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.
Showing posts with label father. Show all posts
Showing posts with label father. Show all posts
Friday, November 04, 2011
Thursday, November 03, 2011
Mother
My father passed away a year and a half ago. My grandmother passed away a couple of weeks ago. Now, my mother is apparently in her last days. She has been on dialysis for years, has low blood levels, can no longer walk, and is now confined to a bed (under a restraint order) lest she should try to get out and collapse. She has a mass of fluid on her lungs that might be cancer, but the doctors fear that she would not survive the invasive cancer testing procedure.
She yells out frequently, and there is a suspicion that the drugs are contributing to this behaviour. She asks to be let out of there and howls in pain. So, the doctors are reducing her drugs: no more anti-depressants, no more meds for high cholesterol. But, she is on Oxycontin and antibiotics and a medicated inhaler.
The doctors believe she is dying and now there is a DNR order. It's odd, because she came to my grandmother's (her mother's) funeral recently, though it was nearly impossible to get her in and out of the vehicle. Her legs are useless and she screamed with pain, complaining that she was being abandoned, even as three of us were trying to stuff her into a mini van.
I know that she is lonely in that nursing home. When my dad passed, she didn't really react, but he was someone she knew for years--most of her life, in fact--and I think that had an effect. And now, her mother is gone and, although she has always claimed to have hated her mother, she must miss her. After all, she lived with her for years and years until she was admitted to a nursing home, years before her mother met the same fate. It seems like her mother was her only friend.
She mumbles nonsense in between asking to be set free from the nursing home. Perhaps she has given up? On the other hand, she may hang on for years. You never really know, I guess, but at present, it seems grim.
She yells out frequently, and there is a suspicion that the drugs are contributing to this behaviour. She asks to be let out of there and howls in pain. So, the doctors are reducing her drugs: no more anti-depressants, no more meds for high cholesterol. But, she is on Oxycontin and antibiotics and a medicated inhaler.
The doctors believe she is dying and now there is a DNR order. It's odd, because she came to my grandmother's (her mother's) funeral recently, though it was nearly impossible to get her in and out of the vehicle. Her legs are useless and she screamed with pain, complaining that she was being abandoned, even as three of us were trying to stuff her into a mini van.
I know that she is lonely in that nursing home. When my dad passed, she didn't really react, but he was someone she knew for years--most of her life, in fact--and I think that had an effect. And now, her mother is gone and, although she has always claimed to have hated her mother, she must miss her. After all, she lived with her for years and years until she was admitted to a nursing home, years before her mother met the same fate. It seems like her mother was her only friend.
She mumbles nonsense in between asking to be set free from the nursing home. Perhaps she has given up? On the other hand, she may hang on for years. You never really know, I guess, but at present, it seems grim.
Friday, August 06, 2010
The Funeral
Back in May, I had the solemn task of attending my father's funeral. Of course, it was a sad day, and yet it was punctuated by stories and laughter, as always happens at funerals when family and friends remember the lives of those who have passed. In some ways, it was like any other funeral I have attended. We had an afternoon visitation and an evening visitation, followed by the funeral the next day.
Perhaps it's my age speaking, but I have to say that I was stunned by what people choose to wear to the visitations. My cousin wore a pair of ratty old jeans, white running shoes, and a faded yellow t-shirt. Others came in shorts and sandals, short skirts and halter tops, and garments that made it look like they had been out for a hike. I do not think that a black dress or suit are requirements any more (though I wore a black suit), I think that people ought to make an effort to dress properly to show respect. I think it's insulting to the family to show up wearing something you would wear to a bar-b-que or to change a flat on your car.
At the funeral home, I was greeted by an aged woman who asked if I knew who she was. A name popped into my head immediately, but then I rejected it thinking that it was an impossibility that she could still be alive. After a few seconds, I uttered her name at the same time as she. I almost fainted. How is it possible that you are still alive, I wanted to ask. I manged to restrain myself. My grandmother is older (now 91), but I always thought that this woman was even older, but maybe that has to do with the beard and mustache she has sported for her entire life. And, of course, this explains why she never remarried after her husband died a very young man.
I knew the even older woman standing beside her instantly, though she was even older. She is someone I could never forget. Throughout the day and the next, I saw people I hadn't seen in 20, 30 or more years. So, I guess the themes of the day were grieving, nostalgia, remembrance, and reacquaintance.
Back in May, I had the solemn task of attending my father's funeral. Of course, it was a sad day, and yet it was punctuated by stories and laughter, as always happens at funerals when family and friends remember the lives of those who have passed. In some ways, it was like any other funeral I have attended. We had an afternoon visitation and an evening visitation, followed by the funeral the next day.
Perhaps it's my age speaking, but I have to say that I was stunned by what people choose to wear to the visitations. My cousin wore a pair of ratty old jeans, white running shoes, and a faded yellow t-shirt. Others came in shorts and sandals, short skirts and halter tops, and garments that made it look like they had been out for a hike. I do not think that a black dress or suit are requirements any more (though I wore a black suit), I think that people ought to make an effort to dress properly to show respect. I think it's insulting to the family to show up wearing something you would wear to a bar-b-que or to change a flat on your car.
At the funeral home, I was greeted by an aged woman who asked if I knew who she was. A name popped into my head immediately, but then I rejected it thinking that it was an impossibility that she could still be alive. After a few seconds, I uttered her name at the same time as she. I almost fainted. How is it possible that you are still alive, I wanted to ask. I manged to restrain myself. My grandmother is older (now 91), but I always thought that this woman was even older, but maybe that has to do with the beard and mustache she has sported for her entire life. And, of course, this explains why she never remarried after her husband died a very young man.
I knew the even older woman standing beside her instantly, though she was even older. She is someone I could never forget. Throughout the day and the next, I saw people I hadn't seen in 20, 30 or more years. So, I guess the themes of the day were grieving, nostalgia, remembrance, and reacquaintance.
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.
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.
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)
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.
Tuesday, November 06, 2007
Hi There
I wonder why it is that when I take a small break from blogging, it turns into a long hiatus? Just why is that? Anyway, I took a recent trip to the Niagara region (St. Catherines, Niagara Falls, Niagara-on-the-Lake, etc.). That was cool. I got a couple of bottles of wine and some jam and took in the Falls and the tackiness Clifton Hill. It's always a bizarre sight.
More recently, I headed up to the rural parts of Ontario for my dad's 75th birthday party. The old man is getting older. Aside from the potato overload, it was fine. If you are hosting a potluck, be sure to secure the proposed dishes ahead of time. Otherwise, you will end up with three versions of potato salad.
Other than that, I have been working and sleeping. I have a new article coming out which was co-written with a colleague. And, I have to speak twice at an upcoming conference, once with a colleague and once with a panel. No, I am not prepared yet, but I hope to be by then. The worst part is that one of the speaking days is a Saturday. I hate it when that happens, mostly because fewer people show up.
I am starving and really need some food.
I wonder why it is that when I take a small break from blogging, it turns into a long hiatus? Just why is that? Anyway, I took a recent trip to the Niagara region (St. Catherines, Niagara Falls, Niagara-on-the-Lake, etc.). That was cool. I got a couple of bottles of wine and some jam and took in the Falls and the tackiness Clifton Hill. It's always a bizarre sight.
More recently, I headed up to the rural parts of Ontario for my dad's 75th birthday party. The old man is getting older. Aside from the potato overload, it was fine. If you are hosting a potluck, be sure to secure the proposed dishes ahead of time. Otherwise, you will end up with three versions of potato salad.
Other than that, I have been working and sleeping. I have a new article coming out which was co-written with a colleague. And, I have to speak twice at an upcoming conference, once with a colleague and once with a panel. No, I am not prepared yet, but I hope to be by then. The worst part is that one of the speaking days is a Saturday. I hate it when that happens, mostly because fewer people show up.
I am starving and really need some food.
Monday, June 25, 2007
Endings/Beginnings, part three (see parts one and two)
What does a father say when his 18-year-old daughter announces that she is planning to move in with her boyfriend, a man of 31 or 32 years? On the one hand, he probably wishes that he was the man hooking up with a young woman. On the other, this is his daughter. I guess to preserve family harmony, my dad didn't forbid it, not that he could. "She'd do it anyway," he said to me. And, he was right.
For me, it was a chance to get my own room, and so I was overjoyed when she moved out and I could escape from the room I shared with my brother. My parents awarded me the room, even though I was younger. It was a prize for staying is school while my brother dropped out at age 15
I try to imagine how my sister must have felt when she discovered her boyfriend's secret life, 14 years down the road. He always left early for work, managing some sort of poorly-functioning renovation business, where I once earned a pittance for a summer of labour. He always arrived home very late. It translated to a mere five or six hours of sleep each night. What my sister learned is that much of his time away was spent with his other common-law wife.
He had two places to sleep and eat and shower. His had two lives, opposite, and yet bizarrely the same. He bought two identical Christmas presents each year. I suppose it was easier to remember what he gave if he just bought the same thing twice. He'd buy two bathrobes, two bottles of perfume, two pairs of slippers, two push-up bras, probably in different sizes.
And then she met the women, described as T's wife, a title she claimed for herself. Soon, my sister learned that there were three mortgages on her house; that this woman's father held the third; that a lawyer had perjured herself to implicate my sister; that this women - the other wife - had embezzled money from her own father; that the business was a thin operation, barely holding on, but with big dreams it could never hope to achieve; that someone else held a mortgage on the restaurant and T was just a figurehead owner, not the real man, hardly a man at all.
My sister lost the house. She didn't get a cent from the sale after foreclosure. And who knows where he is now. Part of me wants that information; a part does not.
To be continued ...
Technorati Tags: family, relationships
What does a father say when his 18-year-old daughter announces that she is planning to move in with her boyfriend, a man of 31 or 32 years? On the one hand, he probably wishes that he was the man hooking up with a young woman. On the other, this is his daughter. I guess to preserve family harmony, my dad didn't forbid it, not that he could. "She'd do it anyway," he said to me. And, he was right.
For me, it was a chance to get my own room, and so I was overjoyed when she moved out and I could escape from the room I shared with my brother. My parents awarded me the room, even though I was younger. It was a prize for staying is school while my brother dropped out at age 15
I try to imagine how my sister must have felt when she discovered her boyfriend's secret life, 14 years down the road. He always left early for work, managing some sort of poorly-functioning renovation business, where I once earned a pittance for a summer of labour. He always arrived home very late. It translated to a mere five or six hours of sleep each night. What my sister learned is that much of his time away was spent with his other common-law wife.
He had two places to sleep and eat and shower. His had two lives, opposite, and yet bizarrely the same. He bought two identical Christmas presents each year. I suppose it was easier to remember what he gave if he just bought the same thing twice. He'd buy two bathrobes, two bottles of perfume, two pairs of slippers, two push-up bras, probably in different sizes.
And then she met the women, described as T's wife, a title she claimed for herself. Soon, my sister learned that there were three mortgages on her house; that this woman's father held the third; that a lawyer had perjured herself to implicate my sister; that this women - the other wife - had embezzled money from her own father; that the business was a thin operation, barely holding on, but with big dreams it could never hope to achieve; that someone else held a mortgage on the restaurant and T was just a figurehead owner, not the real man, hardly a man at all.
My sister lost the house. She didn't get a cent from the sale after foreclosure. And who knows where he is now. Part of me wants that information; a part does not.
To be continued ...
Technorati Tags: family, relationships
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Endings/Beginnings, part two (read part one)
My father took refuge in his darkened room after my mother was taken away to the psychiatric hospital. Later, we ate in silence in the dim dining room and I remember struggling to see the food on my plate. Perhaps he did not want me to see his face. Days later, my mother returned, for a short time, long enough to celebrate Christmas, and then she fled in my dad's car, heading north to the cottage. She stayed there until the money dried up and the car, neglected and abused, died a slow death, but not before her boyfriend stole it and abandoned it in Rexdale.
My dad is no philosopher, though I think he wishes he was. He has opinions. He offers advice, in a fatherly way. But, it's easy to reject advice when it is steeped in conservative dogma and dispensed far too rigidly. Occasionally, the advice is offered up almost as a plea. "Don't work in a factory," he once advised. That was good advice, but I am sure he felt it might be unavoidable for me, the fourth child in a working class family raised in a small town where the majority of the work is the endless tedium of the factory, the only antidote being cases of beer and liquor.
My mother did not return. She found her way into her mother's house, perhaps the only one who would offer her shelter. Ten years on, she works on an endless stream of seek-a-word puzzles and juvenile crosswords while smoking a chain of cigarettes. Her hair is gray-yellow, a shocking change from the deep black she died it for most of her life.
After some time, my father began to speak with mercenary zeal about dating and meeting someone. He announced that he would not be alone by the same time next year. He was confident. He practised driving to a few restaurants in a neighbouring city, something he had never done before. He has been married to his second wife for 18 years now.
Years later, when A. and I split, turning away from an ill-advised union of the young and the younger (I was the younger), my dad had no advice; instead, he blamed himself and I have never been able to figure out why.
To be continued ...
Technorati Tags: family, dad, relationships, endings, beginnings
My father took refuge in his darkened room after my mother was taken away to the psychiatric hospital. Later, we ate in silence in the dim dining room and I remember struggling to see the food on my plate. Perhaps he did not want me to see his face. Days later, my mother returned, for a short time, long enough to celebrate Christmas, and then she fled in my dad's car, heading north to the cottage. She stayed there until the money dried up and the car, neglected and abused, died a slow death, but not before her boyfriend stole it and abandoned it in Rexdale.
My dad is no philosopher, though I think he wishes he was. He has opinions. He offers advice, in a fatherly way. But, it's easy to reject advice when it is steeped in conservative dogma and dispensed far too rigidly. Occasionally, the advice is offered up almost as a plea. "Don't work in a factory," he once advised. That was good advice, but I am sure he felt it might be unavoidable for me, the fourth child in a working class family raised in a small town where the majority of the work is the endless tedium of the factory, the only antidote being cases of beer and liquor.
My mother did not return. She found her way into her mother's house, perhaps the only one who would offer her shelter. Ten years on, she works on an endless stream of seek-a-word puzzles and juvenile crosswords while smoking a chain of cigarettes. Her hair is gray-yellow, a shocking change from the deep black she died it for most of her life.
After some time, my father began to speak with mercenary zeal about dating and meeting someone. He announced that he would not be alone by the same time next year. He was confident. He practised driving to a few restaurants in a neighbouring city, something he had never done before. He has been married to his second wife for 18 years now.
Years later, when A. and I split, turning away from an ill-advised union of the young and the younger (I was the younger), my dad had no advice; instead, he blamed himself and I have never been able to figure out why.
To be continued ...
Technorati Tags: family, dad, relationships, endings, beginnings
Monday, May 14, 2007
On Choirpractors and Homopaths
Every time I speak with my father, I am reminded of the bizarre way in which people from my part of Ontario speak. I mentioned that in a post entitled Dropping the Dialect. In that post, I listed a few key phrases that my father uses. Since his diagnosis with prostate cancer a few years back, he has been seeing a homeopath. He believes that this treatment has helped, and I thinks that's great, even though I am not sure that the stinky tea actually does anything. After all of this time, my father (and my sister, for that matter) are unable to pronounce homeopath.
It is pronounced thusly: 'hO-mE-&-"path
In other words, is has four syllables, including a vowel after hom and before opath. My dad (and sister) continue to say homopath. I suppose that there is a very real possibility that my father is seeing some sort of practitioner with the name homopath, but what kind of medicine or pseudo-medicine this person would dispense is too bizarre to even contemplate so early in the day. Anyway, for some reason, I haven't summoned the courage to tell him that his pronunciation is off.
And this reminds me that my grandmother says sam'ich instead of sandwich. She also cannot say chiropractor. She says choirpractor, which I gather is someone who dispenses chiropractic medicine to large groups of singers.
Anyway, today is conference week. I am at a conference as I type, and will be again tomorrow, when I am presenting with two colleagues. Then, I will be attending another conference from Wednesday to Friday, so you may not hear much from me after today.
Technorati Tags: dialects, family, conferences
Every time I speak with my father, I am reminded of the bizarre way in which people from my part of Ontario speak. I mentioned that in a post entitled Dropping the Dialect. In that post, I listed a few key phrases that my father uses. Since his diagnosis with prostate cancer a few years back, he has been seeing a homeopath. He believes that this treatment has helped, and I thinks that's great, even though I am not sure that the stinky tea actually does anything. After all of this time, my father (and my sister, for that matter) are unable to pronounce homeopath.
It is pronounced thusly: 'hO-mE-&-"path
In other words, is has four syllables, including a vowel after hom and before opath. My dad (and sister) continue to say homopath. I suppose that there is a very real possibility that my father is seeing some sort of practitioner with the name homopath, but what kind of medicine or pseudo-medicine this person would dispense is too bizarre to even contemplate so early in the day. Anyway, for some reason, I haven't summoned the courage to tell him that his pronunciation is off.
And this reminds me that my grandmother says sam'ich instead of sandwich. She also cannot say chiropractor. She says choirpractor, which I gather is someone who dispenses chiropractic medicine to large groups of singers.
Anyway, today is conference week. I am at a conference as I type, and will be again tomorrow, when I am presenting with two colleagues. Then, I will be attending another conference from Wednesday to Friday, so you may not hear much from me after today.
Technorati Tags: dialects, family, conferences
Thursday, September 08, 2005
My Father & the Double Entendre
At the risk of making my family appear even weirder, I offer a few comments about my dad. In case you missed it, you can review some prior family posts, like Portrait of my Brother as a Young Man, Portrait of my Other Brother as a Young Man, 100 Words About my Mother, Fatherly Advice, or Lessons from my Sister.
Whenever my father put something in the oven, he said "whip it in, whip it out, wipe it off, and worry." As a young boy, I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Then, at around age ten, I figured it out. It was a eureka moment, much like the time my mother said, while chewing on a steak bone, "the closer the bone the sweeter the meat." My sister blushed and my brother cleared his throat, but my dad gave a hearty laugh. No one expected me to get it, but I did.
Somehow, my father managed to be the captain of the double entendre. He could turn the most innocuous statement into something sexual. At times, it was like having a 14 year old boy as a father. It didn't matter what the subject was: wallpaper, middle east politics, brain surgery, long division. Of course, there were numerous topics that lent themselves well to that manipulation, like anything to do with oiling or greasing or anything long and hard or anything with an opening.
The most irritating thing is that I am sure he felt that I missed all of the references, and so he kept it up (see, there's one right there). Laughing didn't dissuade him either, because I got the feeling that he really didn't believe that I understood the joke.
He's turning 73 this year, and I heard him say that he wasn't ready to hang up his saddle just yet. I didn't even know he had a horse.
Technorati Tags: father, family history
At the risk of making my family appear even weirder, I offer a few comments about my dad. In case you missed it, you can review some prior family posts, like Portrait of my Brother as a Young Man, Portrait of my Other Brother as a Young Man, 100 Words About my Mother, Fatherly Advice, or Lessons from my Sister.
Whenever my father put something in the oven, he said "whip it in, whip it out, wipe it off, and worry." As a young boy, I had absolutely no idea what he was talking about. Then, at around age ten, I figured it out. It was a eureka moment, much like the time my mother said, while chewing on a steak bone, "the closer the bone the sweeter the meat." My sister blushed and my brother cleared his throat, but my dad gave a hearty laugh. No one expected me to get it, but I did.
Somehow, my father managed to be the captain of the double entendre. He could turn the most innocuous statement into something sexual. At times, it was like having a 14 year old boy as a father. It didn't matter what the subject was: wallpaper, middle east politics, brain surgery, long division. Of course, there were numerous topics that lent themselves well to that manipulation, like anything to do with oiling or greasing or anything long and hard or anything with an opening.
The most irritating thing is that I am sure he felt that I missed all of the references, and so he kept it up (see, there's one right there). Laughing didn't dissuade him either, because I got the feeling that he really didn't believe that I understood the joke.
He's turning 73 this year, and I heard him say that he wasn't ready to hang up his saddle just yet. I didn't even know he had a horse.
Technorati Tags: father, family history
Friday, August 12, 2005
Dead Budgies
When Polly, our pet budgie, started looking a bit peaky, my dad intervened. He added a few drops of brandy to its water dish. For the next two or three days, it was very active, happy, and cheerful. Only later did it occur to me that the little green bird was probably quite drunk. Sometime later, we found it reclining feet up on the bottom of the cage. For years, I assumed it was dead, but someone later told me that it might have passed out. In any event, it was dead enough for the store to replace it without having to launch into any Monty Python skits about dead parrots.
I began to suspect that the replacement budgie, also called Polly, was an inferior bird when it was discovered that it could not fly. It plummeted straight to the floor. That was the only time in my life that I appreciated the bright orange shag. Otherwise, my memories of that carpet are of burns to various body parts - and I even have a friend who ended up with carpet burn on his face from that carpet. But, that happened in the teenage years, well after we gave up thinking that our family was capable of looking after birds or any sort of animal for that matter.
Budgie number 2 died within 10 days.
Technorati Tags: pets, budgies
When Polly, our pet budgie, started looking a bit peaky, my dad intervened. He added a few drops of brandy to its water dish. For the next two or three days, it was very active, happy, and cheerful. Only later did it occur to me that the little green bird was probably quite drunk. Sometime later, we found it reclining feet up on the bottom of the cage. For years, I assumed it was dead, but someone later told me that it might have passed out. In any event, it was dead enough for the store to replace it without having to launch into any Monty Python skits about dead parrots.
I began to suspect that the replacement budgie, also called Polly, was an inferior bird when it was discovered that it could not fly. It plummeted straight to the floor. That was the only time in my life that I appreciated the bright orange shag. Otherwise, my memories of that carpet are of burns to various body parts - and I even have a friend who ended up with carpet burn on his face from that carpet. But, that happened in the teenage years, well after we gave up thinking that our family was capable of looking after birds or any sort of animal for that matter.
Budgie number 2 died within 10 days.
Technorati Tags: pets, budgies
Thursday, June 23, 2005
Fatherly Advice
As a young man, I received two pieces of fatherly advice (well, two pieces that I can remember). They are:
1) Don't work in a factory;
2) 5 Minutes per side and then build up
Yes, every summer, I got the 5 minutes per side sun tanning lecture. He wasn't trying to stop me from sun tanning; he wanted me to get my pale hide into the sun and get some colour. So, start off with 5 minutes per side and then build up until I would be a wrinkled, red, old man with skin cancer, just like him. I avoided the sun, except for that one summer I spent on a beach actively trying to get a tan.
I remember the day my dad got his first Speedo. I was 13 or 14 and I watched my dad emerge from his bedroom and say (for some reason, these words are forever etched into my brain):
"I can barely fit into these, and I'm not sure if I'm bragging or complaining." Soon, he was seen rolling up the Speedo to expose his white butt. That was bad, but things got a lot worse then he bought a thong. "Sun my buns" became the new catch phrase. As a man in his early 70s, he can still be seen wearing the Speedo. I am certain that, for him, the Speedo was the most important invention in the history of civilization.
Technorati Tags: father, sun tanning, speedo
As a young man, I received two pieces of fatherly advice (well, two pieces that I can remember). They are:
1) Don't work in a factory;
2) 5 Minutes per side and then build up
Yes, every summer, I got the 5 minutes per side sun tanning lecture. He wasn't trying to stop me from sun tanning; he wanted me to get my pale hide into the sun and get some colour. So, start off with 5 minutes per side and then build up until I would be a wrinkled, red, old man with skin cancer, just like him. I avoided the sun, except for that one summer I spent on a beach actively trying to get a tan.
I remember the day my dad got his first Speedo. I was 13 or 14 and I watched my dad emerge from his bedroom and say (for some reason, these words are forever etched into my brain):
"I can barely fit into these, and I'm not sure if I'm bragging or complaining." Soon, he was seen rolling up the Speedo to expose his white butt. That was bad, but things got a lot worse then he bought a thong. "Sun my buns" became the new catch phrase. As a man in his early 70s, he can still be seen wearing the Speedo. I am certain that, for him, the Speedo was the most important invention in the history of civilization.
Technorati Tags: father, sun tanning, speedo
Friday, May 20, 2005
Parenthood
An actual conversation with my dad when I was 10 or 11:
Me: "I hate lima beans."
Dad: "Hate is a very strong word. I don't ever want to hear you say hate again."
Me: "I despise lima beans."
Dad: "That's better."
This is by way of saying that I worry that I am becoming my dad. I try not to over-analyze the things I say or do, or even the noises that I make (I yawned once and sounded exactly like my dad and I wondered if anti-depressants would be useful). I guess I just hope I am a good dad and never end up in a conversation like the one above, or this one, another real one from the same period:
Me (to my brother): "You're a pig."
Dad: "Hey, never call anyone a pig."
Me (to my brother): "You're a jerk."
Dad: "That's better."
P.S. My guest post on Mister Anchovy for today.
Technorati Tags: parenting
An actual conversation with my dad when I was 10 or 11:
Me: "I hate lima beans."
Dad: "Hate is a very strong word. I don't ever want to hear you say hate again."
Me: "I despise lima beans."
Dad: "That's better."
This is by way of saying that I worry that I am becoming my dad. I try not to over-analyze the things I say or do, or even the noises that I make (I yawned once and sounded exactly like my dad and I wondered if anti-depressants would be useful). I guess I just hope I am a good dad and never end up in a conversation like the one above, or this one, another real one from the same period:
Me (to my brother): "You're a pig."
Dad: "Hey, never call anyone a pig."
Me (to my brother): "You're a jerk."
Dad: "That's better."
P.S. My guest post on Mister Anchovy for today.
Technorati Tags: parenting
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
International Man of Mystery
I am fairly sure that my father does not read my blog, so I feel secure in passing along a humorous anecdote. By the way, if you know my father, please do not tell him about my blog. I'll be pissed.
OK, so a while back (and I can't really remember when) my dad showed me his business card. He is retired, and so he printed some cards on the computer. I took the card from him and read, beneath his name:
Amateur Wine Maker, World Traveler, and Art Collector
By my unscientific count, there are at least three things wrong with that, but I'll stick to the obvious. Sure, he makes wine (you know, those boxes you get at Sam's Club - add yeast and go!); he likes to travel to the Caribbean annually, if he can; and, he has a penchant for wildlife prints (you know, Bateman and the like). He has no appreciation for the more abstract things in life.
So, it got me thinking that I should create a business card that represents my fantasy alter ego. I just have to figure out what that is. I'll take suggestions.
By the way, you know that the low carb food craze has gone too far when a restaurant starts to market a 15 pound hamburger called the Beer Barrel Belly Buster. Well, I suppose you'd have to hold the bun if you wanted the low carb option.
Technorati Tags: father, food
I am fairly sure that my father does not read my blog, so I feel secure in passing along a humorous anecdote. By the way, if you know my father, please do not tell him about my blog. I'll be pissed.
OK, so a while back (and I can't really remember when) my dad showed me his business card. He is retired, and so he printed some cards on the computer. I took the card from him and read, beneath his name:
Amateur Wine Maker, World Traveler, and Art Collector
By my unscientific count, there are at least three things wrong with that, but I'll stick to the obvious. Sure, he makes wine (you know, those boxes you get at Sam's Club - add yeast and go!); he likes to travel to the Caribbean annually, if he can; and, he has a penchant for wildlife prints (you know, Bateman and the like). He has no appreciation for the more abstract things in life.
So, it got me thinking that I should create a business card that represents my fantasy alter ego. I just have to figure out what that is. I'll take suggestions.
By the way, you know that the low carb food craze has gone too far when a restaurant starts to market a 15 pound hamburger called the Beer Barrel Belly Buster. Well, I suppose you'd have to hold the bun if you wanted the low carb option.
Technorati Tags: father, food
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