It began like so many vacations, with eager expectations, a tank full of premium-priced gas, and a trailer full of goodies. The drive to the Rock Creek RV park was uneventful. The sun smiled down on us, and the gas tank quickly emptied so I could re-fill it with lower priced, perhaps still gold-laced fuel. It seems the price of fuel is not linked to the dropping world prices after all, but rather to how much money I have in my wallet.
Setting up camp in the hot sun was followed by what is always the best beer of the vacation. By the end of day one, all was well and looking good for a great, relaxing vacation.
Day two began as it should, with a fine cup of coffee in the sun to warm up our frozen innards and a nice outdoor breakfast. Then it was time for a chat with other family members and a few games of our newest craze, bolongo ball, AKA Hillbilly Golf. The false sense of serenity had set in. It began slowly at first, like a freight train leaving the station. An older sibling, who shall remain nameless, armed with a lethal water cannon, proceeded to spray a few innocent adults. I saw Gerda coming and stayed on the outside of the pack. My first instinct was to grab something valuable like an expensive camera, and hold it hostage. These people are Dutch. Certainly they know better than to risk such a costly item. Unfortunately, I only had one camera, so it was difficult covering both my front and back.
Things began to deteriorate quickly. I retreated to the trailer to fetch my vintage, 1980 squirt gun, but it would be no match for the arsenal now on display everywhere. Soon, water cannons were replaced by buckets and laundry tubs. This was getting ugly. I knew I could never be safe for the rest of the vacation if I stayed in the trailer so I proceeded to the battle field, little gun in hand. Everyone was in a frenzy, and there was no reasoning with them. My dry body became an instant target. Under some conditions, this may have been all right, but not with this motley crew. I turned quickly to see the all out assault coming from three sides. Buckets, tubs and super soakers all aimed at me. I abandoned all hope of talking things out, and proceeded to introduce myself to the neighbouring campers who seemed amused and overly self-confident they could remain neutral and unaffected. They must all be Canadians, I thought.
A funny thing happens to legs after 50 years. They move back and forth less rapidly. I believe this is because, in the words of Apostle Paul, we put off our childish ways. Paul did not know my family. Younger nephews were on the front lines, and attacked first. Their much more senior parents and perhaps a spouse of mine, lagged behind but swarmed in as well like a pack of hungry wolves at a fresh kill. I’m not sure, but I do believe that every inch of my clothing was drenched. I would have been afraid to come home in such a condition had my wife not been there. “Et tu,.Brutus?”
At long last a truce was called, young rebels were given stern looks and peace returned. There was no need for a cooling off period, but a drying spell was welcomed. Wet shirts, shorts, underwear ( I didn’t see any bras so I can only guess what happened to them) were strewn all over tables and chairs.
After lunch, a nice, quiet ride down the Kettle River in inner tubes was called for. There is nothing more pleasant than to float along in the tubes, dipping one’s toes or hands in the water from time to time to cool off a little. A group of us entered the cool but inviting river and began our float towards camp. Several thugs, led by the previously unnamed sibling and by dearly beloved, saw things differently. Anyone coming near to them was immediately confronted with flailing hands and feet, and water carelessly being disturbed. You could never let down your guard. One minute you could be thinking about how peaceful and good life can be, and the next minute you were again under attack from behind. Nothing was sacred. I stopped to enjoy the sight of a deer standing at the waters edge and wishing I had my camera. Since I did not, I just wanted to take in the wonderful sight, plus keep an eye on avoiding the pee which she was emitting into the river. I soon found myself under a deluge of spray. My own daughter joined in. Mob mentality I suppose. It is important to watch what company your children keep. The deer of course wasn’t amused either, and leapt over a fence, never to be seen again. Only a crafty bit of back-peddling prevented a final attack at the finish line.
Day three was a repeat of Day two, with only the main initiators changing. Sitting at our camp, I knew things were not going to go well when I saw Mark sneaking to the next camp site to fill up his super soakers. I was reminded of Apocalypse Now. I knew now the evil that lurks in the hearts of these people, so I avoided the battlefield for the first skirmishes, and donned my bathing trunks instead. Now, dressed in my battle fatigues, and armed with a newly acquired assault rifle, (Home Hardware only had one lousy water gun left. It didn’t work well, but it was half price, so I was happy.) I faced the music. The beasts descended upon me quickly. Greatly outmatched, I was drenched within 10 seconds. I was now free to join in, (even the UN has to go on the offensive some times), no longer a specific target.
The afternoon float was similar to the previous day, except that I was a quick learner, and Gerda did not come along. However, parents can be a bad influence on children. Her daughter Wendy proved to be every bit as evil as her mother. The trick is to stay ahead of the pack, and never let someone get behind you. It is less relaxing but much warmer. I did however trust Joanie, which is a mistake not to be repeated. I carried her bottled water, and even cooled it off for her in the river. I let her catch up to me to let her have a drink, on condition that she did not splash. Never trust a woman!
The plan was to float past our campground to a bridge a little down stream where we could get picked up. I surveyed to group choosing to take on this challenge, including my untrustworthy wife, and Wendy the water assassin, and chose a cool drink in the sun instead. One of my better decisions.
Alas, the vacation was all too short but it is good to be able to sit in the sun at home without keeping one eye peeled for some evil family member with a water fetish. However, I do think I will be asking for a new, super duper soaker for Christmas. See you next year, suckers!
About Me
- G Man
- I am a Christian who enjoys exploring God's wonderful creation! I am always on the lookout for new birds or animals to photograph.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Angina II - 2009
I can’t believe that after only ten short months I am writing again. Things were going well in the heart department, and we were at the end of our third vacation trip in two months. It was Saturday morning in Christina Lake, B.C. We were putting the finishing touches on packing to go home. I cranked down the tent trailer and was putting the final hook-up connections on, breathing a little heavy from the turning and bending. Suddenly, I met an old friend, the start of some pains on the left side of my chest. I recognized it immediately.
I was finished and sat down to drive home. The pain subsided quickly but the effect did not. I recalled the chastisement I received last time for not going directly to the hospital by ambulance, but was this really the same pain, or was I imagining it, as you do get over sensitive to chest pains after two angina attacks? My main thought was, I do not want to end my holiday in Osoyoos hospital and then being transported somewhere else.
We stopped near Crawston to visit a winery we were told was very good. Due to the size of the driveway, I decided to park on the side of the highway and walk the 5 minute distance to the wine shop. By the time we reached the shop, that pain was starting again, not severely, but enough to get my attention. Joanie thought I was a little quiet during the wine tasting. Go figure!
The walk back to the car, though it made me nervous, went well. We reached the car before the pains returned. The rest of the six hour drive home was not as pleasant as I had hoped. The trip was measured in my mind by hospitals. Ok, if anything happens now, I guess I would end up in Princeton hospital, now I am getting close enough to go to Hope hospital, now Abbotsford, and finally, we’re in home hospital territory! Maybe its time to tell Joanie. On the other hand, she can be so picky when it comes to health issues.
The weekend went by and things went well. We didn’t unpack the full trailer and so I didn’t have to exert myself too much. I felt no pain, but the visions of anginas past danced in my head. This can’t be happening so soon again. Only a few days ago I was running around playing frisbee keep-away.
Monday morning I returned to work. I left the train downtown, but before I got to my building, only half a block away, I felt the pain start, and I had to stop and let it go down. I knew I couldn’t ignore it. I better call the doctor. See, I am learning much more quickly! I even prepared my co-workers that I may have more problems, and would work from home until I knew things were right.
My doctor checked things out the next day, and had an ECG done immediately. She did not notice any significant irregularities except that I had some should muscle bruising, probably from cranking the trailer. She advised me to carry on and she would schedule a stress test the following Monday. However, a short walk to the mailbox that night confirmed for me that all was not well. As soon as I did any activity that caused my blood pressure to go up, the chest pains would begin, and as soon as I relaxed, the pain disappeared.
The next days I stayed home, working only an hour or two per day, checking and responding to e-mails, and relaxing for the rest of the time. This was during a record heat wave. In fact, the hottest day on record, 38 degrees in the shade, I suffered at home with my cold water and fan while the rest of the family gallivanted in Stanley Park. I even had to make my own dinner, nuking some leftovers! They don’t treat heart patients like that in a hospital.
I went to see the cardiologist, a substitute for my previous cardiologist, who was on vacation for four weeks. He could not get me in for an angiogram until the following Thursday, but assured me that he preferred to do angiograms through the wrist, a less invasive approach, and that he had experience. I was instructed to keep relaxed, and go to emergency if I began feeling pain even when I was in a relaxed state. For the next nine days, I continued my difficult journey, sleeping in, donning shorts and working tirelessly for one to two hours per day before retreating to a book or a photo album I was working on. That can be difficult to concentrate on with the noise from Joanie mowing the lawn in the heat of the day, or vacuuming and cleaning. I wanted sooo much to help, but alas, all I could do was to helplessly watch.
Friday night was a scary time. Having put in several hours of work that week, I sat down to relax and watch the B.C. Lions game. Things did not go well. Their offence stunk. Their defence stunk. Their specialty team stunk. They rejected numerous chances to win the game, insisting on humiliating themselves. My blood began to boil. The chest pains started. I was supposedly in a relaxed state, but I was feeling pain. This could mean a 911 call. And its all the Lions’ fault! I had to talk myself down. It’s only a game. My life won’t change whether they win or lose (yeah, right!). Just watch the game but don’t get emotionally involved. It worked to some degree and the pains subsided, mostly. This was the ultimate stress test. I did say a few prayers, and they weren’t even about the game any anymore.
I managed to survive, emergency free, until my scheduled angiogram on August 6, 2009. I checked into the hospital at 7AM (Leah and Joanie were very excited about having a reason to get up early for a change although they were awfully quiet on the drive, and Leah spent much of the day threatening to climb into the unused beds in the hall.) The nurse gave me one of those wonderful gowns, which serve only to cover up your belly button. She went to shave my groan area. Being old fashioned, I did not relish a strange woman shaving my private parts, so I assured her that the new radiologist, Dr. Dorval, was planning to use my wrist so shaving down there was not necessary. However, I think this shaving job is the highlight of a nurse’s day, so she insisted on doing it anyway, along with my wrist. With my summer tan, I now looked like I had an oriental right wrist, all nice and brown and smooth.
By 8:00 AM I was wheeled down to the lab and lay there, listening to a grossly over-weight cardio patient being lectured about his self-admitted addiction to junk food and snacks and his attempt to slowly cut out those cigarettes. I am by no means slim, but a tiny sense of self-righteousness does set in. He was being told that unless there were real and immediate changes, the procedure being done would be a waste of time.
Dr. Dorval came to see me before the operation. He began with, I have some bad news. For some reason, that was not what I wanted to hear at that time. He explained that while entered through the wrist would be best in terms of quick recovery, after studying my previous procedures, if he needed to repair my original stent, put in six years earlier, he would need a larger balloon and stent, which could not go through the arm, and so he would have to use the groan area anyway. Therefore, rather than risking having to go through both areas, it might be better to start with the groan area right away. I hate that kind of logic. How do you argue? I said, do what you gotta do doc.
I entered to lab area quite relaxed. It was old hat. This was my third time, and the previous times it was painless, and actually quite interesting. I shimmied onto the operating table. It was just after 8:30. I should be out of here by 9:15, and could be up and ready to go home before 2PM. Dr. Dorval proved to be Mr. Cautious. He worked slowly and meticulously, a good thing when you are at the other end, but maybe no so if you are part of the nursing staff assigned to assist. I became a little nervous when he kept asking the nurses questions. I thought he should be the one with the answers. He asked what procedures they used for this and that, what sized stents they had available, how they might get more clear pictures of certain arteries, etc. He left the room several times to consult with the staff operating equipment from another room.
Meanwhile, I am beginning to sweat. I am now getting full bore chest pains, which I did not get in previous angiograms. I thought I might casually ask one of the attending nurses if this was normal. Apparently not, because twice they quickly proceeded to inject some hemo something-or-other before the pain died down. While it was difficult to see what was happening, although I got the occasional glimpse of the wire in my chest, and the shots of dye which then showed my arteries pumping blood when the camera was not in my face, I could of course hear everything. What size stents do you have between 8 and 15 mm.? Do you have a 13? OK, lets try that. Move the camera a little. I don’t like where the stent is sitting. I can see the end of it. Should we try “gobbly gook”? Every time I thought we were almost done, he seemed to move to a new location or want to have some more dye to see something. It was a full 2 hours before he was done.
I don’t know how to approach this next topic delicately. Prior to the surgery, I had a slight issue with passing gas. I have no idea if this became an issue during the procedure, as I was distracted by the chest pain, but as I think back on it, perhaps the reason the doctor left the room was for some fresh air.
I admit this freely because one loses all dignity in the hospital. At the end of the procedure, the doctor said he was taking a picture of my groan area. I thought that was a little perverse but if he saved my life, I wasn’t going to argue while lying on an operating table. The nurse (what was she doing looking at my groan???) said she could see that I had a full bladder. No kidding, now that it was over, I could concentrate of the fact that I had to pee. They took a pee jar and put it in place and told me to go ahead. Are they kidding. I once had to pee so badly at a football game that I stood in the long line-up for urinals, only to find once I got there that there is no way I was able to pee in a crowd. I pretended to pee and left unsatisfied. Nothing has changed. I tried but nothing happened. They suggested they could leave the room but, I could see them huddled against the wall. No way was that going to work. As I lied there I thought of how stupid it must look to lie there in the middle of the crowd of staff, with a bottle between my legs. It was only some time later, while lying by myself (a key factor) in the recovery area, that I was able to empty my bladder.
Waiting outside in the recovery area, Dr. Dorval came over to say how pleased he was with the angioplasty, but that he thought perhaps I should stay over night. I said I preferred to go home since not much happens over night anyways, and he agreed to let me go home at 7PM.
The nursing staff in the room I was assigned were nice. I had to lie with my effected right leg motionless for 4 hours. Any attempt to lift my head, even a little, was greeted with a quick reprimand. Apparently, the artery used is the thickness of a little finger, and if, due to pressure on the groan area, the plug should come out or not seal properly, one could loose a great deal of blood very quickly.
The nurses rolled their eyes when they saw the instructions not to release me until 7PM. Over cautious but he will have to learn if he plans to stay here. There were grumbles the rest of the day about a procedure this morning that went well overtime and put the rest of the day’s operations behind schedule. I wonder which one that would be?
Due to slight bleeding, my nurse had to sit, putting pressure on my groan artery, for 15 minutes to ensure that the bleeding stopped. This too is not the most flattering of moments. However, she got her revenge on me. She put large bandages over the wound, showing absolutely no discretion on where the applied the adhesive parts or what follicles might be captured in its grip. Removing those bandages a few days later may be the most painful part of the whole procedure. I am still not sure if everything works down there or if it is in shock.
During the day, several patients came and went in my 4 bed room, while I lied there for hours. One elderly man with a heavy European accent came in. He was very friendly, thanking the nurse who wheeled him in. The room nurse, who had a slight oriental accent had a great time trying to communicate.
“What hospital did you come from?” “Yah, very goot.” “Nurse, I have to make a de poop.” “Do you have to pee?” “No, I have to make a de poop. Very sore. I like to get up and go to the bathroom” “No, you can’t move anything. Stay there, you will have to use a bedpan. “ “Do you have trouble peeing?” “I am getting very sweaty.” “Do you have trouble with your hearing?” “Nooo, I hear everything very goot.”
Then, after some loud groaning, gaseous sounds, etc. “Are you finished?” “No, I no poop. Only fart. No poop on it. I keep bedpan for now.” “They are coming to transport you soon. What hospital did you come from?” “Yah, I go back soon.” “What hospital?” Silence. “Was it Abbotsford?” “Mission, or something”. “Maple Ridge?” “Yah.”
The defecation issue went on for some time and escalated until it was discovered that he had a full bladder and needed a catheter to relieve it. Why didn’t they just give him a pee jar on the operating table?
By 6:45 I was able to get dressed, get deposited into what looked like a converted shopping cart, and get wheeled off to the car before anyone could change their mind. Just to ease you mind and relax you, the nurse reminded us that if the plug should come out of my artery, I could loose blood quickly, so someone should put very firm pressure on the area, while someone else called 911 right away. And no, I wouldn’t notice this by blood coming out, since most of it would run into the cavity of my leg. I would notice it by the hardening around the wound. How comforting. You might be bleeding to death but there are no physically obvious signs to warn you. Great. I think I am ready to tackle this on my own then!
Post script: No, I did not bleed to death, but did almost die taking off the bandages.
I was finished and sat down to drive home. The pain subsided quickly but the effect did not. I recalled the chastisement I received last time for not going directly to the hospital by ambulance, but was this really the same pain, or was I imagining it, as you do get over sensitive to chest pains after two angina attacks? My main thought was, I do not want to end my holiday in Osoyoos hospital and then being transported somewhere else.
We stopped near Crawston to visit a winery we were told was very good. Due to the size of the driveway, I decided to park on the side of the highway and walk the 5 minute distance to the wine shop. By the time we reached the shop, that pain was starting again, not severely, but enough to get my attention. Joanie thought I was a little quiet during the wine tasting. Go figure!
The walk back to the car, though it made me nervous, went well. We reached the car before the pains returned. The rest of the six hour drive home was not as pleasant as I had hoped. The trip was measured in my mind by hospitals. Ok, if anything happens now, I guess I would end up in Princeton hospital, now I am getting close enough to go to Hope hospital, now Abbotsford, and finally, we’re in home hospital territory! Maybe its time to tell Joanie. On the other hand, she can be so picky when it comes to health issues.
The weekend went by and things went well. We didn’t unpack the full trailer and so I didn’t have to exert myself too much. I felt no pain, but the visions of anginas past danced in my head. This can’t be happening so soon again. Only a few days ago I was running around playing frisbee keep-away.
Monday morning I returned to work. I left the train downtown, but before I got to my building, only half a block away, I felt the pain start, and I had to stop and let it go down. I knew I couldn’t ignore it. I better call the doctor. See, I am learning much more quickly! I even prepared my co-workers that I may have more problems, and would work from home until I knew things were right.
My doctor checked things out the next day, and had an ECG done immediately. She did not notice any significant irregularities except that I had some should muscle bruising, probably from cranking the trailer. She advised me to carry on and she would schedule a stress test the following Monday. However, a short walk to the mailbox that night confirmed for me that all was not well. As soon as I did any activity that caused my blood pressure to go up, the chest pains would begin, and as soon as I relaxed, the pain disappeared.
The next days I stayed home, working only an hour or two per day, checking and responding to e-mails, and relaxing for the rest of the time. This was during a record heat wave. In fact, the hottest day on record, 38 degrees in the shade, I suffered at home with my cold water and fan while the rest of the family gallivanted in Stanley Park. I even had to make my own dinner, nuking some leftovers! They don’t treat heart patients like that in a hospital.
I went to see the cardiologist, a substitute for my previous cardiologist, who was on vacation for four weeks. He could not get me in for an angiogram until the following Thursday, but assured me that he preferred to do angiograms through the wrist, a less invasive approach, and that he had experience. I was instructed to keep relaxed, and go to emergency if I began feeling pain even when I was in a relaxed state. For the next nine days, I continued my difficult journey, sleeping in, donning shorts and working tirelessly for one to two hours per day before retreating to a book or a photo album I was working on. That can be difficult to concentrate on with the noise from Joanie mowing the lawn in the heat of the day, or vacuuming and cleaning. I wanted sooo much to help, but alas, all I could do was to helplessly watch.
Friday night was a scary time. Having put in several hours of work that week, I sat down to relax and watch the B.C. Lions game. Things did not go well. Their offence stunk. Their defence stunk. Their specialty team stunk. They rejected numerous chances to win the game, insisting on humiliating themselves. My blood began to boil. The chest pains started. I was supposedly in a relaxed state, but I was feeling pain. This could mean a 911 call. And its all the Lions’ fault! I had to talk myself down. It’s only a game. My life won’t change whether they win or lose (yeah, right!). Just watch the game but don’t get emotionally involved. It worked to some degree and the pains subsided, mostly. This was the ultimate stress test. I did say a few prayers, and they weren’t even about the game any anymore.
I managed to survive, emergency free, until my scheduled angiogram on August 6, 2009. I checked into the hospital at 7AM (Leah and Joanie were very excited about having a reason to get up early for a change although they were awfully quiet on the drive, and Leah spent much of the day threatening to climb into the unused beds in the hall.) The nurse gave me one of those wonderful gowns, which serve only to cover up your belly button. She went to shave my groan area. Being old fashioned, I did not relish a strange woman shaving my private parts, so I assured her that the new radiologist, Dr. Dorval, was planning to use my wrist so shaving down there was not necessary. However, I think this shaving job is the highlight of a nurse’s day, so she insisted on doing it anyway, along with my wrist. With my summer tan, I now looked like I had an oriental right wrist, all nice and brown and smooth.
By 8:00 AM I was wheeled down to the lab and lay there, listening to a grossly over-weight cardio patient being lectured about his self-admitted addiction to junk food and snacks and his attempt to slowly cut out those cigarettes. I am by no means slim, but a tiny sense of self-righteousness does set in. He was being told that unless there were real and immediate changes, the procedure being done would be a waste of time.
Dr. Dorval came to see me before the operation. He began with, I have some bad news. For some reason, that was not what I wanted to hear at that time. He explained that while entered through the wrist would be best in terms of quick recovery, after studying my previous procedures, if he needed to repair my original stent, put in six years earlier, he would need a larger balloon and stent, which could not go through the arm, and so he would have to use the groan area anyway. Therefore, rather than risking having to go through both areas, it might be better to start with the groan area right away. I hate that kind of logic. How do you argue? I said, do what you gotta do doc.
I entered to lab area quite relaxed. It was old hat. This was my third time, and the previous times it was painless, and actually quite interesting. I shimmied onto the operating table. It was just after 8:30. I should be out of here by 9:15, and could be up and ready to go home before 2PM. Dr. Dorval proved to be Mr. Cautious. He worked slowly and meticulously, a good thing when you are at the other end, but maybe no so if you are part of the nursing staff assigned to assist. I became a little nervous when he kept asking the nurses questions. I thought he should be the one with the answers. He asked what procedures they used for this and that, what sized stents they had available, how they might get more clear pictures of certain arteries, etc. He left the room several times to consult with the staff operating equipment from another room.
Meanwhile, I am beginning to sweat. I am now getting full bore chest pains, which I did not get in previous angiograms. I thought I might casually ask one of the attending nurses if this was normal. Apparently not, because twice they quickly proceeded to inject some hemo something-or-other before the pain died down. While it was difficult to see what was happening, although I got the occasional glimpse of the wire in my chest, and the shots of dye which then showed my arteries pumping blood when the camera was not in my face, I could of course hear everything. What size stents do you have between 8 and 15 mm.? Do you have a 13? OK, lets try that. Move the camera a little. I don’t like where the stent is sitting. I can see the end of it. Should we try “gobbly gook”? Every time I thought we were almost done, he seemed to move to a new location or want to have some more dye to see something. It was a full 2 hours before he was done.
I don’t know how to approach this next topic delicately. Prior to the surgery, I had a slight issue with passing gas. I have no idea if this became an issue during the procedure, as I was distracted by the chest pain, but as I think back on it, perhaps the reason the doctor left the room was for some fresh air.
I admit this freely because one loses all dignity in the hospital. At the end of the procedure, the doctor said he was taking a picture of my groan area. I thought that was a little perverse but if he saved my life, I wasn’t going to argue while lying on an operating table. The nurse (what was she doing looking at my groan???) said she could see that I had a full bladder. No kidding, now that it was over, I could concentrate of the fact that I had to pee. They took a pee jar and put it in place and told me to go ahead. Are they kidding. I once had to pee so badly at a football game that I stood in the long line-up for urinals, only to find once I got there that there is no way I was able to pee in a crowd. I pretended to pee and left unsatisfied. Nothing has changed. I tried but nothing happened. They suggested they could leave the room but, I could see them huddled against the wall. No way was that going to work. As I lied there I thought of how stupid it must look to lie there in the middle of the crowd of staff, with a bottle between my legs. It was only some time later, while lying by myself (a key factor) in the recovery area, that I was able to empty my bladder.
Waiting outside in the recovery area, Dr. Dorval came over to say how pleased he was with the angioplasty, but that he thought perhaps I should stay over night. I said I preferred to go home since not much happens over night anyways, and he agreed to let me go home at 7PM.
The nursing staff in the room I was assigned were nice. I had to lie with my effected right leg motionless for 4 hours. Any attempt to lift my head, even a little, was greeted with a quick reprimand. Apparently, the artery used is the thickness of a little finger, and if, due to pressure on the groan area, the plug should come out or not seal properly, one could loose a great deal of blood very quickly.
The nurses rolled their eyes when they saw the instructions not to release me until 7PM. Over cautious but he will have to learn if he plans to stay here. There were grumbles the rest of the day about a procedure this morning that went well overtime and put the rest of the day’s operations behind schedule. I wonder which one that would be?
Due to slight bleeding, my nurse had to sit, putting pressure on my groan artery, for 15 minutes to ensure that the bleeding stopped. This too is not the most flattering of moments. However, she got her revenge on me. She put large bandages over the wound, showing absolutely no discretion on where the applied the adhesive parts or what follicles might be captured in its grip. Removing those bandages a few days later may be the most painful part of the whole procedure. I am still not sure if everything works down there or if it is in shock.
During the day, several patients came and went in my 4 bed room, while I lied there for hours. One elderly man with a heavy European accent came in. He was very friendly, thanking the nurse who wheeled him in. The room nurse, who had a slight oriental accent had a great time trying to communicate.
“What hospital did you come from?” “Yah, very goot.” “Nurse, I have to make a de poop.” “Do you have to pee?” “No, I have to make a de poop. Very sore. I like to get up and go to the bathroom” “No, you can’t move anything. Stay there, you will have to use a bedpan. “ “Do you have trouble peeing?” “I am getting very sweaty.” “Do you have trouble with your hearing?” “Nooo, I hear everything very goot.”
Then, after some loud groaning, gaseous sounds, etc. “Are you finished?” “No, I no poop. Only fart. No poop on it. I keep bedpan for now.” “They are coming to transport you soon. What hospital did you come from?” “Yah, I go back soon.” “What hospital?” Silence. “Was it Abbotsford?” “Mission, or something”. “Maple Ridge?” “Yah.”
The defecation issue went on for some time and escalated until it was discovered that he had a full bladder and needed a catheter to relieve it. Why didn’t they just give him a pee jar on the operating table?
By 6:45 I was able to get dressed, get deposited into what looked like a converted shopping cart, and get wheeled off to the car before anyone could change their mind. Just to ease you mind and relax you, the nurse reminded us that if the plug should come out of my artery, I could loose blood quickly, so someone should put very firm pressure on the area, while someone else called 911 right away. And no, I wouldn’t notice this by blood coming out, since most of it would run into the cavity of my leg. I would notice it by the hardening around the wound. How comforting. You might be bleeding to death but there are no physically obvious signs to warn you. Great. I think I am ready to tackle this on my own then!
Post script: No, I did not bleed to death, but did almost die taking off the bandages.
Being a Publicly Conscientious Health Victim - 2008
Firstly, let me explain that this is not my fault. My daughter cruelly planted the idea in my head one day while I was lying in my hospital bed. And naturally, my accountant’s creative juices began to flow. In fact, one morning while my wife was in the hospital, and I should have been lying spread eagle across my bed snoring away with immunity, revelling in the fact that I was free of the 2 foot strip of bed I am usually confined to, I found myself wide awake at 5 AM composing. It is a heavy burden when you feel the need to exercise your public duty.
I have discovered over the past few years that an angina attack is not when the Roughriders invade BC Place to take on the BC Lions. That’s a Regina attack. It is in fact when you suffer chest pains due to pressure built up from blood forced through narrowed arteries. The effects are often not felt until the blockage reaches about 90%. As a two attacker, I am somewhat of an expert on this and feel the need to share my vast knowledge and provide helpful tips to others contemplating an angina attack.
My wife was scheduled for surgery on Thursday. This was very stressful for me. It would have been cool to say she was getting an operation to fix that bum knee from years of hockey or football, but instead it related to some female parts that gentlemen do not talk about. Telling people she was going in for an operation was always followed by a silent prayer that they would not ask what the operation was for. On top of that, she was getting a lot of attention and I just felt I needed to balance things out. Having my own medial condition before hers was the only solution. That’s where angina comes in.
Firstly, one should always be prepared. It is a good idea to be well dressed and have clean underwear. When I felt the first mild sign of chest pain in the middle of the night, which might have also been attributed to the greasy sausage I ate for dinner, or an awkward sleeping position, I made sure I went to work in a nice suit and tie. I forgot about the good underwear but more about that later. Being well dressed in ER dispels any notion that your problems stem from having spent the night on the streets, regardless of how wrinkled your shirt is. Perhaps people might think I was a highly successful businessman suffering the effects of the current market crash.
My chest pains began on my coffee break at work in downtown Vancouver. Walking caused the blood pressure to go up, which then caused the chest pain as blood began to pump faster through my clogged artery. Sitting allowed the pressure to drop and the pain to leave, making it possible to enjoy a nice cup of java. However, on returning to the office and feeling the pains once more, it became impossible to blame yesterday’s sausage.
When faced with the reality that you are in need of emergency care, you need to make some difficult decisions. In today’s society, it is important that whatever you do is eco friendly, leaves only a small carbon footprint and will not impact too severely on our ailing medical system. With the cost of gas, and the shortage of paramedics, I really had no choice. I had to take skytrain to the hospital. Besides, the station was right beside Royal Columbian hospital, and no one lives near downtown, making visits difficult. The fact that I didn’t want paramedics storming the office and carting me off in a bed in front of my co-workers never entered my mind.
This decision was not that popular with some of my friends and family (OK, all of my friends, family, doctors and one or two of my enemies) but in my defence, with the last similar incident, I continued to work for almost two months before my scheduled angiogram, resting whenever the chest pains started, so sitting on a train and remaining inactive should be OK this time. I did kind of forget that the hospital is up hill from the train station, and my final one half block walk to emergency was a little stressful. I was very comfortable on the train though and calmly called my wife on my cell phone to let her know where I was going. It is not my fault that she called back seconds before the train went underground and we were cut off right after I said the word “emergency”.
When I arrived at ER, I knew it was game on! ER’s are usually full of people all vying for priority in being helped. This place was no exception. Unfortunately I had no blood dripping from my face or other physical signs of stress, but I was the only one in a suit and I decided it would not be a good idea to downplay the chest pains that were now fairly strong and not subsiding, even after I sat down. Perhaps it was the stress of the woman who appeared to swallow one of those exercise balls and was wailing loudly. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t just pull the plug and let the air out of it. Her husband tried to push his way up the list by claiming she was in labour or something for two days straight. A likely story. Meanwhile I had visions of collapsing on the floor in front of everyone. My suit wouldn’t help me there. My chest pains won out over the exercise ball and I avoided the angry glances of those who arrived before me as they wheeled me away.
In ER, you stop being a person and become a pin cushion instead. Nurses who are not too skilled at finding veins use you for practice. They stab you, twirl the needle around in case you did not feel the initial stab, and try again somewhere else before calling for reinforcements. They then take a big piece of tape and try to maximize the amount of arm hair they can capture as they cover up their mistakes. Heart patients are a bonus for these sadists. They paste these contact pads all over your chest. Some showed remorse and shaved a few patches before pasting the pads. I think they then draw straws to see who gets to remove the pads from time to time for reasons unknown. I think the secret is to maximize the amount of hair you pull out while not leaving a flesh wound. The biggest wound I had from the entire operation and which continued to give me pain days after I got home was the removal of one of my first pieces of tape in my arm. The nurse did not go to tape school 101, and not only removed the hair in my arm, but the flesh underneath as well. I was concerned about the open wound but I think they gave me a shot for it.
Hospital gowns are an interesting piece of work, carefully designed to maximize a patient’s discomfort. One size fist all apparently. Despite their length, which goes from loose on your shoulders to just above the knees, the designer felt that two strings was all that was needed to hold these babies together. Nurses on the other hands, being sadist by nature, have never really figured out the purpose for these strings, and generally choose not to tie them at all. The gowns are made of linen material. This is done so that a patient getting out of bed, and throwing back the sheets, can’t tell the difference between the sheets and the gown, creating a 75% chance that he or she will throw back the covers, including the gown, and lie fully exposed to the world. I think it is also for this reason that the bed is situated so that the unit staff down the hall can watch and laugh.
This was not good enough for my nurse. I don’t want to question her motives, and I know she wasn’t married, but the day before my angiogram, she decided it would be good to “prep” me. She removed my underwear so she could shave in places that strangers should not go. Not having adhered to the “wear your best underwear” rule, or perhaps in anticipation of the get out of bed procedures, she took my underwear and I didn’t find them for two days. This added an extra dimension to getting up and walking around. That evening, as I stood in front of the window to wave goodbye to my family who were parked outside, she came to check on one of the chest contacts that were not sending messages. So, there I stood, in front of the window and in line with the unit clerk desk, while she checked under my gown. Had my children looked up at me at that moment, they may have been traumatized for life.
The actual angiogram and angioplasty (where they insert the stent) was very interesting. While shaved and ready to go, the cardiologist instead chose to enter my body via my wrist rather than groin area. The subsequent itchiness from hair growing back was all for not, but at least the nurse had her fun. One is fully conscious during the angiogram/plasty. This is good and bad. Good in that it is fascinating to watch on the monitor as the scope enters you arteries and you see your heart beating and the fluid flowing through the arteries. Bad if you are being operated on at the end of the day, and you hear the discussion among the attending nurses about who had a long day and may leave early, before the procedure is over. “Hello, I kind of like your full attention!”
The wrist entry procedure was wonderful in that you are only required to keep that arm still and the wrist above your elbow for a few hours after the surgery, and treat it as though it is broken for the next day. This is much better than having to lie on your back with the one leg that was used as the insertion point being held completely immobile for 6 hours following surgery, plus the comforting threat that if the plug inserted into the artery should pop off, you could bleed to death. Even better, you should not do any dishes, write e-mails, or do hard work for several days. While they didn’t say it specifically, I believe you actually shouldn’t do dishes for at least a week or two.
The final shot the hospital has on you before you leave is the removal of the contact pads on your chest. These were torn off with great delight prior to the surgery, and then replaced with new ones afterwards. You have so many of these that when you come home, you may find extras that were missed. They look like the push buttons on a western shirt, and can be arranged in a line so you appear to be wearing a western hairy shirt. One word of caution though, shave underneath them first or stay away from your spouse when she is mad.
My wife entered a different hospital, Eagle Ridge, the morning after I returned home. This allowed for a good comparison of the two facilities. We both, as elitists, and under the care of Her Majesty the Queen, had private rooms. She was issued knee high socks to wear, while I had some confusing paper slippers. They had two holes in them, perhaps so that if your hands are cold, you could put them inside your slippers. She walked to the operating room, like a lamb to the slaughter. I rested in bed. She got free TV, I did not, even though she is on my medical plan. She received blenderized soup, which I did not know even existed, while I got turkey and mashed potatoes. One meal she got was beef macaroni and a cracker. If you lay the cracker on top of the macaroni, it would be completely covered. However, the best difference was that I got the Striker 1, while she only got a GoBed.
Striker 1 had it all. Full bed lift, knee raising button, full sitting position, forward tilt in case you want to dump the patient out of bed, and, while we never got a chance to take it out for a test, I’m sure it was the fasted bed on the floor, much better than Striker 2. Gobed on the other had, did not have a master control button and wasn’t built for speed. Next time you are in an ER, ask for the Striker.
My final discovery about visiting a hospital is that, despite my age and lack of long or short term memory (except for some great Grey Cups I remember), hospital care workers are no better, even the young ones. The first thing you do once you are admitted, is to answer a number of questions about your health, current condition and symptoms, and how you got to the hospital. Within an hour of completing the interrogation, the assigned ER nurse will again ask many of the same questions. “So, how did you get here, by skytrain?” Once a room is secured for the overnight stay, (I asked for a room with a view but Striker 1 was a bonus), the new nurse again asks the same questions. This continues with every shift change. Does no one read the reports? I was getting very tired of answering over and over again, until I got to the OR prep area, and the nurse there looked at my chart and said, “So you’re the one who came here on skytrain!” Luckily she was nearing the end of her shift and planning to go home before it was over.
I have discovered over the past few years that an angina attack is not when the Roughriders invade BC Place to take on the BC Lions. That’s a Regina attack. It is in fact when you suffer chest pains due to pressure built up from blood forced through narrowed arteries. The effects are often not felt until the blockage reaches about 90%. As a two attacker, I am somewhat of an expert on this and feel the need to share my vast knowledge and provide helpful tips to others contemplating an angina attack.
My wife was scheduled for surgery on Thursday. This was very stressful for me. It would have been cool to say she was getting an operation to fix that bum knee from years of hockey or football, but instead it related to some female parts that gentlemen do not talk about. Telling people she was going in for an operation was always followed by a silent prayer that they would not ask what the operation was for. On top of that, she was getting a lot of attention and I just felt I needed to balance things out. Having my own medial condition before hers was the only solution. That’s where angina comes in.
Firstly, one should always be prepared. It is a good idea to be well dressed and have clean underwear. When I felt the first mild sign of chest pain in the middle of the night, which might have also been attributed to the greasy sausage I ate for dinner, or an awkward sleeping position, I made sure I went to work in a nice suit and tie. I forgot about the good underwear but more about that later. Being well dressed in ER dispels any notion that your problems stem from having spent the night on the streets, regardless of how wrinkled your shirt is. Perhaps people might think I was a highly successful businessman suffering the effects of the current market crash.
My chest pains began on my coffee break at work in downtown Vancouver. Walking caused the blood pressure to go up, which then caused the chest pain as blood began to pump faster through my clogged artery. Sitting allowed the pressure to drop and the pain to leave, making it possible to enjoy a nice cup of java. However, on returning to the office and feeling the pains once more, it became impossible to blame yesterday’s sausage.
When faced with the reality that you are in need of emergency care, you need to make some difficult decisions. In today’s society, it is important that whatever you do is eco friendly, leaves only a small carbon footprint and will not impact too severely on our ailing medical system. With the cost of gas, and the shortage of paramedics, I really had no choice. I had to take skytrain to the hospital. Besides, the station was right beside Royal Columbian hospital, and no one lives near downtown, making visits difficult. The fact that I didn’t want paramedics storming the office and carting me off in a bed in front of my co-workers never entered my mind.
This decision was not that popular with some of my friends and family (OK, all of my friends, family, doctors and one or two of my enemies) but in my defence, with the last similar incident, I continued to work for almost two months before my scheduled angiogram, resting whenever the chest pains started, so sitting on a train and remaining inactive should be OK this time. I did kind of forget that the hospital is up hill from the train station, and my final one half block walk to emergency was a little stressful. I was very comfortable on the train though and calmly called my wife on my cell phone to let her know where I was going. It is not my fault that she called back seconds before the train went underground and we were cut off right after I said the word “emergency”.
When I arrived at ER, I knew it was game on! ER’s are usually full of people all vying for priority in being helped. This place was no exception. Unfortunately I had no blood dripping from my face or other physical signs of stress, but I was the only one in a suit and I decided it would not be a good idea to downplay the chest pains that were now fairly strong and not subsiding, even after I sat down. Perhaps it was the stress of the woman who appeared to swallow one of those exercise balls and was wailing loudly. I couldn’t understand why she didn’t just pull the plug and let the air out of it. Her husband tried to push his way up the list by claiming she was in labour or something for two days straight. A likely story. Meanwhile I had visions of collapsing on the floor in front of everyone. My suit wouldn’t help me there. My chest pains won out over the exercise ball and I avoided the angry glances of those who arrived before me as they wheeled me away.
In ER, you stop being a person and become a pin cushion instead. Nurses who are not too skilled at finding veins use you for practice. They stab you, twirl the needle around in case you did not feel the initial stab, and try again somewhere else before calling for reinforcements. They then take a big piece of tape and try to maximize the amount of arm hair they can capture as they cover up their mistakes. Heart patients are a bonus for these sadists. They paste these contact pads all over your chest. Some showed remorse and shaved a few patches before pasting the pads. I think they then draw straws to see who gets to remove the pads from time to time for reasons unknown. I think the secret is to maximize the amount of hair you pull out while not leaving a flesh wound. The biggest wound I had from the entire operation and which continued to give me pain days after I got home was the removal of one of my first pieces of tape in my arm. The nurse did not go to tape school 101, and not only removed the hair in my arm, but the flesh underneath as well. I was concerned about the open wound but I think they gave me a shot for it.
Hospital gowns are an interesting piece of work, carefully designed to maximize a patient’s discomfort. One size fist all apparently. Despite their length, which goes from loose on your shoulders to just above the knees, the designer felt that two strings was all that was needed to hold these babies together. Nurses on the other hands, being sadist by nature, have never really figured out the purpose for these strings, and generally choose not to tie them at all. The gowns are made of linen material. This is done so that a patient getting out of bed, and throwing back the sheets, can’t tell the difference between the sheets and the gown, creating a 75% chance that he or she will throw back the covers, including the gown, and lie fully exposed to the world. I think it is also for this reason that the bed is situated so that the unit staff down the hall can watch and laugh.
This was not good enough for my nurse. I don’t want to question her motives, and I know she wasn’t married, but the day before my angiogram, she decided it would be good to “prep” me. She removed my underwear so she could shave in places that strangers should not go. Not having adhered to the “wear your best underwear” rule, or perhaps in anticipation of the get out of bed procedures, she took my underwear and I didn’t find them for two days. This added an extra dimension to getting up and walking around. That evening, as I stood in front of the window to wave goodbye to my family who were parked outside, she came to check on one of the chest contacts that were not sending messages. So, there I stood, in front of the window and in line with the unit clerk desk, while she checked under my gown. Had my children looked up at me at that moment, they may have been traumatized for life.
The actual angiogram and angioplasty (where they insert the stent) was very interesting. While shaved and ready to go, the cardiologist instead chose to enter my body via my wrist rather than groin area. The subsequent itchiness from hair growing back was all for not, but at least the nurse had her fun. One is fully conscious during the angiogram/plasty. This is good and bad. Good in that it is fascinating to watch on the monitor as the scope enters you arteries and you see your heart beating and the fluid flowing through the arteries. Bad if you are being operated on at the end of the day, and you hear the discussion among the attending nurses about who had a long day and may leave early, before the procedure is over. “Hello, I kind of like your full attention!”
The wrist entry procedure was wonderful in that you are only required to keep that arm still and the wrist above your elbow for a few hours after the surgery, and treat it as though it is broken for the next day. This is much better than having to lie on your back with the one leg that was used as the insertion point being held completely immobile for 6 hours following surgery, plus the comforting threat that if the plug inserted into the artery should pop off, you could bleed to death. Even better, you should not do any dishes, write e-mails, or do hard work for several days. While they didn’t say it specifically, I believe you actually shouldn’t do dishes for at least a week or two.
The final shot the hospital has on you before you leave is the removal of the contact pads on your chest. These were torn off with great delight prior to the surgery, and then replaced with new ones afterwards. You have so many of these that when you come home, you may find extras that were missed. They look like the push buttons on a western shirt, and can be arranged in a line so you appear to be wearing a western hairy shirt. One word of caution though, shave underneath them first or stay away from your spouse when she is mad.
My wife entered a different hospital, Eagle Ridge, the morning after I returned home. This allowed for a good comparison of the two facilities. We both, as elitists, and under the care of Her Majesty the Queen, had private rooms. She was issued knee high socks to wear, while I had some confusing paper slippers. They had two holes in them, perhaps so that if your hands are cold, you could put them inside your slippers. She walked to the operating room, like a lamb to the slaughter. I rested in bed. She got free TV, I did not, even though she is on my medical plan. She received blenderized soup, which I did not know even existed, while I got turkey and mashed potatoes. One meal she got was beef macaroni and a cracker. If you lay the cracker on top of the macaroni, it would be completely covered. However, the best difference was that I got the Striker 1, while she only got a GoBed.
Striker 1 had it all. Full bed lift, knee raising button, full sitting position, forward tilt in case you want to dump the patient out of bed, and, while we never got a chance to take it out for a test, I’m sure it was the fasted bed on the floor, much better than Striker 2. Gobed on the other had, did not have a master control button and wasn’t built for speed. Next time you are in an ER, ask for the Striker.
My final discovery about visiting a hospital is that, despite my age and lack of long or short term memory (except for some great Grey Cups I remember), hospital care workers are no better, even the young ones. The first thing you do once you are admitted, is to answer a number of questions about your health, current condition and symptoms, and how you got to the hospital. Within an hour of completing the interrogation, the assigned ER nurse will again ask many of the same questions. “So, how did you get here, by skytrain?” Once a room is secured for the overnight stay, (I asked for a room with a view but Striker 1 was a bonus), the new nurse again asks the same questions. This continues with every shift change. Does no one read the reports? I was getting very tired of answering over and over again, until I got to the OR prep area, and the nurse there looked at my chart and said, “So you’re the one who came here on skytrain!” Luckily she was nearing the end of her shift and planning to go home before it was over.
Changes - 2005
For years now we have struggled in the church with the fact that things change, causing discomfort and often unhappiness for those who were comfortable with the way things were. Change certainly isn’t restricted to church worship.
What has struck me lately is the amount of change we have seen between the genders. It seemed to begin when I was young, with the women’s liberation movement. When the bra burning began I took a mild interest in it. Naturally, some were far more militant than others, and chose to attack anything of difference between men and women. For a time some women even wore suits and ties just like most male office workers at the time. I am so glad that this did not become a continuing trend. I celebrate the fact that God made us different, so why would we want to hide that fact?
There of course was much merit to what women were trying to achieve, such as equal pay for equal work, equal job opportunities, joining the boy scouts, respect as equal partners in society, etc. As a typical Dutch male, I was overjoyed when women wanted to pay their own way on dates, because I though my funds could then go twice as far. Unfortunately, not all women endorsed this one. Despite all the changes accomplished, and still being accomplished, women have continued to maintain their femininity, for the most part, although some females have more tattoos than you would ever see on a sailor.
Now let’s consider their male counterparts. They too have undergone changes and have tried to get more in touch with their inner self. How was this accomplished? By stepping into the female domain more and more. How? Well, let’s see…
I believe it started with earrings. This was an exclusive domain of females, at least outside of the pirate world. The first men were assumed to be gay, (a term which no longer meant that they were just jolly old sorts), but over time, this practice was accepted. The first earrings, or earing, because men only wore one, were simple small loops, but even that has changed in recent years. We won’t even talk about some of the other “jewelry” attached to the body in very unnatural ways.
I grew up going to the barber. All the guys did. We got simple haircuts that required low maintenance because guys didn’t spend a lot of time fussing about their hair. Some might say that the young men who shave their heads are like this, but I would not call all the head polishing and regular shaving to be low maintenance. Okay, there was a time when some of us had hair longer than our girlfriends, but we didn’t spend a lot of time maintaining it. Today, many of us go to a hair salon, a place a boy of my youth would only go into reluctantly to wait for his mother. Some even make appointments! No barber I knew ever took appointments. But it doesn’t stop there. Men’s hair isn’t just cut, its styled, and I don’t even want to mention some of the other things that might go on in these former female follicular places (perms, colouring, etc.).
I remember that Maurice “the Rocket” Richard was a very forward thinking man for advertising the product Grecian Formula. It was just to get some of the grey out after all!!! But now, teenage boys already start by colouring their hair. What’s next, guy’s manicure parties? I’m not even talking about those guys who want to make a statement by putting their green or purple dessert in their hair instead of their mouth. At the risk of being called racist, I don’t remember seeing naturally blond Chinese boys when I was young. And I know there is men’s make-up on the market, but I try not to think about that.
The greatest advance (?) in the redefinition of men is perhaps the cell phone. When I was young, there was an unkind expression that referred to talking on the phone like an old lady, (no offense intended to anyone), the inference being that some of our senior women of the day tended to spend many an hour chatting on the phone, a very female quality. No self righteous man would want to be described this way. Yet today, many men and boys seem to have cell phones permanently attached to their ears. They can not go anywhere without making a phone call. On the train home from work I hear a young man calling his wife almost every day to say, “Hi, I’m on the 4:20 train today”. Dah, he’s on the 4:20 train every day! Ten years ago that call would not have been necessary. At sporting events, guys are on their cell phones calling their friends who are sitting in a different section of the stadium so they can wave to each other and chat about anything but the game. Why not just organize a slumber party? And who are these people they are calling at 6:15AM on the way to work? Nobody better call me at that time!
The new trend of course is the headset so one can talk on their cell phone hands-free. I work downtown. Often I see men walking down the street talking loudly to themselves, or talking to no one in particular in a restaurant. I confess that my tendency is to keep my distance, but more often than not now I see the small earpiece at the last minute.
No, the line between men and women is getting thinner and thinner. So, what was all the fuss about women in office anyway? Soon, we won’t be able to tell the difference anyway.
There is more that can be said on this subject but I have to go. My cell is ringing. I think it is my stylist rescheduling my hair appointment.
What has struck me lately is the amount of change we have seen between the genders. It seemed to begin when I was young, with the women’s liberation movement. When the bra burning began I took a mild interest in it. Naturally, some were far more militant than others, and chose to attack anything of difference between men and women. For a time some women even wore suits and ties just like most male office workers at the time. I am so glad that this did not become a continuing trend. I celebrate the fact that God made us different, so why would we want to hide that fact?
There of course was much merit to what women were trying to achieve, such as equal pay for equal work, equal job opportunities, joining the boy scouts, respect as equal partners in society, etc. As a typical Dutch male, I was overjoyed when women wanted to pay their own way on dates, because I though my funds could then go twice as far. Unfortunately, not all women endorsed this one. Despite all the changes accomplished, and still being accomplished, women have continued to maintain their femininity, for the most part, although some females have more tattoos than you would ever see on a sailor.
Now let’s consider their male counterparts. They too have undergone changes and have tried to get more in touch with their inner self. How was this accomplished? By stepping into the female domain more and more. How? Well, let’s see…
I believe it started with earrings. This was an exclusive domain of females, at least outside of the pirate world. The first men were assumed to be gay, (a term which no longer meant that they were just jolly old sorts), but over time, this practice was accepted. The first earrings, or earing, because men only wore one, were simple small loops, but even that has changed in recent years. We won’t even talk about some of the other “jewelry” attached to the body in very unnatural ways.
I grew up going to the barber. All the guys did. We got simple haircuts that required low maintenance because guys didn’t spend a lot of time fussing about their hair. Some might say that the young men who shave their heads are like this, but I would not call all the head polishing and regular shaving to be low maintenance. Okay, there was a time when some of us had hair longer than our girlfriends, but we didn’t spend a lot of time maintaining it. Today, many of us go to a hair salon, a place a boy of my youth would only go into reluctantly to wait for his mother. Some even make appointments! No barber I knew ever took appointments. But it doesn’t stop there. Men’s hair isn’t just cut, its styled, and I don’t even want to mention some of the other things that might go on in these former female follicular places (perms, colouring, etc.).
I remember that Maurice “the Rocket” Richard was a very forward thinking man for advertising the product Grecian Formula. It was just to get some of the grey out after all!!! But now, teenage boys already start by colouring their hair. What’s next, guy’s manicure parties? I’m not even talking about those guys who want to make a statement by putting their green or purple dessert in their hair instead of their mouth. At the risk of being called racist, I don’t remember seeing naturally blond Chinese boys when I was young. And I know there is men’s make-up on the market, but I try not to think about that.
The greatest advance (?) in the redefinition of men is perhaps the cell phone. When I was young, there was an unkind expression that referred to talking on the phone like an old lady, (no offense intended to anyone), the inference being that some of our senior women of the day tended to spend many an hour chatting on the phone, a very female quality. No self righteous man would want to be described this way. Yet today, many men and boys seem to have cell phones permanently attached to their ears. They can not go anywhere without making a phone call. On the train home from work I hear a young man calling his wife almost every day to say, “Hi, I’m on the 4:20 train today”. Dah, he’s on the 4:20 train every day! Ten years ago that call would not have been necessary. At sporting events, guys are on their cell phones calling their friends who are sitting in a different section of the stadium so they can wave to each other and chat about anything but the game. Why not just organize a slumber party? And who are these people they are calling at 6:15AM on the way to work? Nobody better call me at that time!
The new trend of course is the headset so one can talk on their cell phone hands-free. I work downtown. Often I see men walking down the street talking loudly to themselves, or talking to no one in particular in a restaurant. I confess that my tendency is to keep my distance, but more often than not now I see the small earpiece at the last minute.
No, the line between men and women is getting thinner and thinner. So, what was all the fuss about women in office anyway? Soon, we won’t be able to tell the difference anyway.
There is more that can be said on this subject but I have to go. My cell is ringing. I think it is my stylist rescheduling my hair appointment.
Intro to Ottawa - 2003
INTRO TO OTTAWA
This past summer I had the privilege of working in our nation’s capital for three weeks. What an honour to be working almost within sight of our elected officials. Joanie joined me to clean up my breakfast dish and cup each morning. One should always learn from these opportunities and I thought I would share some of our discoveries and experiences.
Each day, after I made the five minute excursion from the hotel to my office, Joanie would go out to discover Ottawa. After the first day she became very jealous. She was one of the few people in downtown Ottawa not to be wearing a building security pass around her neck or clipped to her clothes. In Vancouver these are quickly hidden from sight when one leaves an office building, particularly if you work for a less popular employer like Canada Customs and Revenue. In Ottawa, civil servants proudly display these symbols of public employment from the time they leave their home until they get back home, and possibly even longer. So, if you spend some time in Ottawa, get a photo ID card and hang it around your neck if you don’t want to stick out.
We also discovered very quickly that the “Don’t Walk” hand signal does not mean what we thought it does. In Ottawa it is either just a suggestion, or is some form of greeting. In either case, you will only find out-of-town visitors standing at a crosswalk waiting for the “Walk” sign. Locals, if they are very cool, do not even slow down before crossing. However, this all changes at rush hour. Then, for half an hour each day, traffic builds and pedestrians do wait, sort of. The trick is to anticipate when the “Walk” sign is about to go on, so that you can be at least half way across the street before it does, leaving those out-of-towners in your dust. By day three, Joanie and I had both mastered the art of crossing the street, scoffing at the rookies standing at the curb.
Rules also vary according to where you are. As noted, pedestrians are free to ignore any traffic sign that might slow them down. Similarly, drivers take posted speed limits as meaning the minimum, not the maximum speed. Anyone traveling less than 120 Km./hr. shouldn’t be on the highway, or any four lane street for that matter, and what’s with the pedestrians in the crosswalk anyway? The right of way depends on if you are walking or driving, much like here.
One should not go to Ottawa without taking in some culture. Ottawa seems to have more museums than Tim Hortons, which explains why there is no CRC in downtown. The only thing missing seems to be a museum of politics, but I think that is being fixed.
Joanie and I decided to take in a cultural event, along with my brother, who was visiting from the centre of the universe. It just so happened that a group of lads from Vancouver, known as the B.C. Lions, were to take on the local chaps in a Canadian institution, a football game. Being somewhat familiar with this, we decided to take in the exhibit. We trekked the 45 minutes up the Rideau Canal to the stadium under a sky threatening to rain at any time. This made us feel quite at home. However, once the activities began we were quite surprised by the lack of cultural awareness of the locals. The west coast guests were trying to put on a clinic for their hosts. After some time, they demonstrated the art of scoring a long touchdown. The three of us sprang to our feet and shouted “Cheerio, good show lads!” or words to that effect. To our surprise, 24,000 people sitting around us sat silently, apparently not understanding the significance of the event. Never before have I heard such deathly silence when a team has scored so beautifully and so often. Feeling that perhaps the people had missed the point of the exercise, the Lions repeated this many more times. Each time the effect was the same. Three people standing and shouting words of encouragement among a sea of emotionless faces. After the score became 48 to 14, it was clear that these people didn’t understand culture like us folks out west.
Joanie was also fortunate enough to witness the changing of the guard at Parliament Hill which happens daily at 10AM. While I believe a simple timecard would be much simpler, this big show about a bunch of guards getting off work is designed to instill confidence for the people, knowing that this group of college students is guarding the seat of power. At the same time, it’s a little embarrassing. When the Canadian economy finally turns around, I think we need to invest in buying these boys some nice light caps for the summer, rather than making them wear their bear fur hats all year round.
While I visit Ottawa regularly, seldom is it during the summer months, when the natives are out of hibernation. The area around Parliament Hill and the market are bustling even past midnight. I guess when you live in the shadows of where our government does its business, its hard to sleep at night.
One final word of wisdom. Ontarions (?) own cottages, not cabins. While the distinction was lost on Websters and Funk and Wagnall, it seems a cabin is a lower form of dwelling found west of the Rockies.
This past summer I had the privilege of working in our nation’s capital for three weeks. What an honour to be working almost within sight of our elected officials. Joanie joined me to clean up my breakfast dish and cup each morning. One should always learn from these opportunities and I thought I would share some of our discoveries and experiences.
Each day, after I made the five minute excursion from the hotel to my office, Joanie would go out to discover Ottawa. After the first day she became very jealous. She was one of the few people in downtown Ottawa not to be wearing a building security pass around her neck or clipped to her clothes. In Vancouver these are quickly hidden from sight when one leaves an office building, particularly if you work for a less popular employer like Canada Customs and Revenue. In Ottawa, civil servants proudly display these symbols of public employment from the time they leave their home until they get back home, and possibly even longer. So, if you spend some time in Ottawa, get a photo ID card and hang it around your neck if you don’t want to stick out.
We also discovered very quickly that the “Don’t Walk” hand signal does not mean what we thought it does. In Ottawa it is either just a suggestion, or is some form of greeting. In either case, you will only find out-of-town visitors standing at a crosswalk waiting for the “Walk” sign. Locals, if they are very cool, do not even slow down before crossing. However, this all changes at rush hour. Then, for half an hour each day, traffic builds and pedestrians do wait, sort of. The trick is to anticipate when the “Walk” sign is about to go on, so that you can be at least half way across the street before it does, leaving those out-of-towners in your dust. By day three, Joanie and I had both mastered the art of crossing the street, scoffing at the rookies standing at the curb.
Rules also vary according to where you are. As noted, pedestrians are free to ignore any traffic sign that might slow them down. Similarly, drivers take posted speed limits as meaning the minimum, not the maximum speed. Anyone traveling less than 120 Km./hr. shouldn’t be on the highway, or any four lane street for that matter, and what’s with the pedestrians in the crosswalk anyway? The right of way depends on if you are walking or driving, much like here.
One should not go to Ottawa without taking in some culture. Ottawa seems to have more museums than Tim Hortons, which explains why there is no CRC in downtown. The only thing missing seems to be a museum of politics, but I think that is being fixed.
Joanie and I decided to take in a cultural event, along with my brother, who was visiting from the centre of the universe. It just so happened that a group of lads from Vancouver, known as the B.C. Lions, were to take on the local chaps in a Canadian institution, a football game. Being somewhat familiar with this, we decided to take in the exhibit. We trekked the 45 minutes up the Rideau Canal to the stadium under a sky threatening to rain at any time. This made us feel quite at home. However, once the activities began we were quite surprised by the lack of cultural awareness of the locals. The west coast guests were trying to put on a clinic for their hosts. After some time, they demonstrated the art of scoring a long touchdown. The three of us sprang to our feet and shouted “Cheerio, good show lads!” or words to that effect. To our surprise, 24,000 people sitting around us sat silently, apparently not understanding the significance of the event. Never before have I heard such deathly silence when a team has scored so beautifully and so often. Feeling that perhaps the people had missed the point of the exercise, the Lions repeated this many more times. Each time the effect was the same. Three people standing and shouting words of encouragement among a sea of emotionless faces. After the score became 48 to 14, it was clear that these people didn’t understand culture like us folks out west.
Joanie was also fortunate enough to witness the changing of the guard at Parliament Hill which happens daily at 10AM. While I believe a simple timecard would be much simpler, this big show about a bunch of guards getting off work is designed to instill confidence for the people, knowing that this group of college students is guarding the seat of power. At the same time, it’s a little embarrassing. When the Canadian economy finally turns around, I think we need to invest in buying these boys some nice light caps for the summer, rather than making them wear their bear fur hats all year round.
While I visit Ottawa regularly, seldom is it during the summer months, when the natives are out of hibernation. The area around Parliament Hill and the market are bustling even past midnight. I guess when you live in the shadows of where our government does its business, its hard to sleep at night.
One final word of wisdom. Ontarions (?) own cottages, not cabins. While the distinction was lost on Websters and Funk and Wagnall, it seems a cabin is a lower form of dwelling found west of the Rockies.
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