The last couple of weeks have been eventful, full of good stuff, with a bit of bad, and, some just plain weird tossed into the mix.
The bloody disease is working hard to finish it's awful work. Today, I feel as good as I could possibly feel, and it still feels good enough to want to go on, but, I have so little capacity, so little energy, less than I ever imagined could be possible. The control I have over all expenditure of energy is quite amazing actually. The down side is optimum quality of life means do not move quickly, move slowly and methodically, do not use energy faster than it takes to recover it back. Do not try to move five feet "normally", you will be so out of breath that passing out, collapsing your lungs or having a heart attack are all real possibilities. If you moved those five feet while trying to cross a street, too bad. When your energy runs out it runs out instantly, not like in past life. It Is Instantaneous, there is no reserve. You are going down. There is being scared for no good reason and there is scared for a good reason. I avoid going out at all without support, now. Outside my home is too far to go. I cannot. It would be the most stupid thing I could possibly do.
I imagine I am having some difficulty in adjusting to the changes.
Wayne and Wilson took me out for lunch last Wed. It was great.
The Saturday before, I saw my nieces for the first time in a long time. It was lovely. They know I always love them, and I could feel that they love me and Nicole, too. There were hurtful events surrounding that visit, but, nothing to do with them. That's just the way it is, I guess.
Wayne arranged for a club mate of his to come and pick me up on Sunday so I could spend the afternoon at Pointe Claire LBC. It was nice but a bit bittersweet. I have been away for a couple of years now, there are a lot of new people I don't know and a lot of the folks I played with and against for two decades are gone. Very bittersweet indeed. Monday, yesterday, I slept and curled up on the couch with a blanket. All that activity left me wasted.
Friday last was my second visit to the lung transplant mecca, Notre Dame Hospital. I had an echocardiogram scheduled. I did not get results, but, the attending Doctor said in passing that things looked pretty good. I think she knew what she was doing. Everbody knows that a requisition from Dr. Poirier has to do with a lung transplant. So, I am hopeful, but a little more scared of the process and it becomes more concrete and more likely.
I really do not know how to deal with losing my independence. The prospect keeps me looking everywhere but where I ought to be looking.
I have neglected G+ for weeks. Ostrich syndrome. I am out of the moment.
Love.
Tuesday, 8 July 2014
Monday, 23 June 2014
The way it are today
Nicole and I quietly celebrated our 28th anniversary on Saturday. I made us a nice dinner and dessert.
Notre Dame Hospital called me last week. I am going to have an echocardiogram there on July 4th. This is probably one of the two hurdles I have to get over if I am to get the lung transplant before it is too late. The other being a CT scan next April that shows no growth on that thingie in my left lung. So far so good. With the echocardiogram, at Notre Dame the heart decision will be rendered shortly. It is or it is not strong enough. Be nice to find out. Maybe I actually will.
The last month has sucked both mentally and physically. I am weaker, less able to do things, get drained faster and more completely and it takes longer to recover. I can literally feel my lungs, deflated and spasming trying to get up again. So far they always do, sorta. This is the new normal. There is no infection. I feel somewhat angry and very alone.
Spending far too much time worrying about friends, family and my blog. I need to overcome this. I think you are supposed to die with nothing left unsaid. I hate myself, sometimes, for self censoring my very thoughts as though they were toxic.
I will get back to writing. I will find my direction. I will not die politely. Maybe the next time someone asks me "how are you", I will tell the truth.
Love
Notre Dame Hospital called me last week. I am going to have an echocardiogram there on July 4th. This is probably one of the two hurdles I have to get over if I am to get the lung transplant before it is too late. The other being a CT scan next April that shows no growth on that thingie in my left lung. So far so good. With the echocardiogram, at Notre Dame the heart decision will be rendered shortly. It is or it is not strong enough. Be nice to find out. Maybe I actually will.
The last month has sucked both mentally and physically. I am weaker, less able to do things, get drained faster and more completely and it takes longer to recover. I can literally feel my lungs, deflated and spasming trying to get up again. So far they always do, sorta. This is the new normal. There is no infection. I feel somewhat angry and very alone.
Spending far too much time worrying about friends, family and my blog. I need to overcome this. I think you are supposed to die with nothing left unsaid. I hate myself, sometimes, for self censoring my very thoughts as though they were toxic.
I will get back to writing. I will find my direction. I will not die politely. Maybe the next time someone asks me "how are you", I will tell the truth.
Love
Thursday, 12 June 2014
Tuesday, 10 June 2014
Thursday, 5 June 2014
Rocky Raccoon
Nicole heard the shrill screams and cries when she was doing some work in the garage. The sound drew her to the double sliding windows at the back of the house. In between the windows was a little terrified raccoon. Nicole came upstairs and told me in horror about what she had just seen, it was 10:30 in the morning. We went outside and had a look, and, indeed the raccoon was not stuck, but he was trying to find some kind of shelter. We did not know yet that he could not see nor walk, that would take many hours to realize. Our first instinct was to leave him be, to wait until his mother came for him. He seemed uninjured. We waited. He screamed, he cried. He got out from between the windows, and he moved around a bit as you would think a newborn raccoon would. He really could not walk. He moved by pulling with his claws, rolling himself. It was slow and agonizing to watch. His loud screams and cries lasted for five hours. It was driving us out of our minds to stand back and wait, but the only thing we knew was that we had to do that. We had to give the mother a chance.
Around 2 or 3 pm the little raccoon stopped moving and he stopped crying. He was collapsed in the grass, unmoving, under a little table in the center of my yard. We still waited with heavy hearts. I went out to get a close up look at him. He did not move when I approached, nor did he react very much when I touched him, though it was clear he was alive. He was surrounded by a swarm of green bottle flies, hovering and fighting to get on to him. By then I had researched what to do and I took our first step towards helping him. We got a small box and a blanket, the box small enough for his mother and placed him in it, wrapped up loosely so he could warm up and still breathe, be protected from the flies, and, it would still be easy for mother to fetch him out if she showed up. We moved him to the side of the house, where it was quieter and more sheltered. There were no more cries.
At 5:30 Nicole and I could stand it no longer. I had been online through the afternoon researching and chatting with a few people who had answered my post asking for help or advice, most notably +Susan Gabriel , and it was time for us to make a call. Mother was or was not coming back. We took him in and removed him from nature, or we did not. Either way whatever we did would be the right call as long as we stepped up and ended his suffering. I have a couple of friends, older guys, people who grew up on farms and they told me to dispatch it or to bring it to be euthanized. They are as kind and humane as we are. They would not turn their backs on someone or something in trouble in front of them. They also believe that if it happens in front of you, you own it. You walk away, turn your back you are worthless and inhumane. You step up cause it's yours. We took a different, but no more humane route.
Once we had decided he was coming in and we were going to try to save him, I hit up the neighbours for help. The young family across the street who I was sure would be delighted to have the three teenage daughters participate had no time. They were on the way to the pool in the backyard. The hypocritical born again empty shell two doors down offered to arrange for jesus to fix shit up. When I told him that jesus wanted him to get in his fucking car and drive Nicole to the pharmacy for formula and a bottle the living POS blessed the raccoon, turned his back and actually said, "keep me posted". My christian friends who hold their faith quietly in their hearts are not like this. Most christians are not like this. The hordes of programed robots that open every sentence with praise jesus, who turn away from life and do nothing for their neighbour because their jesus lip service will heal all are. They are fundies no different than the fucking taliban. Dead and empty. OK. Sorry. Still pisses me off immensely. I now classify myself an atheist who remains spiritual. I respect everyone with a deep quiet faith who walk the walk and don't bother much with the talk.
Nicole walked to the pharmacy to get a bottle and some formula. In the meantime, I brought him in. No way I can begin to describe the comfort being touched and cuddled brought him. He stopped shuddering, drew himself tightly to my chest and purred.
Nicole got home and we started to get formula into him. I have never taken care of a baby, Nicole either. I can't say thank you enough to +Susan Gabriel +Ken Green and others who stayed with me for hours and hours offering me links and practical knowledge based on experience in saving wildlife. Together, with Nicole supporting me we got him through the night. I got one hour sleep that first night.
The advice we were getting was invaluable. We treated the raccoon as if he were MERS or something even more vile. Rubber gloves, javel buckets, everything sterilized. No blankets shaken or open. Nothing could contact our house, leave residue for the cats. We were insanely vigilant about this for the first three days until we were sure he represented no danger to me, Nicole or our precious cats. This protocol made everything take longer but we were not going to take any chances. The first 12 hours or so with us he took in about 30 ml of formula. Far less than I now know he needed, but, enough to keep him alive those 12 hours.
On Sunday morning we got real about what the hell we were going to do with him. I posted for help on FB and G+. I emailed all kinds of organizations, called every dept of the city, Mcdonalds College, the petting zoos. You name it I did it. Nobody came up with anything or anyone that I had not already thought of. I had a strong sense that we were on our own. We were going to have to find him a home or we were going to have to do "the right thing". We did not want to do the right thing. The little guy never cried once after we brought him in, despite his injuries and his suffering. Not once. He purred. I will always know that he was grateful. He knew. I remembered Jenn and Carl, the people we got Sugar and Spicey from. They were genuine cat rescue folks who went all the way for their foundlings. I called he early Sunday morning and they were in until we got it done. They would do anything it took. They did, too. At one point during the morning Nicole remembered that her sister Cecile's daughter Sylvie had worked as a vet tech and she had a lot of experience in fostering baby animals both on her own and on behalf of the SPCA. She had fostered four raccoons over the years. Serendipity was with us. Sylvie and Cecile had just that very day moved into a place in the country. They told us that they would take him in if we could not find another arrangement for him. We agreed that we would take a few days and see where we had gotten to. Meanwhile Jenn had called us back to say she would come to our house the next day, take the raccoon to a vet who specializes in raccoons and get him checked out and treated. She was ready to come get him but when she asked if I could get him through the night, if I thought I was up to it and could I do it, I told her yes. I was invested.
We got him through Sunday and sunday night. He was eating a little more, and he now had enough strength to move his arms and legs around. Not much, but it was progress. There was one crisis where we were sure he was in the process of dying. I was trying to nap between feedings and Nicole was warming him. She woke me up in tears saying he was dying. I looked and I agreed. I took him and stroked him, rubbed him hard. He started to purr. I got the bottle into him and he noisily took in 30 ml. It was enough. He seemed ok after that. Ok for a severely sick animal. I got two hours sleep I think. Nicole was able to get a few more.
Monday morning Jenn called to say she would bring him to the vet at 4. I was so happy about that. He was in critical condition, severely dehydrated. The day passed without much incidence other than a deeply disturbing phone call that I got late morning. The voice on the other end identified themselves as being from "Animal Advocates". She told me that they had heard we had found a baby raccoon. I had in fact by then posted for help. At first I was elated, here is more help. That did not last long. She said well you know it is really too bad but he is too young to rehab, nobody will be able to do anything, we really are the only people who will help you. She said we were really lucky, that if I gave her my address they would come to our house, take the animal to be euthanized, or more properly that would arrange to kill it for us. My home phone is listed in Nicole's name. Her name don't show up on my FB nor my G+. This was a scam. A company called Berger Blanc, I think. They are the official animal killers for the City of Montreal. They get a bounty for every animal that they kill legally. Dirty bastards.
Genn came, took raccoon to vet. Drama ramps up to 10. First call, vet's first impression is that we can do nothing. This is a vet who has 4 raccoon. This guy loves raccoons. Jenn says it looks bad. He is blind, probably in both eyes, maggots have now appeared exiting his dead eye and his anus. We had not seen the eye ones, but we had seen the ones that came out his anus. We thought it was worms. Another call from Genn two hours later and the message is considerably different. He has one eye that might be saved. They spent two hours pulling maggots out of his eye and his butt. He got shots of antibiotics, and, he ate like a pig. Vet now says this guy deserves a chance. He might just make it. It was clear though, the vet told us, that he could not be rehabbed back into the wild. The vet could do nothing to place him for us, nor take him in. We called Cecile and told her that he had one chance only now. Her and Sylvie. Nicole and I had decided we would not suffer a blind raccoon to be released. We would do what had to be done if it came to that. They said we want him. I told them that we would nurse him for a bit and if he indeed did have a good eye, and if he could survive the maggots we would let them take the raccoon. They agreed, and we agreed to keep the raccoon until the weekend when they would come to get him.
Jenn and Carl brought the raccoon back to us early evening on Monday. They spent two hours with us going over the vets instructions and they also taught me basic baby skills. For two days the little guy fed for about ten minutes. I just did not know any better. Afterwards, I knew to make it last 30 minutes or more. Monday night went much easier for both Nicole and I. The raccoon was carrying nothing that was any danger to either us or our cats. All I had to worry about was baby poo and baby pee. The workload went way, way down. Baby poo now makes me happy. Baby pee all over you is a wonderful thing. I never knew that before! I got about 4 hours sleep. The entire time with us the raccoon was wrapped in a blanket pulled against my chest or on my lap. Between feedings when I tried to sleep, we did it on the recliner, me under one blanket him wrapped up in another under mine, hard against my body. I could feel his purrs and the warmth. Body heat had a lot to do with keeping him alive. I know it.
Tuesday brought lots of little imagined mostly, problems. I was ready with the tweezers to get any all the time. I checked every few minutes through the day. We did not see any and that was a great sign. Hatched fly eggs, the maggots, can only live inside a living body for between eight and ten days. They die if they do not morph by then. Things were looking good. Jenn had offered to come and get him anytime that I needed a break. She knew I would not make it through the week, and I did not. I was delirious by dinnertime and I made the call. I told her we needed help and to please come and get "Rocky". I had named him, finally. She did and I was to get a two day and two night break. I slept like a stone for ten straight hours.
We got regular Rocky reports through the day. He was doing even better under their wonderful care. They are fierce about animal welfare and staying up every night, driving anywhere, doing whatever it takes for a critter that ends up in front of them. They are magnificent. Cecile, being Cecile, changed everything at around 4:00 pm yesterday afternoon. They wanted to come and get him that very evening. I called Jenn, she moved her world around and promised to bring Rocky over at 10 pm, meet Cecile and Sylvie and brief them on exactly what had happened and what would have to happen in the future. Rocky will come back into Montreal whenever he needs to, and there are still issues to address, and Jenn will make sure our fees stay down. She is doing a fundraiser for the operation he will need later this summer to clean up the dead eye.
I can't describe how wonderful Nicole and I feel. I am still beaming from inside this morning. Rocky has his forever home. Rocky will have his own little house. Jenn and Sylvie are going to build it together. We get pictures every day. We have a party scheduled for later in the summer at Rocky's place.
We got it done. Life. Love. There is nothing else that matters.
Around 2 or 3 pm the little raccoon stopped moving and he stopped crying. He was collapsed in the grass, unmoving, under a little table in the center of my yard. We still waited with heavy hearts. I went out to get a close up look at him. He did not move when I approached, nor did he react very much when I touched him, though it was clear he was alive. He was surrounded by a swarm of green bottle flies, hovering and fighting to get on to him. By then I had researched what to do and I took our first step towards helping him. We got a small box and a blanket, the box small enough for his mother and placed him in it, wrapped up loosely so he could warm up and still breathe, be protected from the flies, and, it would still be easy for mother to fetch him out if she showed up. We moved him to the side of the house, where it was quieter and more sheltered. There were no more cries.
At 5:30 Nicole and I could stand it no longer. I had been online through the afternoon researching and chatting with a few people who had answered my post asking for help or advice, most notably +Susan Gabriel , and it was time for us to make a call. Mother was or was not coming back. We took him in and removed him from nature, or we did not. Either way whatever we did would be the right call as long as we stepped up and ended his suffering. I have a couple of friends, older guys, people who grew up on farms and they told me to dispatch it or to bring it to be euthanized. They are as kind and humane as we are. They would not turn their backs on someone or something in trouble in front of them. They also believe that if it happens in front of you, you own it. You walk away, turn your back you are worthless and inhumane. You step up cause it's yours. We took a different, but no more humane route.
Once we had decided he was coming in and we were going to try to save him, I hit up the neighbours for help. The young family across the street who I was sure would be delighted to have the three teenage daughters participate had no time. They were on the way to the pool in the backyard. The hypocritical born again empty shell two doors down offered to arrange for jesus to fix shit up. When I told him that jesus wanted him to get in his fucking car and drive Nicole to the pharmacy for formula and a bottle the living POS blessed the raccoon, turned his back and actually said, "keep me posted". My christian friends who hold their faith quietly in their hearts are not like this. Most christians are not like this. The hordes of programed robots that open every sentence with praise jesus, who turn away from life and do nothing for their neighbour because their jesus lip service will heal all are. They are fundies no different than the fucking taliban. Dead and empty. OK. Sorry. Still pisses me off immensely. I now classify myself an atheist who remains spiritual. I respect everyone with a deep quiet faith who walk the walk and don't bother much with the talk.
Nicole walked to the pharmacy to get a bottle and some formula. In the meantime, I brought him in. No way I can begin to describe the comfort being touched and cuddled brought him. He stopped shuddering, drew himself tightly to my chest and purred.
Nicole got home and we started to get formula into him. I have never taken care of a baby, Nicole either. I can't say thank you enough to +Susan Gabriel +Ken Green and others who stayed with me for hours and hours offering me links and practical knowledge based on experience in saving wildlife. Together, with Nicole supporting me we got him through the night. I got one hour sleep that first night.
The advice we were getting was invaluable. We treated the raccoon as if he were MERS or something even more vile. Rubber gloves, javel buckets, everything sterilized. No blankets shaken or open. Nothing could contact our house, leave residue for the cats. We were insanely vigilant about this for the first three days until we were sure he represented no danger to me, Nicole or our precious cats. This protocol made everything take longer but we were not going to take any chances. The first 12 hours or so with us he took in about 30 ml of formula. Far less than I now know he needed, but, enough to keep him alive those 12 hours.
On Sunday morning we got real about what the hell we were going to do with him. I posted for help on FB and G+. I emailed all kinds of organizations, called every dept of the city, Mcdonalds College, the petting zoos. You name it I did it. Nobody came up with anything or anyone that I had not already thought of. I had a strong sense that we were on our own. We were going to have to find him a home or we were going to have to do "the right thing". We did not want to do the right thing. The little guy never cried once after we brought him in, despite his injuries and his suffering. Not once. He purred. I will always know that he was grateful. He knew. I remembered Jenn and Carl, the people we got Sugar and Spicey from. They were genuine cat rescue folks who went all the way for their foundlings. I called he early Sunday morning and they were in until we got it done. They would do anything it took. They did, too. At one point during the morning Nicole remembered that her sister Cecile's daughter Sylvie had worked as a vet tech and she had a lot of experience in fostering baby animals both on her own and on behalf of the SPCA. She had fostered four raccoons over the years. Serendipity was with us. Sylvie and Cecile had just that very day moved into a place in the country. They told us that they would take him in if we could not find another arrangement for him. We agreed that we would take a few days and see where we had gotten to. Meanwhile Jenn had called us back to say she would come to our house the next day, take the raccoon to a vet who specializes in raccoons and get him checked out and treated. She was ready to come get him but when she asked if I could get him through the night, if I thought I was up to it and could I do it, I told her yes. I was invested.
We got him through Sunday and sunday night. He was eating a little more, and he now had enough strength to move his arms and legs around. Not much, but it was progress. There was one crisis where we were sure he was in the process of dying. I was trying to nap between feedings and Nicole was warming him. She woke me up in tears saying he was dying. I looked and I agreed. I took him and stroked him, rubbed him hard. He started to purr. I got the bottle into him and he noisily took in 30 ml. It was enough. He seemed ok after that. Ok for a severely sick animal. I got two hours sleep I think. Nicole was able to get a few more.
Monday morning Jenn called to say she would bring him to the vet at 4. I was so happy about that. He was in critical condition, severely dehydrated. The day passed without much incidence other than a deeply disturbing phone call that I got late morning. The voice on the other end identified themselves as being from "Animal Advocates". She told me that they had heard we had found a baby raccoon. I had in fact by then posted for help. At first I was elated, here is more help. That did not last long. She said well you know it is really too bad but he is too young to rehab, nobody will be able to do anything, we really are the only people who will help you. She said we were really lucky, that if I gave her my address they would come to our house, take the animal to be euthanized, or more properly that would arrange to kill it for us. My home phone is listed in Nicole's name. Her name don't show up on my FB nor my G+. This was a scam. A company called Berger Blanc, I think. They are the official animal killers for the City of Montreal. They get a bounty for every animal that they kill legally. Dirty bastards.
Genn came, took raccoon to vet. Drama ramps up to 10. First call, vet's first impression is that we can do nothing. This is a vet who has 4 raccoon. This guy loves raccoons. Jenn says it looks bad. He is blind, probably in both eyes, maggots have now appeared exiting his dead eye and his anus. We had not seen the eye ones, but we had seen the ones that came out his anus. We thought it was worms. Another call from Genn two hours later and the message is considerably different. He has one eye that might be saved. They spent two hours pulling maggots out of his eye and his butt. He got shots of antibiotics, and, he ate like a pig. Vet now says this guy deserves a chance. He might just make it. It was clear though, the vet told us, that he could not be rehabbed back into the wild. The vet could do nothing to place him for us, nor take him in. We called Cecile and told her that he had one chance only now. Her and Sylvie. Nicole and I had decided we would not suffer a blind raccoon to be released. We would do what had to be done if it came to that. They said we want him. I told them that we would nurse him for a bit and if he indeed did have a good eye, and if he could survive the maggots we would let them take the raccoon. They agreed, and we agreed to keep the raccoon until the weekend when they would come to get him.
Jenn and Carl brought the raccoon back to us early evening on Monday. They spent two hours with us going over the vets instructions and they also taught me basic baby skills. For two days the little guy fed for about ten minutes. I just did not know any better. Afterwards, I knew to make it last 30 minutes or more. Monday night went much easier for both Nicole and I. The raccoon was carrying nothing that was any danger to either us or our cats. All I had to worry about was baby poo and baby pee. The workload went way, way down. Baby poo now makes me happy. Baby pee all over you is a wonderful thing. I never knew that before! I got about 4 hours sleep. The entire time with us the raccoon was wrapped in a blanket pulled against my chest or on my lap. Between feedings when I tried to sleep, we did it on the recliner, me under one blanket him wrapped up in another under mine, hard against my body. I could feel his purrs and the warmth. Body heat had a lot to do with keeping him alive. I know it.
Tuesday brought lots of little imagined mostly, problems. I was ready with the tweezers to get any all the time. I checked every few minutes through the day. We did not see any and that was a great sign. Hatched fly eggs, the maggots, can only live inside a living body for between eight and ten days. They die if they do not morph by then. Things were looking good. Jenn had offered to come and get him anytime that I needed a break. She knew I would not make it through the week, and I did not. I was delirious by dinnertime and I made the call. I told her we needed help and to please come and get "Rocky". I had named him, finally. She did and I was to get a two day and two night break. I slept like a stone for ten straight hours.
We got regular Rocky reports through the day. He was doing even better under their wonderful care. They are fierce about animal welfare and staying up every night, driving anywhere, doing whatever it takes for a critter that ends up in front of them. They are magnificent. Cecile, being Cecile, changed everything at around 4:00 pm yesterday afternoon. They wanted to come and get him that very evening. I called Jenn, she moved her world around and promised to bring Rocky over at 10 pm, meet Cecile and Sylvie and brief them on exactly what had happened and what would have to happen in the future. Rocky will come back into Montreal whenever he needs to, and there are still issues to address, and Jenn will make sure our fees stay down. She is doing a fundraiser for the operation he will need later this summer to clean up the dead eye.
I can't describe how wonderful Nicole and I feel. I am still beaming from inside this morning. Rocky has his forever home. Rocky will have his own little house. Jenn and Sylvie are going to build it together. We get pictures every day. We have a party scheduled for later in the summer at Rocky's place.
We got it done. Life. Love. There is nothing else that matters.
Thursday, 15 May 2014
Toy time
The last time I drove my car was almost a year ago, June 24th of last year. We had been at a Fete St. Jean party at the club. When we left to go home it was raining hard, and the car had a flat tire. I could not even contemplate changing a car tire, I might as well lift a house, both equally impossible. A kind person changed the wheel for us. The drive home was a nightmare, the rear right wheel locked up for some reason shortly after we left the parking lot. I decided I would get the thing home if at all possible without me having to get out of the car. I was frightened and close to panic. The car shuddered and squealed from the seized wheel but I was able to keep it going, somehow. I was so afraid of having to get out of the car, move, talk to people and coordinate getting the car taken care of and getting home. It was all too much. As George T. had warned me once, don't let your mind write checks that your body can't cash. I was out in the rain with a busted car and about to get into real trouble. We made it home safe.
I decided not to fix the car right away, to do without for a while, save some money. Summer past, fall then winter and now spring is here. I have not driven a car. I got rid of our car in November when I first started to realize that maybe it would be better if I gave up driving. Better for everybody. Better for that little kid I will not hurt because I lost consciousness behind the wheel.
Driving was something I learned to do in the 60's. I bet I spent time during the late 50's on my dad's knee steering on the highway. Those were different times. I crashed my first car twice, both times lucky to get away clean, before I was 19. One was my fault, the other not. Both I would have skated away from only a few years later when I had learned to control a car. I worked hard at learning how to control a car. Parking lots and losing control were one of my favorite things to do. You gotta lose it to know how to get it back when it's all going south on you. I ran the uninhabited dirt roads in Rawdon where there were no houses or people, yet. I think I got pretty good at it if I do say so myself.
Back then we were, collectively, idiots when it came to driving. Everybody drove smashed. If you could walk or crawl to your car you were good to go. Really, it was only as a young adult that awareness that perhaps were were being assholes started to creep in with public service messages on tv. I drove so drunk, so many times it is unfathomable from the perspective of 2014. How I did not kill someone during all that time? We learned and we all stopped doing it. Life went on and a whole lot of folks got to keep living. Ask my bro in law about crossing the T Can in Alberta someday.
When I parked the car last June I had full intention of getting back behind the wheel. Now, I know I never will drive a car again and it's my choice. Fate, karma call it what you will protected me when I was ignorant. I am no longer ignorant about the harm that a vehicle can cause. I had SIX heart attacks last year, and hundreds of minutes where I was debilitated instantaneously by coughing, for minutes at a time, eyes closed, entirely out of it for a minute or two.
This is really the most thought I have given to the matter since I decided for certain a couple of months ago. If I thought about it much the pain would be too sharp to bear. Like a lot of things about this journey, you just have to go with it and not look back. Looking back is death. Looking at now is life. I don't look back much at all and I do not look forward either. I try to see and be. That's all.
A couple of days ago I was sitting by the big window watching a little girl walk with her mother. She kept stopping to bend down to play with the daisies. Nicole and I were talking about me, about how I was doing with being stuck and shut in, the not driving, all of the huge changes in my life. I pointed to the little girl and told Nicole that the little girl was my role model, to become as her was my goal. I want to make all of the adult complexities that permeate life go away. I want to destroy the ego that will one day erase that child. One a man, twice a child. I think I have done well so far. I do not see as I did. I do not carry weight I don't need. I am at peace with the world. As this world shrinks the possibilities expand.
Love.
I decided not to fix the car right away, to do without for a while, save some money. Summer past, fall then winter and now spring is here. I have not driven a car. I got rid of our car in November when I first started to realize that maybe it would be better if I gave up driving. Better for everybody. Better for that little kid I will not hurt because I lost consciousness behind the wheel.
Driving was something I learned to do in the 60's. I bet I spent time during the late 50's on my dad's knee steering on the highway. Those were different times. I crashed my first car twice, both times lucky to get away clean, before I was 19. One was my fault, the other not. Both I would have skated away from only a few years later when I had learned to control a car. I worked hard at learning how to control a car. Parking lots and losing control were one of my favorite things to do. You gotta lose it to know how to get it back when it's all going south on you. I ran the uninhabited dirt roads in Rawdon where there were no houses or people, yet. I think I got pretty good at it if I do say so myself.
Back then we were, collectively, idiots when it came to driving. Everybody drove smashed. If you could walk or crawl to your car you were good to go. Really, it was only as a young adult that awareness that perhaps were were being assholes started to creep in with public service messages on tv. I drove so drunk, so many times it is unfathomable from the perspective of 2014. How I did not kill someone during all that time? We learned and we all stopped doing it. Life went on and a whole lot of folks got to keep living. Ask my bro in law about crossing the T Can in Alberta someday.
When I parked the car last June I had full intention of getting back behind the wheel. Now, I know I never will drive a car again and it's my choice. Fate, karma call it what you will protected me when I was ignorant. I am no longer ignorant about the harm that a vehicle can cause. I had SIX heart attacks last year, and hundreds of minutes where I was debilitated instantaneously by coughing, for minutes at a time, eyes closed, entirely out of it for a minute or two.
This is really the most thought I have given to the matter since I decided for certain a couple of months ago. If I thought about it much the pain would be too sharp to bear. Like a lot of things about this journey, you just have to go with it and not look back. Looking back is death. Looking at now is life. I don't look back much at all and I do not look forward either. I try to see and be. That's all.
A couple of days ago I was sitting by the big window watching a little girl walk with her mother. She kept stopping to bend down to play with the daisies. Nicole and I were talking about me, about how I was doing with being stuck and shut in, the not driving, all of the huge changes in my life. I pointed to the little girl and told Nicole that the little girl was my role model, to become as her was my goal. I want to make all of the adult complexities that permeate life go away. I want to destroy the ego that will one day erase that child. One a man, twice a child. I think I have done well so far. I do not see as I did. I do not carry weight I don't need. I am at peace with the world. As this world shrinks the possibilities expand.
Love.
Wednesday, 7 May 2014
It is 10:00 AM, I am outside, the temperature is 16 and rising fast. A glorious day to spend outside. I think I have cleaned up about 1/3 of our property. My goal is to get another 1/3 done today, but, who knows. I am writing now because I have a story to tell and I rather hope it takes all day to flesh it out as it deserves.
Quick health update: I feel excellent, better than I have in two years at least. Don't take that to mean I have more breath. I don't. I do however feel much stronger than I have in a long time. That, combined with the skills I learned at rehab and a mind free of clutter makes life most excellent at the moment. Everything is working. Time to push hard.
It is playoff time in these hockey mad parts. Last night I held my breath, screamed in agony followed by cries of joy and generally lost my mind for a few hours while Nos Glorieux, Le Club de Hockey Canadiens, my Habs battled the evil, satanic Boston Bruins. We won and lead the series 2 games to 1, but that is not the point of this story. How I came to be a die hard Habs fan for life, is.
Some of my earliest memories are of Saturday night hockey games. I was maybe three or four, the year would be 1958 or 1959. Hockey Night in Canada came on TV at 8:00 PM, midway through the first period. Of course at that age I was not watching the game, I was either tucked into my bed at home, or as often would be the case, lying on a pile of coats, along with my sister, at Nana's or Auntie May's house, supposedly sleeping. Now, if we were at home only some drapes separated our bedroom from the living room where the tv was. Invariably there would be a significant number of people in that living room, whooping it up and drinking beer and rum and cokes. Our parents at the time were the ripe old age of 21 or 22, the grandparents double that. It was a large and young extended family that lived close to each other. Saturday nights were for getting together and having a good time. It was hard to miss anything.
My dad got me playing, or rather, trying to play hockey at a normal, young age. A canadian boy in the early 60's played hockey, outside, on a team. You cleaned the ice before the game, and between periods, yourself. The changing room was an old CPR caboose with a wood stove. It don't get more authentic than that. To my dad's everlasting disappointment, and maybe just a tinge of shame, I was entirely hopeless at hockey. I could not skate off my ankles. No supports available at the time helped. I skated on my ankles seriously bad. I tried immensely hard to learn how to skate. I walked the four blocks up to the skating rink at the park on Vimont and la Fontaine to skate by myself hundreds of times in attempts to get better. I could not skate backwards nor stop properly. I played anyway for a few years, my dad tying my skates, cheering me on, hoping I think against hope that I would find the spark that would turn me into a hockey player. Even at that age of 6 or 7 kids were being identified as being serious players with potential. I was nowhere near that quality. I think in the maybe 3 or 4 years I played I distinguished myself by getting 1 penalty. No goals. No assists. I was so desperate the last year to do something, anything, that one game the kid who was the goalie did not make the game. I guess in those days teams of 7 year olds did not have back up net minders. I volunteered. Big mistake. I don't think I stopped a single shot, and 7 year olds with wooden sticks hardly did anything with a puck that resembled shooting. Everything happened in slow motion and I was paralysed. Not good. My poor dad. He knew it was over.
A few years later as a 10 year old I came out of the athletic wastelands a wiser lad. Hockey had a million negatives for me, but there were lessons learned as well. I loved to move, run and compete, even when I had no success. I found soccer and football, curling and other games that I excelled in at various times. I think my dad was sort of "meh" about them though. It was not hockey.
By time I was 6 or 7 I was allowed to watch the game through the second period on Saturday night. The Canadiens always won the Stanley Cup, year after year it seemed, until I was 25.
I went to my first game at the Montreal Forum for my 10th birthday, a present from my dad. The Detroit Red Wings were playing the Habs in a late February or early March game. Gordie Howe was my dad's favorite non Habs player. Dad had been talking about how good he was, how he did things in the corners and how mean he could be. It was a night I am sure my dad always remembered. I think Howe had what was known as a Howe hat trick, a goal an assist and a fight. It was to be the first of many, many games at the Forum with my dad.
Later, during my early teenage years my dad took a part time job at the Forum slinging hot dogs and beer at Habs games. I don't think dad really needed the money but it helped. He enjoyed playing the angles and he loved being able to see all the hockey he wanted. After a while, when he knew the folks and the ropes, the doors to the Forum opened for me. I more or less had a standing room season ticket. I lived the dream of a Montreal kid by going to the Forum when I wanted to. So many great memories. "The Stanley Cup parade will take the usual route" says Mayor for life Drapeau each and every spring.
My dad's connection to the Forum and les Canadiens stayed strong the rest of his life. Once, I would have been 30 ish, I needed something special for a golf tournament fund raiser that Nicole and I put on for Children's Wish Foundation. I asked my dad if he could score a couple of season tickets to the Habs, an impossible request here in Montreal. Dad came up with them and the auction raised over 10K. Dad made a lot of good friends at the Forum. He was part of a great and glorious tradition. How could I not be Bleu, Blanc, Rouge for life?
Go Habs, Go. Dad is watching the Drive For Twenty Five.
Quick health update: I feel excellent, better than I have in two years at least. Don't take that to mean I have more breath. I don't. I do however feel much stronger than I have in a long time. That, combined with the skills I learned at rehab and a mind free of clutter makes life most excellent at the moment. Everything is working. Time to push hard.
It is playoff time in these hockey mad parts. Last night I held my breath, screamed in agony followed by cries of joy and generally lost my mind for a few hours while Nos Glorieux, Le Club de Hockey Canadiens, my Habs battled the evil, satanic Boston Bruins. We won and lead the series 2 games to 1, but that is not the point of this story. How I came to be a die hard Habs fan for life, is.
Some of my earliest memories are of Saturday night hockey games. I was maybe three or four, the year would be 1958 or 1959. Hockey Night in Canada came on TV at 8:00 PM, midway through the first period. Of course at that age I was not watching the game, I was either tucked into my bed at home, or as often would be the case, lying on a pile of coats, along with my sister, at Nana's or Auntie May's house, supposedly sleeping. Now, if we were at home only some drapes separated our bedroom from the living room where the tv was. Invariably there would be a significant number of people in that living room, whooping it up and drinking beer and rum and cokes. Our parents at the time were the ripe old age of 21 or 22, the grandparents double that. It was a large and young extended family that lived close to each other. Saturday nights were for getting together and having a good time. It was hard to miss anything.
My dad got me playing, or rather, trying to play hockey at a normal, young age. A canadian boy in the early 60's played hockey, outside, on a team. You cleaned the ice before the game, and between periods, yourself. The changing room was an old CPR caboose with a wood stove. It don't get more authentic than that. To my dad's everlasting disappointment, and maybe just a tinge of shame, I was entirely hopeless at hockey. I could not skate off my ankles. No supports available at the time helped. I skated on my ankles seriously bad. I tried immensely hard to learn how to skate. I walked the four blocks up to the skating rink at the park on Vimont and la Fontaine to skate by myself hundreds of times in attempts to get better. I could not skate backwards nor stop properly. I played anyway for a few years, my dad tying my skates, cheering me on, hoping I think against hope that I would find the spark that would turn me into a hockey player. Even at that age of 6 or 7 kids were being identified as being serious players with potential. I was nowhere near that quality. I think in the maybe 3 or 4 years I played I distinguished myself by getting 1 penalty. No goals. No assists. I was so desperate the last year to do something, anything, that one game the kid who was the goalie did not make the game. I guess in those days teams of 7 year olds did not have back up net minders. I volunteered. Big mistake. I don't think I stopped a single shot, and 7 year olds with wooden sticks hardly did anything with a puck that resembled shooting. Everything happened in slow motion and I was paralysed. Not good. My poor dad. He knew it was over.
A few years later as a 10 year old I came out of the athletic wastelands a wiser lad. Hockey had a million negatives for me, but there were lessons learned as well. I loved to move, run and compete, even when I had no success. I found soccer and football, curling and other games that I excelled in at various times. I think my dad was sort of "meh" about them though. It was not hockey.
By time I was 6 or 7 I was allowed to watch the game through the second period on Saturday night. The Canadiens always won the Stanley Cup, year after year it seemed, until I was 25.
I went to my first game at the Montreal Forum for my 10th birthday, a present from my dad. The Detroit Red Wings were playing the Habs in a late February or early March game. Gordie Howe was my dad's favorite non Habs player. Dad had been talking about how good he was, how he did things in the corners and how mean he could be. It was a night I am sure my dad always remembered. I think Howe had what was known as a Howe hat trick, a goal an assist and a fight. It was to be the first of many, many games at the Forum with my dad.
Later, during my early teenage years my dad took a part time job at the Forum slinging hot dogs and beer at Habs games. I don't think dad really needed the money but it helped. He enjoyed playing the angles and he loved being able to see all the hockey he wanted. After a while, when he knew the folks and the ropes, the doors to the Forum opened for me. I more or less had a standing room season ticket. I lived the dream of a Montreal kid by going to the Forum when I wanted to. So many great memories. "The Stanley Cup parade will take the usual route" says Mayor for life Drapeau each and every spring.
My dad's connection to the Forum and les Canadiens stayed strong the rest of his life. Once, I would have been 30 ish, I needed something special for a golf tournament fund raiser that Nicole and I put on for Children's Wish Foundation. I asked my dad if he could score a couple of season tickets to the Habs, an impossible request here in Montreal. Dad came up with them and the auction raised over 10K. Dad made a lot of good friends at the Forum. He was part of a great and glorious tradition. How could I not be Bleu, Blanc, Rouge for life?
Go Habs, Go. Dad is watching the Drive For Twenty Five.
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