out to catch some excitement in the common room, I presume.
After 40 minutes, I could not longer resist the pleas to leave (but part of that probably had to do with the upcoming Easter egg hunt), and I had to admit that any longer might do psychological damage to me as well. We set off the door alarm on the way out, just as we did upon arrival.
My mother is on a waiting list for a bed in a home close to my sister's house. A bed should be free in two to four months, or, as soon as someone dies.
Friday, January 25, 2008
Peter Heater
I guess that some memories are so deeply buried that they can never be recovered. Some long-forgotten memories come to the surface at unlikely times, like the other day, when I was eating lunch (some left over chicken curry that I had made), and I suddenly recalled a strange Christmas present my father once received from my aunt (my mom's brother's wife).
The adults in my family often exchanged gag gifts, probably because they are failures in the department of gift giving. It is far easier to choose something outlandish, than to risk giving something meaningful. There were a long line of such gifts: a t-shirt depicting a naked couple in a phone booth with the caption "your three minutes are up," an apron with a beer bottle opener attached to a fake penis, a ... maybe I should stop there.
One year, my aunt gave my father a "peter heater." If you are not in the know, this is sort of a sweater for one's penis. Imagine a woolen sheath, like a knitted condom, and you have it. There was no pouch for his pouch, by the way. Naturally, several things occurred to me, like, just why is he getting this gift from his sister-in-law? How did she know what size to buy? Maybe she made it? If so, how did she know what size to make it? I mean there is length and then there is girth.
Now, the real reason the gift was given is that everyone knew that my dad slept naked all of the time. The god news is that he did not model it for us. If he had, this memory would have remained buried forever and I would not be writing this post.
P.S. I am taking a PD day today, to do some PDish things.
I guess that some memories are so deeply buried that they can never be recovered. Some long-forgotten memories come to the surface at unlikely times, like the other day, when I was eating lunch (some left over chicken curry that I had made), and I suddenly recalled a strange Christmas present my father once received from my aunt (my mom's brother's wife).
The adults in my family often exchanged gag gifts, probably because they are failures in the department of gift giving. It is far easier to choose something outlandish, than to risk giving something meaningful. There were a long line of such gifts: a t-shirt depicting a naked couple in a phone booth with the caption "your three minutes are up," an apron with a beer bottle opener attached to a fake penis, a ... maybe I should stop there.
One year, my aunt gave my father a "peter heater." If you are not in the know, this is sort of a sweater for one's penis. Imagine a woolen sheath, like a knitted condom, and you have it. There was no pouch for his pouch, by the way. Naturally, several things occurred to me, like, just why is he getting this gift from his sister-in-law? How did she know what size to buy? Maybe she made it? If so, how did she know what size to make it? I mean there is length and then there is girth.
Now, the real reason the gift was given is that everyone knew that my dad slept naked all of the time. The god news is that he did not model it for us. If he had, this memory would have remained buried forever and I would not be writing this post.
P.S. I am taking a PD day today, to do some PDish things.
Sunday, December 30, 2007
Fractured, plus Jericho
Yes, I took the kids skating again today. No, I didn't not break any bones, and neither did the kids, thankfully. My mother, however, inadvertently went skating down her driveway and ended up with a broken hip. She is now resting in a hospital awaiting surgery for an artificial hip or steel pins. The course of action has yet to be determined.
Before the accident, she argued with her mother (with whom she lives) about who should venture out and retrieve the blue box from the curb. My mother prevailed. I wonder if she regrets winning that fight.
In other news, I think I hate my template.
In other other news, I have been on a Jericho bender. I downloaded all 22 season one episodes. I know I can watch full episodes on the official site, but that small video box is way too confining. I would happily have downloaded episodes with embedded commercials, but networks are far too conservative to embrace peer-to-peer technologies. Of course, online full episodes are important these days because many new TV programs require committed watching. For example, it's too late to start watching Heroes: you will have no idea what is going on if you start now, so you need a season and a half recap. Instead of the small box on the official website, networks ought to seed official versions in torrent tracker sites. I would like that.
Anyway, Jericho is pretty good. Despite some cheesy plot lines and some mediocre casting, the series has enough suspense and mystery to keep me interested. I have seen 12 episodes and am eager to see the rest, as well as season two, which commences in February. There is a risk of cancellation, but I am used to that since most shows I watch end up dead. The Family Guy managed to withstand two cancellations. It has nine lives. I hope Jericho can make it.
A curious thing about Jericho is the Morse Code used in the opening credits. I just realized that the code is different every time. The Wikipedia episode summary entries decipher each opening message.
By the way, I delete the episodes after viewing them.
Update:
Good news. It seems CBC is finally ready to seed one of its programs on peer-to-peer networks.
Yes, I took the kids skating again today. No, I didn't not break any bones, and neither did the kids, thankfully. My mother, however, inadvertently went skating down her driveway and ended up with a broken hip. She is now resting in a hospital awaiting surgery for an artificial hip or steel pins. The course of action has yet to be determined.
Before the accident, she argued with her mother (with whom she lives) about who should venture out and retrieve the blue box from the curb. My mother prevailed. I wonder if she regrets winning that fight.
In other news, I think I hate my template.
In other other news, I have been on a Jericho bender. I downloaded all 22 season one episodes. I know I can watch full episodes on the official site, but that small video box is way too confining. I would happily have downloaded episodes with embedded commercials, but networks are far too conservative to embrace peer-to-peer technologies. Of course, online full episodes are important these days because many new TV programs require committed watching. For example, it's too late to start watching Heroes: you will have no idea what is going on if you start now, so you need a season and a half recap. Instead of the small box on the official website, networks ought to seed official versions in torrent tracker sites. I would like that.
Anyway, Jericho is pretty good. Despite some cheesy plot lines and some mediocre casting, the series has enough suspense and mystery to keep me interested. I have seen 12 episodes and am eager to see the rest, as well as season two, which commences in February. There is a risk of cancellation, but I am used to that since most shows I watch end up dead. The Family Guy managed to withstand two cancellations. It has nine lives. I hope Jericho can make it.
A curious thing about Jericho is the Morse Code used in the opening credits. I just realized that the code is different every time. The Wikipedia episode summary entries decipher each opening message.
By the way, I delete the episodes after viewing them.
Update:
Good news. It seems CBC is finally ready to seed one of its programs on peer-to-peer networks.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Skating
I took the kids skating this morning. I still have it. In other words, I can still skate. It's sort of like riding a bike, I guess. Never once did my ass hit the ice. Later, I made delicious cocoa with soy milk. It tasted great to me, and the kids complimented me on it.
Sadly, my x-mas break is passing very very quickly. This makes me sad.
I took the kids skating this morning. I still have it. In other words, I can still skate. It's sort of like riding a bike, I guess. Never once did my ass hit the ice. Later, I made delicious cocoa with soy milk. It tasted great to me, and the kids complimented me on it.
Sadly, my x-mas break is passing very very quickly. This makes me sad.
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