WARNING: CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE
DATELINE: 3-5 JANUARY 2018
ON JANUARY 5th, I SUFFERED A CATASTROPHIC BRAIN--
I don’t want to die.
The look on the nurse’s face was of professional frustration. I stood fourth in line, at noon. The last time I came here I was fast-tracked (BLACK SHORTS + THE DISSEMINATION OF SOCIAL MEDIA – CHAPTER 5 – SCRATCH & SNIFF: TUESDAY). Fast-tracked because of the level-9 pain gripping my joints—was squeezing the life from me.
The result of the 3-hour-stay:
The look on the nurse’s face was of professional frustration. I stood fourth in line, at noon. The last time I came here I was fast-tracked (BLACK SHORTS + THE DISSEMINATION OF SOCIAL MEDIA – CHAPTER 5 – SCRATCH & SNIFF: TUESDAY). Fast-tracked because of the level-9 pain gripping my joints—was squeezing the life from me.
The result of the 3-hour-stay:
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It was.
Because of “go home” I debated if my current situation was worthy of the ER. On Wednesday at work, I turned quickly, an urge to collapse overtook me, I didn’t. Hours later, I told a co-worker, Kyle, I thought I was going to fall.
On Thursday, it worsened: the falling sensation was compounding hourly. That night, out with friends, I mentioned something was off. I walked home. I stumbled into the walls of stores I passed by—using the walls for support.
Because of “go home” I debated if my current situation was worthy of the ER. On Wednesday at work, I turned quickly, an urge to collapse overtook me, I didn’t. Hours later, I told a co-worker, Kyle, I thought I was going to fall.
On Thursday, it worsened: the falling sensation was compounding hourly. That night, out with friends, I mentioned something was off. I walked home. I stumbled into the walls of stores I passed by—using the walls for support.
When I woke on Friday, I felt slightly—only slightly more stable. At 11, I went to fill the toxic prescription I’ve been taking for the last 8-months. The toxic pills are an attempt to quash an undiagnosed phantom ailment attacking my joints.
Anyway, prescription filled—I don’t want to go to the Hospital—I must go to the hospital—I wobble.
Anyway, prescription filled—I don’t want to go to the Hospital—I must go to the hospital—I wobble.
I arrive at noon.
There are four people in front of me in the line. The first is a mask-wearing lady, her voice scratches.
Next up is a man in his 60(s). He tells the admitting nurse, passengers on the Canada Line (train), told him he passed out. He says he feels fine except for the 20 beer he drank yesterday his body is trying to expel. The nurse asks if he’s taking medication. He says, “No.” A moment passes. He changes his answer. “I popped a Viagra this morning.”
The nurse asks, “Is that all?”
“Oh yeah, I’m also on blood pressure medicine.”
The nurse pulls out a gun and shoots him.
Who pops Viagra in the morning just before getting on the train?
There are four people in front of me in the line. The first is a mask-wearing lady, her voice scratches.
Next up is a man in his 60(s). He tells the admitting nurse, passengers on the Canada Line (train), told him he passed out. He says he feels fine except for the 20 beer he drank yesterday his body is trying to expel. The nurse asks if he’s taking medication. He says, “No.” A moment passes. He changes his answer. “I popped a Viagra this morning.”
The nurse asks, “Is that all?”
“Oh yeah, I’m also on blood pressure medicine.”
The nurse pulls out a gun and shoots him.
Who pops Viagra in the morning just before getting on the train?
I have no recollection of the third in line.
The fourth, well, he was in the ER the last time I was—8-months ago (see story above). I dubbed him Mr Birth Mark. He stinks like he’s been living in an outhouse—he may live in an outhouse. His focus is intense. He rocks back and forth. I want to vomit.
I feel bad for his situation.
It’s my turn. I check in. I’m asked to take a seat and wait to be called to the desk to have my vitals taken.
The man behind me, sits at the admitting desk. He's focused on a poster stating: If Aboriginal identify yourself (or something along those lines). He’s Aboriginal. He’s angry.
“Never in my 31-years of life—” who bleeping talks like that (?) —he raises his voice in search of an audience “—I don’t know how I feel,” he chants.
“You don’t ask the Spanish or Caucasians to identify themselves.”
I think his illness is poster related?
I also think: Shut up—the nurse never asked you the question. It’s just a bleeping poster querying whether you require traditional aboriginal healing medicines.
He storms 3-steps and sits down. He accosts the person next to him. Wailing in her ear about how unfairly the fucking poster is treating him. She shrinks in avoidance. She’s there because she needs medical attention. He’s selfish. He doesn’t care. He wails some more.
The fourth, well, he was in the ER the last time I was—8-months ago (see story above). I dubbed him Mr Birth Mark. He stinks like he’s been living in an outhouse—he may live in an outhouse. His focus is intense. He rocks back and forth. I want to vomit.
I feel bad for his situation.
It’s my turn. I check in. I’m asked to take a seat and wait to be called to the desk to have my vitals taken.
The man behind me, sits at the admitting desk. He's focused on a poster stating: If Aboriginal identify yourself (or something along those lines). He’s Aboriginal. He’s angry.
“Never in my 31-years of life—” who bleeping talks like that (?) —he raises his voice in search of an audience “—I don’t know how I feel,” he chants.
“You don’t ask the Spanish or Caucasians to identify themselves.”
I think his illness is poster related?
I also think: Shut up—the nurse never asked you the question. It’s just a bleeping poster querying whether you require traditional aboriginal healing medicines.
He storms 3-steps and sits down. He accosts the person next to him. Wailing in her ear about how unfairly the fucking poster is treating him. She shrinks in avoidance. She’s there because she needs medical attention. He’s selfish. He doesn’t care. He wails some more.
“Lindsay Wincherauk,” the nurse calls. She straps a Blood Pressure sleeve on my left arm: my score is critically high. It freaks me out. She slaps the sleeve on my right arm. Same score. She’s freaked out. She takes my hands in hers and asks me to squeeze. I squeeze. She calms. My fingers in my right hand are tingling.
I don’t want to die.
Not yet, I desperately need to know: 'Why you so rarely see Oprah with her partner?' 'About the woman who returned a dead Christmas tree in January.' 'The craziest celebrity rumours of all time.'
I must watch 'The craziest black ice slip that’s going viral.'
And, I would feel an emptiness inside if I don’t read the story about: 'The man who ‘retires’ after winning $451 million-dollar jackpot.'
Seriously, without filling our heads with these minutiae: how could any of us possibly be interesting?
The hospital is incredibly busy. I’m about to enter General Population. I’m calm. I’m scared.
I don’t want to die. Life is fragile.
I don’t want to die.
Not yet, I desperately need to know: 'Why you so rarely see Oprah with her partner?' 'About the woman who returned a dead Christmas tree in January.' 'The craziest celebrity rumours of all time.'
I must watch 'The craziest black ice slip that’s going viral.'
And, I would feel an emptiness inside if I don’t read the story about: 'The man who ‘retires’ after winning $451 million-dollar jackpot.'
Seriously, without filling our heads with these minutiae: how could any of us possibly be interesting?
The hospital is incredibly busy. I’m about to enter General Population. I’m calm. I’m scared.
I don’t want to die. Life is fragile.
I brought a book.
Every time I check in to the ER—unless delivered by ambulance when "admitted" is likely a given—I believe there is a possibility I may be staying. It is the bleeping ER after all. I assume everyone who’s there is there for something troublesome.
My assumption, much like my last visit, would soon be debunked.
Seats were at a premium. The waiting area packed. I ambled up to a seat, and grabbed it. I committed myself to not making eye contact or engaging with anyone—the book would be my foil.
Words floated through the air.
Every time I check in to the ER—unless delivered by ambulance when "admitted" is likely a given—I believe there is a possibility I may be staying. It is the bleeping ER after all. I assume everyone who’s there is there for something troublesome.
My assumption, much like my last visit, would soon be debunked.
Seats were at a premium. The waiting area packed. I ambled up to a seat, and grabbed it. I committed myself to not making eye contact or engaging with anyone—the book would be my foil.
Words floated through the air.
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“I’m processing the booze I quaffed last night—I was blasted.”
Not soooo blasted you couldn’t keep your mouth shut? Being hungover is an emergency?
“I got so fucked up on (inaudible) I couldn’t distinguish between real and hallucination? Look, a giraffe!”
I scanned the room—a room filled with about 80% of the people suffering from self-inflicted toxic distress—clogging the system. I judge. I believe: I judge, correctly.
I press my nose into the book.
I’m called to give blood. I say to the nurse, something he’s never heard before, “I hate needles. I really, do.”
What’s that, you’re not the first?
Who are you, how did you get into my story?
Blood drained. I return to my seat—a lady has stolen it from me. I search for another place to plant my dizzy mind. The only seat open is across from the scratchy-voiced masked lady. Her eyes peer at me over her mask. I can tell she wants to talk.
Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her. Fuck.
“Why is everything taking so long. I haven’t had my blood taken yet. Have you?” She glances right. “I haven’t had my blood taken yet. Have you?”
What blood I have left curdles. I point at myself and mouth, “Are you talking to me?”
“I haven’t had my blood taken. Why is everything taking so long.”
I scan the room for the giraffe seeing man. I catch his eyes. I mouth, “Do you have any left…never mind, I’ll suffer through.”
The man turns into a hologram and vanishes into thin air.
Pause for a question: Is there anything other than thin air?
The seat next to the masked crusader becomes vacant. For one second. A tracksuit apparelled chemically-altered, mentally-disorganized, likely, Costco-regular, snatches the chair. She shouts out in a quavering voice, “I NEED A DOCTOR.”
Not soooo blasted you couldn’t keep your mouth shut? Being hungover is an emergency?
“I got so fucked up on (inaudible) I couldn’t distinguish between real and hallucination? Look, a giraffe!”
I scanned the room—a room filled with about 80% of the people suffering from self-inflicted toxic distress—clogging the system. I judge. I believe: I judge, correctly.
I press my nose into the book.
I’m called to give blood. I say to the nurse, something he’s never heard before, “I hate needles. I really, do.”
What’s that, you’re not the first?
Who are you, how did you get into my story?
Blood drained. I return to my seat—a lady has stolen it from me. I search for another place to plant my dizzy mind. The only seat open is across from the scratchy-voiced masked lady. Her eyes peer at me over her mask. I can tell she wants to talk.
Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her. Don’t look at her. Fuck.
“Why is everything taking so long. I haven’t had my blood taken yet. Have you?” She glances right. “I haven’t had my blood taken yet. Have you?”
What blood I have left curdles. I point at myself and mouth, “Are you talking to me?”
“I haven’t had my blood taken. Why is everything taking so long.”
I scan the room for the giraffe seeing man. I catch his eyes. I mouth, “Do you have any left…never mind, I’ll suffer through.”
The man turns into a hologram and vanishes into thin air.
Pause for a question: Is there anything other than thin air?
The seat next to the masked crusader becomes vacant. For one second. A tracksuit apparelled chemically-altered, mentally-disorganized, likely, Costco-regular, snatches the chair. She shouts out in a quavering voice, “I NEED A DOCTOR.”
She’s the one.
My hit list grows.
Making the list: the THE LARGE LADY PACKING HER LIFE BELONGINGS, I NEED A DOCTOR and, LOOK AT MY EYES STARING AT YOU FROM ABOVE MY MASK.
I NEED A DOCTOR starts to wail like a five-year-old who's had a toy taken from her. A nurse tries to calm her.
“GET ME FOOD. I’M HUNGRY. I’M THIRSTY.”
Don’t worry nurse. I will take care of your pain later, I think.
With the utmost of professionalism and tenderness the nurse says, “I’ll see if I can get you a sandwich.”
THE MASKED WONDER sees an opportunity. “Get me a sandwich. I’m hungry. Get me a sandwich.”
I stare at my book. The woman is in her late 60s, I’m guessing—I wonder: has she always been a needy—?
“Hey, I haven’t had my blood taken, have you?”
I don’t look up.
THE LADY DRAGGING HER BELONGINGS voice rings like that of a crackling banshee. She’s lighting up her phone. “I’m in Emergency. My heart hurts. I left my Scooter at— My heart hurts. I don’t understand why my phone’s dying—it’s plugged into the wall.”
Call one ends.
Call two, three, four, and five, are repetitions of call one.
Call five adds: “I’m down to 3%. I don’t know why my phone is dying?"
Her voice screeches toward me. “How long have you been here? My heart hurts. I’ve had three heart attacks. My Scooter. Have they taken your blood?”
I don’t look up.
She continues. “I don’t understand why my phone is dying?”
I make the mistake of looking up.
“My phone—"
I’m agitated. “Look, if you want your phone to charge you need to stop friggin using it.”
“What, it’s plugged in?”
“Look, shut it off. Stop talking for at least 30-minutes—to anyone. It will charge if you do that.”
“It’s off; the screen is off.”
“Lady, you didn’t turn it off. Turn it off. Stop talking. I beg of you.”
“It’s off. I pressed the side button.”
“Do you know how to turn off your phone.”
“No.”
“Give it to me. I’ll turn it off for you.”
“My heart hurts. I’ve had three heart attacks. I’m hungry. Have they taken your blood?”
“Thanks for sharing. I’m here just to turn off your phone. Nothing more."
My hit list grows.
Making the list: the THE LARGE LADY PACKING HER LIFE BELONGINGS, I NEED A DOCTOR and, LOOK AT MY EYES STARING AT YOU FROM ABOVE MY MASK.
I NEED A DOCTOR starts to wail like a five-year-old who's had a toy taken from her. A nurse tries to calm her.
“GET ME FOOD. I’M HUNGRY. I’M THIRSTY.”
Don’t worry nurse. I will take care of your pain later, I think.
With the utmost of professionalism and tenderness the nurse says, “I’ll see if I can get you a sandwich.”
THE MASKED WONDER sees an opportunity. “Get me a sandwich. I’m hungry. Get me a sandwich.”
I stare at my book. The woman is in her late 60s, I’m guessing—I wonder: has she always been a needy—?
“Hey, I haven’t had my blood taken, have you?”
I don’t look up.
THE LADY DRAGGING HER BELONGINGS voice rings like that of a crackling banshee. She’s lighting up her phone. “I’m in Emergency. My heart hurts. I left my Scooter at— My heart hurts. I don’t understand why my phone’s dying—it’s plugged into the wall.”
Call one ends.
Call two, three, four, and five, are repetitions of call one.
Call five adds: “I’m down to 3%. I don’t know why my phone is dying?"
Her voice screeches toward me. “How long have you been here? My heart hurts. I’ve had three heart attacks. My Scooter. Have they taken your blood?”
I don’t look up.
She continues. “I don’t understand why my phone is dying?”
I make the mistake of looking up.
“My phone—"
I’m agitated. “Look, if you want your phone to charge you need to stop friggin using it.”
“What, it’s plugged in?”
“Look, shut it off. Stop talking for at least 30-minutes—to anyone. It will charge if you do that.”
“It’s off; the screen is off.”
“Lady, you didn’t turn it off. Turn it off. Stop talking. I beg of you.”
“It’s off. I pressed the side button.”
“Do you know how to turn off your phone.”
“No.”
“Give it to me. I’ll turn it off for you.”
“My heart hurts. I’ve had three heart attacks. I’m hungry. Have they taken your blood?”
“Thanks for sharing. I’m here just to turn off your phone. Nothing more."
“I don’t understand? Yeah, I’m at EMERGENCY. I might get cut off. I don’t understand why my phone is down to 3%? I have it plugged in.”
I press my forefinger to my skull. I spin the chamber. Fire. Slump over in my seat. Saved by an imaginary bullet.
I press my forefinger to my skull. I spin the chamber. Fire. Slump over in my seat. Saved by an imaginary bullet.
The MASKED WOMAN peers into my soul—crumbs are falling from her lips.
I start scanning my fog-infused brain for episodes of Criminal Minds where the UNSUB got away.
A nurse stops in the middle of the room. She starts row call. “A, B, C, D, E (patient names).”
Her chants are unanswered.
A second nurse stops in the middle of the room. He calls out five names.
I guess the names called had either come-down or sobered-up.
When I come to the ER, I plan on being admitted. I’m scared. I need to see a doctor.
I brought a book.
I start scanning my fog-infused brain for episodes of Criminal Minds where the UNSUB got away.
A nurse stops in the middle of the room. She starts row call. “A, B, C, D, E (patient names).”
Her chants are unanswered.
A second nurse stops in the middle of the room. He calls out five names.
I guess the names called had either come-down or sobered-up.
When I come to the ER, I plan on being admitted. I’m scared. I need to see a doctor.
I brought a book.
Once per week, a Cow named Moo, who once danced with glee because he had drawn a Turkey named Heather to buy a Secret Santa gift for (thanks, David Sedaris). A donkey named Francis. A rooster named Caw. An Owl named Jedidiah, who just so happens to be a psychiatrist who treats rodents, a full-filling practice. And, a dog named Susan, meet at their favourite watering hole.
Drinks flow freely. Banter bounces around the room.
Susan shares words with her friends as a perplexed look decorates her face.
“I know this cat named Beatrice (1). Beatrice can’t have babies. She is now living in a house full of cats. It’s very confusing. She's the ultimate cat lady.”
Susan shares words with her friends as a perplexed look decorates her face.
“I know this cat named Beatrice (1). Beatrice can’t have babies. She is now living in a house full of cats. It’s very confusing. She's the ultimate cat lady.”
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A rodent named Sally, comes rushing into the bar, crying out, “Has anyone seen my beloved Jimmy? He’s missing.”
Jedidiah burps.
Jedidiah burps.
A nurse enters the waiting area. She calls out four names. John Smith, who’s still going up—answers. He’s tweaking. The nurse has trouble finding a vein. He’s foaming at the mouth.
I avoid eye contact with everyone.
Another nurse enters. Calls my name, draws my blood, takes me to a room for an EKG. I feel fat when I take off my shirt. I’m nervous. I’m terrified.
A nurse inserts an IV tube into my arm. I have good veins. The nurse confirms this fact.
“You have good veins.”
I’m in my 50(s). I’m young. I work out, intensely. I fear the worst. Two days ago I woke up and everything was okay. A quick turn, light-headedness, a need to be supported by walls—maybe tomorrow isn’t coming. I am beginning to despise the “altered” in the waiting room. They’re clogging the system. I think they’re regulars.
My mortality is staring at me steely-eyed. I’ve had the flu, where I thought the end was near—I knew it wasn’t. I’ve had umpteen surgeries in my adult life, with excruciating pain being a part of the program—but I knew it would subside. I’ve never, well, this is the first, time, I’m not sure what’s happening. My fingers, only on my right hand, are vibrating. I can’t write a word even though my brain’s instructions are clear. My gait is skewed right. I’ve become a Weeble—capable of falling—down.
I trip into my brain. I want to be alone. But I need someone to hold me. I don’t want to appear weak. But I need someone I love, to know somethings wrong. I’m conflicted. I have a propensity to hide my vulnerability from loved ones. I consider pushing them away. I don’t want them to feel my pain.
I avoid eye contact with everyone.
Another nurse enters. Calls my name, draws my blood, takes me to a room for an EKG. I feel fat when I take off my shirt. I’m nervous. I’m terrified.
A nurse inserts an IV tube into my arm. I have good veins. The nurse confirms this fact.
“You have good veins.”
I’m in my 50(s). I’m young. I work out, intensely. I fear the worst. Two days ago I woke up and everything was okay. A quick turn, light-headedness, a need to be supported by walls—maybe tomorrow isn’t coming. I am beginning to despise the “altered” in the waiting room. They’re clogging the system. I think they’re regulars.
My mortality is staring at me steely-eyed. I’ve had the flu, where I thought the end was near—I knew it wasn’t. I’ve had umpteen surgeries in my adult life, with excruciating pain being a part of the program—but I knew it would subside. I’ve never, well, this is the first, time, I’m not sure what’s happening. My fingers, only on my right hand, are vibrating. I can’t write a word even though my brain’s instructions are clear. My gait is skewed right. I’ve become a Weeble—capable of falling—down.
I trip into my brain. I want to be alone. But I need someone to hold me. I don’t want to appear weak. But I need someone I love, to know somethings wrong. I’m conflicted. I have a propensity to hide my vulnerability from loved ones. I consider pushing them away. I don’t want them to feel my pain.
The ER Doctor calls my name. I fumble for my coat and bag. The tingling loosens my grip. I hope he didn’t see me drop my bag.
Behind the curtain in the examination room, he puts me through a gauntlet of tests.
“Well, that’s certainly disconcerting. Go back to the waiting area and wait. I’ll be out in a moment.”
A nurse enters. She calls five names. One through four: absent. Five: ME.
Behind the curtain in the examination room, he puts me through a gauntlet of tests.
- Touch my nose. Touch a finger on his hand.
- Follow my finger with your eye.
- Squeeze my hand.
- +++
- And, walk in a straight line.
“Well, that’s certainly disconcerting. Go back to the waiting area and wait. I’ll be out in a moment.”
A nurse enters. She calls five names. One through four: absent. Five: ME.
Juice is attached to my IV.
I sit back in General Population.
“My phone is at 5% —I don’t understand.”
I try to write down Obese Whiney Lady. I can only scribble.
I consider starting a bucket list. My hit list grows. I hate the term bucket list. I hate even more: any book stating things you should do before you die. What’s the other option?
Four hours have passed. I overhear countless bleeping people moaning about how long they’ve been waiting.
I sit back in General Population.
“My phone is at 5% —I don’t understand.”
I try to write down Obese Whiney Lady. I can only scribble.
I consider starting a bucket list. My hit list grows. I hate the term bucket list. I hate even more: any book stating things you should do before you die. What’s the other option?
Four hours have passed. I overhear countless bleeping people moaning about how long they’ve been waiting.
The blithering continues.
The good Doctor returns.
“Something’s not right. Neurology wants to see you. I’ve ordered a Cat Scan.”
I want to learn how to skateboard.
“Lie down on this board. Put your head in here. It’s a tight fit. We are going to insert a dye into the IV. You’ll feel a warm rush. You will feel like you are wetting yourself. You won’t. When you’re in the machine: don’t swallow or move.”
Maybe, I should get my cat Hana: a murder of cats.
Maybe, I should run for mayor.
Maybe, tomorrow will come.
After the scan, it’s back to GP.
MRS MASK sees me coming. Her mask: covered with crumbs. Before I can avoid her, she tells me she hasn’t had her blood work done yet.
I add her to my list.
The good Doctor returns.
“Something’s not right. Neurology wants to see you. I’ve ordered a Cat Scan.”
I want to learn how to skateboard.
“Lie down on this board. Put your head in here. It’s a tight fit. We are going to insert a dye into the IV. You’ll feel a warm rush. You will feel like you are wetting yourself. You won’t. When you’re in the machine: don’t swallow or move.”
Maybe, I should get my cat Hana: a murder of cats.
Maybe, I should run for mayor.
Maybe, tomorrow will come.
After the scan, it’s back to GP.
MRS MASK sees me coming. Her mask: covered with crumbs. Before I can avoid her, she tells me she hasn’t had her blood work done yet.
I add her to my list.
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(1) Beatrice the Cat took the Montreal Cognitive Assessment. She scored a perfect 30 out of 30.
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I’m looking up. How did I get here?
I’m on my back lying on the floor in a Pub. My friends tower above me, hearts filled with concern. I don’t know what happened. I’ve drunk a few beers, not enough to lose my balance. I lost my balance. My friend Jay is hovering above me. His worry is palpable.
I’m lucky, I’m grateful for whom I have in my life.
It’s Saturday, January 27th —22 days from the day I stumbled into the ER. Have I done this, whatever this is: to myself?
I’m on my back lying on the floor in a Pub. My friends tower above me, hearts filled with concern. I don’t know what happened. I’ve drunk a few beers, not enough to lose my balance. I lost my balance. My friend Jay is hovering above me. His worry is palpable.
I’m lucky, I’m grateful for whom I have in my life.
It’s Saturday, January 27th —22 days from the day I stumbled into the ER. Have I done this, whatever this is: to myself?
The only seat available is next to the obese lady who can’t leave her phone alone.
“They haven’t taken my blood yet.”
“Why is she talking to me?” I mumble in a hushed tone.
“What are you in for?” She asks.
I ignore her question. The ER isn’t a competition.
I start researching (GOOGLING) words the Cat Scan technicians said to me: "We want to rule out stroke."
“They haven’t taken my blood yet.”
“Why is she talking to me?” I mumble in a hushed tone.
“What are you in for?” She asks.
I ignore her question. The ER isn’t a competition.
I start researching (GOOGLING) words the Cat Scan technicians said to me: "We want to rule out stroke."
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Google tells me I’m going to die. I cringe.
My phone begins blowing up with texts. A concerned friend who knew I wasn’t feeling well the previous day, asks me, what’s up?
I let him know I’m at the ER. I also let him know: I don’t know. I text: I’m awake. My text drips sarcasm.
He blasts another text challenging my vagueness.
I stop texting. My fingers tingle. My brain tells me what to say. My fingers struggle with the commands.
My friend presses more. I grow frustrated.
He asks me to let him know when I get the results.
My upset with his caring reaches a crescendo: it’s my medical information, sharing in the moment feels like fodder for gossip. I turn off my phone. I’m punishing myself.
A nurse enters the waiting area. She calls out eight names—zero for eight.
I feel vulnerable, lost. I love life. I want another day.
I look over at the LARGE PHONE LADY. She looks frightened. She catches my stare.
“You’re going to be okay.” I say calmly. “I am certain you are loved, by many. This place is scary. Stay strong.” I look away.
The LARGE LADY and The Masked Lady are to remain on my hit list. I do understand the root of their questions—I don’t have any questions for them.
My phone begins blowing up with texts. A concerned friend who knew I wasn’t feeling well the previous day, asks me, what’s up?
I let him know I’m at the ER. I also let him know: I don’t know. I text: I’m awake. My text drips sarcasm.
He blasts another text challenging my vagueness.
I stop texting. My fingers tingle. My brain tells me what to say. My fingers struggle with the commands.
My friend presses more. I grow frustrated.
He asks me to let him know when I get the results.
My upset with his caring reaches a crescendo: it’s my medical information, sharing in the moment feels like fodder for gossip. I turn off my phone. I’m punishing myself.
A nurse enters the waiting area. She calls out eight names—zero for eight.
I feel vulnerable, lost. I love life. I want another day.
I look over at the LARGE PHONE LADY. She looks frightened. She catches my stare.
“You’re going to be okay.” I say calmly. “I am certain you are loved, by many. This place is scary. Stay strong.” I look away.
The LARGE LADY and The Masked Lady are to remain on my hit list. I do understand the root of their questions—I don’t have any questions for them.
Three doctors approach me. They identify themselves as neurologists. They ask me to follow them. A sliding door opens—and then closes behind me—life just became real.
If I lose my mind, will I lose me?
My finger spasms. My gait trips right. I press my right hand onto a hospital bed to maintain balance. I remain standing.
My mind jumps to the admitting desk.
“Emergency contact? Next of kin?” The admitting nurse asked me.
The names I gave are not part of my family.
My heart slumps—but somehow, my soul is embraced in the warmth of unconditional.
If I lose my mind, will I lose me?
My finger spasms. My gait trips right. I press my right hand onto a hospital bed to maintain balance. I remain standing.
My mind jumps to the admitting desk.
“Emergency contact? Next of kin?” The admitting nurse asked me.
The names I gave are not part of my family.
My heart slumps—but somehow, my soul is embraced in the warmth of unconditional.
WARNING: CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE
Monday morning always sucks; especially in the bleakness of early February in Vancouver.
The doors are unlocked. The workers pour in, trampling past me as if I’m invisible.
After the buzz of the first hour passes an uncomfortable calmness fills the room, only fifteen workers remain, all at different stages of odour, composure, decorum.
An aged-woman sits in the front row, dead centre, between four males, each slightly tousled in every which way—she’s donning sunglasses, she’s five-foot-two, maybe one-hundred pounds. She doesn’t fit the construction worker profile. It’s 6:30 in the morning.
A life-ravaged young man walks in; his clothing, tattered and torn.
The phone begins to rattle off the hook, another blast of orders come in. Workers slither up to the counter, each one replacing the last, only to shuffle off to their assignments which offer them a dose of survival for the day. A foul smell begins swallowing the room. It grows venomous, smothering everything in its path.
I ask my coworker if he can smell it. He gags. I identify ground zero.
“Excuse me. You can’t be in here; this is a place of business. You smell—” I hush my words “--bad. I’m sorry you can’t be in here.”
“I want work. I live out there.” He points outside. “Where am I to go?”
The life-ravaged young man hobbles out — to, out there.
We don’t want to laugh. We do. We dub the life-ravaged man with a moniker: Pissy Pants. We concur: later in the day, we are likely to become victims of PPPTS-Disorder.
The day calms, only for a blip.
The sunglass-wearing lady stands up. She holds court.
“I want a fucking job. Why won’t you give me a fucking job? I’m better than everyone in here. You’re communists. You’re discriminating. You’re cock-sucking faggots.”
We calmly encourage her to leave.
“You’ll be sorry. I can fuck you up. You’ll be sorry. I will pull down my pants and make you pay. I am full of cyanide. I’m going to get my friend with a gun. You will all die.”
The doors are unlocked. The workers pour in, trampling past me as if I’m invisible.
After the buzz of the first hour passes an uncomfortable calmness fills the room, only fifteen workers remain, all at different stages of odour, composure, decorum.
An aged-woman sits in the front row, dead centre, between four males, each slightly tousled in every which way—she’s donning sunglasses, she’s five-foot-two, maybe one-hundred pounds. She doesn’t fit the construction worker profile. It’s 6:30 in the morning.
A life-ravaged young man walks in; his clothing, tattered and torn.
The phone begins to rattle off the hook, another blast of orders come in. Workers slither up to the counter, each one replacing the last, only to shuffle off to their assignments which offer them a dose of survival for the day. A foul smell begins swallowing the room. It grows venomous, smothering everything in its path.
I ask my coworker if he can smell it. He gags. I identify ground zero.
“Excuse me. You can’t be in here; this is a place of business. You smell—” I hush my words “--bad. I’m sorry you can’t be in here.”
“I want work. I live out there.” He points outside. “Where am I to go?”
The life-ravaged young man hobbles out — to, out there.
We don’t want to laugh. We do. We dub the life-ravaged man with a moniker: Pissy Pants. We concur: later in the day, we are likely to become victims of PPPTS-Disorder.
The day calms, only for a blip.
The sunglass-wearing lady stands up. She holds court.
“I want a fucking job. Why won’t you give me a fucking job? I’m better than everyone in here. You’re communists. You’re discriminating. You’re cock-sucking faggots.”
We calmly encourage her to leave.
“You’ll be sorry. I can fuck you up. You’ll be sorry. I will pull down my pants and make you pay. I am full of cyanide. I’m going to get my friend with a gun. You will all die.”
She staggers out of our office.
Our only comfort is laughter. It’s not right to laugh at mental illness. We must laugh.
A worker with a regular repeating job approaches for his ticket. He’s always respectful and polite. I’ve often pulled up to the office in the morning and witnessed him doing callisthenics. He is on the list of 50 all-time greats for a local professional sports team. His life took a turn—he’s fallen far—he’s never lost sight of how to act human. I like him. I have yet to ask him about the path he’s on for fear that it’s none of my business.
Another worker comes and goes. It just came to the light of day he has ties to some undesirables in the gang world. He seems to be an okay guy. It also comes to light, many years back, he beat someone to within an inch of his life—a story with racial undertones.
Up next, an incredibly polite, normal looking and behaving worker, approaches, and is sent out for his day. A GOOGLE search of his name uncovers: DISTURBING. Back in his day, several years ago he faced a manslaughter charge. He dragged a dead body around for several weeks; the body was discovered when his neighbours reported the toxic odours pouring out of his apartment. I will leave it up to your imagination to paint the picture of what the authorities discovered.
The worker is an incredibly polite, normal looking and behaving—likeable.
Happy Monday!
Our only comfort is laughter. It’s not right to laugh at mental illness. We must laugh.
A worker with a regular repeating job approaches for his ticket. He’s always respectful and polite. I’ve often pulled up to the office in the morning and witnessed him doing callisthenics. He is on the list of 50 all-time greats for a local professional sports team. His life took a turn—he’s fallen far—he’s never lost sight of how to act human. I like him. I have yet to ask him about the path he’s on for fear that it’s none of my business.
Another worker comes and goes. It just came to the light of day he has ties to some undesirables in the gang world. He seems to be an okay guy. It also comes to light, many years back, he beat someone to within an inch of his life—a story with racial undertones.
Up next, an incredibly polite, normal looking and behaving worker, approaches, and is sent out for his day. A GOOGLE search of his name uncovers: DISTURBING. Back in his day, several years ago he faced a manslaughter charge. He dragged a dead body around for several weeks; the body was discovered when his neighbours reported the toxic odours pouring out of his apartment. I will leave it up to your imagination to paint the picture of what the authorities discovered.
The worker is an incredibly polite, normal looking and behaving—likeable.
Happy Monday!
The neurologists administered a series of tests. Being a stupidly competitive person, while I waited for the tests, I GOOGLED my conditions. After a few minutes of research, I printed my medical degree. I knew what tests were coming. Before they started, I trained my mind to focus on not slurring speech, to having equal strength on both sides, to un-droop my face--
I passed (?)
The doctors disappeared behind a curtain to discuss my treatment options. Only to be replaced by a nurse.
“Are you the neurologist?” She asked.
I showed her the IV hanging on my arm.
The doctors returned. “You can go home soon. I don’t think there is a need to admit you. You will have to come in as an outpatient for a whack of tests.” He slips in, “You’re not well. If you have a recurrence of any of the symptoms which brought you here today, call 911. Come in in an ambulance. Do not walk in, even if you are close to the hospital. Time could be the difference between life and death. Do you understand?"
No.
The only words that continued ringing in my ears were: ‘no need to admit you’ and ‘life and death.’
What happens if a symptom arises while in the company of the incredibly polite, normal behaving and acting, worker?
A thought to ponder in about a month.
I passed (?)
The doctors disappeared behind a curtain to discuss my treatment options. Only to be replaced by a nurse.
“Are you the neurologist?” She asked.
I showed her the IV hanging on my arm.
The doctors returned. “You can go home soon. I don’t think there is a need to admit you. You will have to come in as an outpatient for a whack of tests.” He slips in, “You’re not well. If you have a recurrence of any of the symptoms which brought you here today, call 911. Come in in an ambulance. Do not walk in, even if you are close to the hospital. Time could be the difference between life and death. Do you understand?"
No.
The only words that continued ringing in my ears were: ‘no need to admit you’ and ‘life and death.’
What happens if a symptom arises while in the company of the incredibly polite, normal behaving and acting, worker?
A thought to ponder in about a month.
WARNING: CONTAINS COARSE LANGUAGE
I’m turning six today!
My parents + an aunt and uncle + my two eldest sisters are taking me out to celebrate. They are taking me to a fine-dining restaurant. I don’t know these people—they’ve only been present for the last year or so—even mum and dad.
It’s time to go, to dress up for: fine. I’m six; I don’t know what fine is. I’m forced to toss on wool dress slacks, they itch. They stuff me into a dress shirt. The shirt is starched—the collar is stiff, it scratches my neck. I begin to cry, weeping at first, turning into wailing with each step.
I’m turning six today!
My sisters tell me to stop being a baby, I am a baby. They tell me they are treating me for my birthday. They are taking me to fine.
What’s fine?
I keep crying. The adults banter back and forth above me.
“Don’t be a baby. Stop Crying.”
I can’t stop. The wool is tormenting my skin. The shirt is cutting off my breathing. I slam myself down on a sofa, covering my eyes with my hands.
“Fine then. We will go without you.”
I scream out for them to stay. I hear the door slamming as the family exits the farmhouse.
I hear the car start, a 1964 Buick Electra (1966). The car begins to move. It turns onto the long driveway, trees smothering the sun overhanging the drive. I chase after the car, tears pouring from my eyes. I scream out, “Wait for me.”
My parents + an aunt and uncle + my two eldest sisters are taking me out to celebrate. They are taking me to a fine-dining restaurant. I don’t know these people—they’ve only been present for the last year or so—even mum and dad.
It’s time to go, to dress up for: fine. I’m six; I don’t know what fine is. I’m forced to toss on wool dress slacks, they itch. They stuff me into a dress shirt. The shirt is starched—the collar is stiff, it scratches my neck. I begin to cry, weeping at first, turning into wailing with each step.
I’m turning six today!
My sisters tell me to stop being a baby, I am a baby. They tell me they are treating me for my birthday. They are taking me to fine.
What’s fine?
I keep crying. The adults banter back and forth above me.
“Don’t be a baby. Stop Crying.”
I can’t stop. The wool is tormenting my skin. The shirt is cutting off my breathing. I slam myself down on a sofa, covering my eyes with my hands.
“Fine then. We will go without you.”
I scream out for them to stay. I hear the door slamming as the family exits the farmhouse.
I hear the car start, a 1964 Buick Electra (1966). The car begins to move. It turns onto the long driveway, trees smothering the sun overhanging the drive. I chase after the car, tears pouring from my eyes. I scream out, “Wait for me.”
The car turns onto the highway into the city. I watch the car as it crests a hill and then disapear into the early evening sky.
I turn, tears still dripping from my face. I start walking back to the farmhouse, alone, birds are floating in the sky above the cover of the trees. They are singing an angry song.
I’m alone.
I turned six today.
I turn, tears still dripping from my face. I start walking back to the farmhouse, alone, birds are floating in the sky above the cover of the trees. They are singing an angry song.
I’m alone.
I turned six today.
FEBRUARY 22nd - 2018
I may steer clear of my ER visit in this part of the story. What I will tell you: I have been battling not-well since last April. It's January 3rd and everything that has been transpiring since has increased not-well to troubling. More than troubling.
With one exception: my book is live, and the reviews have been outstanding.
In the words of my editor after reading the latest praise:
With one exception: my book is live, and the reviews have been outstanding.
In the words of my editor after reading the latest praise:
|
Lindsay,
This one made me cry! Your people are out there - they need you to speak for them!! Bless you, K |
I have people!?!
I had visited my doctor because he thinks it is important to monitor my vitals—to keep them: vital. He checks my BP on my left arm. 130/20 good news. He asks about my family history, stroke + heart + cancer. I inform him family in my case, like many, is a bit confusing. I share a short story. He tells me what I’ve shared is intense, compelling. I tell him about my book. He says he’ll buy a copy!
The Doc slips the BP sleeve on my right arm: 220/100. He suggests maybe it’s not the best idea to talk about my family before the test. He adds another prescription + increases the dose of another. I’m now up to six prescriptions. I resist getting a pill caddy. I’m sad. I laugh. The list of side effects = infinity.
At work, I don’t want to whine. I whine a bit. I can’t help it. I have felt like a word starting “sh” and ending with “it” for the past nine months, amplified with my recent near demise. I will be okay. I don’t want to appear weak. Or, share too much about how I feel with work colleagues. I’m stupid.
I decide I should inform Head Office of what’s going on health-wise. I don’t think they are in the know. I bust out an email sending it upward.
I had visited my doctor because he thinks it is important to monitor my vitals—to keep them: vital. He checks my BP on my left arm. 130/20 good news. He asks about my family history, stroke + heart + cancer. I inform him family in my case, like many, is a bit confusing. I share a short story. He tells me what I’ve shared is intense, compelling. I tell him about my book. He says he’ll buy a copy!
The Doc slips the BP sleeve on my right arm: 220/100. He suggests maybe it’s not the best idea to talk about my family before the test. He adds another prescription + increases the dose of another. I’m now up to six prescriptions. I resist getting a pill caddy. I’m sad. I laugh. The list of side effects = infinity.
At work, I don’t want to whine. I whine a bit. I can’t help it. I have felt like a word starting “sh” and ending with “it” for the past nine months, amplified with my recent near demise. I will be okay. I don’t want to appear weak. Or, share too much about how I feel with work colleagues. I’m stupid.
I decide I should inform Head Office of what’s going on health-wise. I don’t think they are in the know. I bust out an email sending it upward.
Mr Chief Operating Guy
I thought I would bring you up to speed on my current health. There is some good + some uh—to be determined.
The Good:
The condition the Doctor diagnosed me with and then undiagnosed (not a word) and then once again diagnosed me with (started last April – heavy meds since – chemo pills + some other toxic shit) will likely resolve itself in the next few months.
Sarcoidosis is a phantom ailment the Doc’s know little about—it attacks the joints causing debilitating pain; it rolls through the body like a steamroller systemically visiting my joints—attempting to rid the body of something that is not there, hence, PHANTOM.
The PHANTOM is apparently leaving in the next six months, hopefully taking the meds with it!
The Good:
The condition the Doctor diagnosed me with and then undiagnosed (not a word) and then once again diagnosed me with (started last April – heavy meds since – chemo pills + some other toxic shit) will likely resolve itself in the next few months.
Sarcoidosis is a phantom ailment the Doc’s know little about—it attacks the joints causing debilitating pain; it rolls through the body like a steamroller systemically visiting my joints—attempting to rid the body of something that is not there, hence, PHANTOM.
The PHANTOM is apparently leaving in the next six months, hopefully taking the meds with it!
The So-So:
On January 5th I went to the ER: the days before I felt light-headed (more than normal) and started having problems with the right side of my body. Leaning right freaked me out. It also freaked out the people in restaurants I passed by when I used the window for balance, pressing my face against the window, drooling onto the glass.
In the ER, they told me: if I had not come in—I might not be typing this. Of course, the Doctors and ER personnel couldn’t have possibly known I’d be typing this, or any of the other words in this sentence—so, this makes no sense.
In the ER they administered a plethora of tests – plethora is a funny word – including a Cat-Scan (my cat Hana performs a scan on me daily), and then, a visit from three Neurologists (Neurosurgeons). The gist of the examination is my brain is rather large!
Unfortunately, something is hindering the delivery of blood to my cranium—this is troublesome. The doctor’s considered admitting me but decided Nah — instead, they sent me on my way with instructions if any of the symptoms return, call an ambulance immediately, stressing the immediacy of immediately.
Hey, what are you eating? It looks tasty. What? I can’t hear you through the window.
To admit or not to admit?
Since my visit to the ER, I have had umpteen, I think twelve doctor visits, including; a brain MRI + being wired up like I was going undercover + now instead of the two toxic medications: I’m on six. They all suck and don’t come in tasty flavours. They do, however; make me feel like vomiting most of the time. I’ve asked Kyle to take half of them for me, at least the Chemo pills—he declined. Kyle sucks.
Anyway, I am sure I’m fine; my doctor seems somewhat concerned but optimistic—which in turn: makes me somewhat concerned but optimistic as well.
My doctor is monitoring my situation closely. I will be seeing the Neurologists again soon—worst case: they may have to reduce my brain size, luckily; I have extra—if they must remove; hopefully, they take away parts I’m not using.
I asked the Doc’s about physical activity (gym etc.), and they said to go as hard as normal!
That’s reassuring because I’m certain if I were to collapse on the treadmill one of the gym’s memberships professionals would know what to do?
I will keep you posted on any updates.
ME
On January 5th I went to the ER: the days before I felt light-headed (more than normal) and started having problems with the right side of my body. Leaning right freaked me out. It also freaked out the people in restaurants I passed by when I used the window for balance, pressing my face against the window, drooling onto the glass.
In the ER, they told me: if I had not come in—I might not be typing this. Of course, the Doctors and ER personnel couldn’t have possibly known I’d be typing this, or any of the other words in this sentence—so, this makes no sense.
In the ER they administered a plethora of tests – plethora is a funny word – including a Cat-Scan (my cat Hana performs a scan on me daily), and then, a visit from three Neurologists (Neurosurgeons). The gist of the examination is my brain is rather large!
Unfortunately, something is hindering the delivery of blood to my cranium—this is troublesome. The doctor’s considered admitting me but decided Nah — instead, they sent me on my way with instructions if any of the symptoms return, call an ambulance immediately, stressing the immediacy of immediately.
Hey, what are you eating? It looks tasty. What? I can’t hear you through the window.
To admit or not to admit?
Since my visit to the ER, I have had umpteen, I think twelve doctor visits, including; a brain MRI + being wired up like I was going undercover + now instead of the two toxic medications: I’m on six. They all suck and don’t come in tasty flavours. They do, however; make me feel like vomiting most of the time. I’ve asked Kyle to take half of them for me, at least the Chemo pills—he declined. Kyle sucks.
Anyway, I am sure I’m fine; my doctor seems somewhat concerned but optimistic—which in turn: makes me somewhat concerned but optimistic as well.
My doctor is monitoring my situation closely. I will be seeing the Neurologists again soon—worst case: they may have to reduce my brain size, luckily; I have extra—if they must remove; hopefully, they take away parts I’m not using.
I asked the Doc’s about physical activity (gym etc.), and they said to go as hard as normal!
That’s reassuring because I’m certain if I were to collapse on the treadmill one of the gym’s memberships professionals would know what to do?
I will keep you posted on any updates.
ME
I don’t want to go back to the ER visit today, so, I won’t.
Instead, come with me to Breka Café to read. What to order?
The server at the counter is pretty as a picture. You may giggle now. She really is cute as a button, she really was. And, she had a delectable English-South African-Australian accent to boot.
“I’ll have a coke,” I say politely with a hint of shy.
Instead, come with me to Breka Café to read. What to order?
The server at the counter is pretty as a picture. You may giggle now. She really is cute as a button, she really was. And, she had a delectable English-South African-Australian accent to boot.
“I’ll have a coke,” I say politely with a hint of shy.
She goes to the cooler and collects a bottle.
“Would you like me to open it.” She pauses. She blushes a wee bit. “I’m scared. I’ve never opened a bottle before.”
It’s 2018, cute as a button!
JT approaches the counter at work. JT struggles with addiction. He tells the dispatcher he’s been kicked out of rehab for being too cheerful. He’s clean on this day. He’s dispatched to work. Before he exits the dispatcher says, “JT, stop smoking crack.”
Sounds like a logical solution to a complex problem?
“I don’t smoke crack. I do meth,” JT states with an air of confidence.
I try to suppress a guffaw. I chortle instead. I pick up a toad and lick it.
I will be okay.
I will return to the ER of January 5th in Part 7.
Before I leave for the day, I will leave you with this: I believe comma should be shorter than a coma.
Tootles!
Oh, I just about forgot about the PSA. If you ever have any of the following symptoms:
Do not ignore. Go to the ER immediately. If you don’t go in an ambulance (preferable) tell them, you think you are having a Stroke or Heart Attack. Make this perfectly clear. It literally could be a matter of life or death.
After my yet to be fully diagnosed medical event: for several days, my brain sent commands to my hand encouraging it to write—all I could muster: was squiggly lines.
“Would you like me to open it.” She pauses. She blushes a wee bit. “I’m scared. I’ve never opened a bottle before.”
It’s 2018, cute as a button!
JT approaches the counter at work. JT struggles with addiction. He tells the dispatcher he’s been kicked out of rehab for being too cheerful. He’s clean on this day. He’s dispatched to work. Before he exits the dispatcher says, “JT, stop smoking crack.”
Sounds like a logical solution to a complex problem?
“I don’t smoke crack. I do meth,” JT states with an air of confidence.
I try to suppress a guffaw. I chortle instead. I pick up a toad and lick it.
I will be okay.
I will return to the ER of January 5th in Part 7.
Before I leave for the day, I will leave you with this: I believe comma should be shorter than a coma.
Tootles!
Oh, I just about forgot about the PSA. If you ever have any of the following symptoms:
- Lightheadedness.
- Blurred Vision.
- Coordination Problems.
- Speech Problems.
- Strength Issues.
Do not ignore. Go to the ER immediately. If you don’t go in an ambulance (preferable) tell them, you think you are having a Stroke or Heart Attack. Make this perfectly clear. It literally could be a matter of life or death.
After my yet to be fully diagnosed medical event: for several days, my brain sent commands to my hand encouraging it to write—all I could muster: was squiggly lines.
|
|
His laugh cartwheeled through the room bouncing off the walls embracing everyone it touched, bringing joy. When struggling at your lowest of low points, he’d look at you, smirk, wiggle his belly and blurt out, “What do you do with your Jell-O Pudding?” For a moment you’d forget what had brought you down.
He could flick his finger against his cheek emulating the dripping water sound from Ferris Bueller—not only rivalling the sound—but making it seem like a trickle compared to his. A flick of the finger wasn’t enough as he switched from finger to bat and eventually, “Hey…” as he kneeled in front of the bumper of a car “…drive your car into my cheek. I want to take the dripping sound to another level.”
“But Jeffbo--“
He could flick his finger against his cheek emulating the dripping water sound from Ferris Bueller—not only rivalling the sound—but making it seem like a trickle compared to his. A flick of the finger wasn’t enough as he switched from finger to bat and eventually, “Hey…” as he kneeled in front of the bumper of a car “…drive your car into my cheek. I want to take the dripping sound to another level.”
“But Jeffbo--“
|
|
He stumbles down a flight of stairs without fully collapsing. His eyes glow bright and he says, “Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down!”
I met Jeffrey Todd Vallevand (Jeffbo) in the early 80s through his great friends Kirk Stuber + Wes Raddysh. I dated Wes’s sister Corrie at the time. I’m glad I met all of them. Each one became dear lasting friends. We lost touch over time, all of us. But that doesn’t detract from the vital importance of the time we shared together. I miss those times.
Each of us has moved on to the next parts of our lives, separated by geography, age, and family. But even though we are separated, separation does not erase the bond.
On Wednesday, February 1st while spending a few moments on Facebook I discovered (my) our dear friend Jeffbo is no longer with us—he’s checked out—he’s six years younger than me.
He’s left behind a wife and two children. He’s also left behind more friends than he could ever imagine. Jeffbo had a propensity to touch the hearts of everyone he met, being that Wes, the Bumpkins (a group of country girls he always looked out for), or me.
He drove me to the hospital the night my appendix exploded. He took me out to wash my cares away the night my mother passed away. He attended both of my parents’ funerals. Jeffbo didn’t bring with him fanfare. Jeffbo didn’t demand the stage. Jeffbo was just there—but somehow: more than just there.
News of his passing hit me hard like a ton of unavoidable bricks. My heart slumped. That night, I dreamt wonderful dreams about a wonderful man who enriched my life and the lives of everyone lucky enough to spend a moment or two with a man we called: Jeffbo.
I’m lucky to have known you.
Thanks for the laughter + love + caring!
I met Jeffrey Todd Vallevand (Jeffbo) in the early 80s through his great friends Kirk Stuber + Wes Raddysh. I dated Wes’s sister Corrie at the time. I’m glad I met all of them. Each one became dear lasting friends. We lost touch over time, all of us. But that doesn’t detract from the vital importance of the time we shared together. I miss those times.
Each of us has moved on to the next parts of our lives, separated by geography, age, and family. But even though we are separated, separation does not erase the bond.
On Wednesday, February 1st while spending a few moments on Facebook I discovered (my) our dear friend Jeffbo is no longer with us—he’s checked out—he’s six years younger than me.
He’s left behind a wife and two children. He’s also left behind more friends than he could ever imagine. Jeffbo had a propensity to touch the hearts of everyone he met, being that Wes, the Bumpkins (a group of country girls he always looked out for), or me.
He drove me to the hospital the night my appendix exploded. He took me out to wash my cares away the night my mother passed away. He attended both of my parents’ funerals. Jeffbo didn’t bring with him fanfare. Jeffbo didn’t demand the stage. Jeffbo was just there—but somehow: more than just there.
News of his passing hit me hard like a ton of unavoidable bricks. My heart slumped. That night, I dreamt wonderful dreams about a wonderful man who enriched my life and the lives of everyone lucky enough to spend a moment or two with a man we called: Jeffbo.
I’m lucky to have known you.
Thanks for the laughter + love + caring!
RIP: JEFFREY TODD VALLEVAND - 10/15/66 - 02/24/18
A nurse (Betty) pulled back the curtains. The Neurologists were just out of earshot discussing what to do with me.
Betty asked me, “Are you the Neurosurgeon?”
I flashed her the hardware dangling from my arm.
“The doctors told me I’d be discharged soon. I just need the ER doctors okay. How long do you think it will take? I don’t belong in General Population. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
"You shouldn't be more than five minutes."
I exit the examination area, and to my delight, my friend Jay has arrived. He asks if I want to sit. I barked: NO. I stressed to him the importance of avoiding eye contact. I thanked him for coming.
An hour passes. No less than eight patients harass the medical professionals upping the annoyance level to critical. Why critical, you ask? They harass with zero regards for the fact the medical professional is talking to another patient.
“Me…me…me—”
Selfish bleeps.
I do rudimentary math. Sixty minutes divided by five = twelve. The nurse said five minutes. I want to scream. A tsunami of frustration slams into me—I want to go home. I stroll to the admitting desk.
“The neurologists said aspirin…outpatient…and you can go—why is it taking so long?”
An iceberg floats through the waiting area.
Betty asked me, “Are you the Neurosurgeon?”
I flashed her the hardware dangling from my arm.
“The doctors told me I’d be discharged soon. I just need the ER doctors okay. How long do you think it will take? I don’t belong in General Population. I don’t want to talk to anyone.”
"You shouldn't be more than five minutes."
I exit the examination area, and to my delight, my friend Jay has arrived. He asks if I want to sit. I barked: NO. I stressed to him the importance of avoiding eye contact. I thanked him for coming.
An hour passes. No less than eight patients harass the medical professionals upping the annoyance level to critical. Why critical, you ask? They harass with zero regards for the fact the medical professional is talking to another patient.
“Me…me…me—”
Selfish bleeps.
I do rudimentary math. Sixty minutes divided by five = twelve. The nurse said five minutes. I want to scream. A tsunami of frustration slams into me—I want to go home. I stroll to the admitting desk.
“The neurologists said aspirin…outpatient…and you can go—why is it taking so long?”
An iceberg floats through the waiting area.
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“Only a few minutes more.”
“Jay, I’m sorry. You can go. Let’s stand over here by security. I don’t want to be near the others.”
I tip right, like I’m a little teapot.
A — pardon the meanness — fat woman lay on the bed nearest where we are stumping. Her ankle is huge, blue, bruised, disgustingly gross. Her obese boyfriend sits beside her. I shudder hoping for them to remain silent. A fantasy to become unfulfilled.
I whisper to Jay, “I want to go home.” I pout. “It’s been one-and-a-half-hours. You don't have to stay."
Miss Ankle takes my whispering as her queue to pipe in, “It will be another five hours.”
I ignore her.
The whiney lady is still on her phone. The masked woman stares at me. A nurse calls five names. A native gentleman paces the waiting room. A tattered man whose near critically high, tweaks in a corner. A street person (?) enters. He’s filthy. He stinks of dumpster diving. He picks up the courtesy phone and commences to blab out his life at high volume—sharing his crap with all.
One-hour-forty-five minutes have passed.
In the past fifteen: the fat woman hoovered three chocolate bars + two bags of chips—washing them down with three heavily caffeinated energy drinks. She sends her BF out for more food.
Jay and I stump in silence. I’m grateful for the wall. My right-hand spasms.
The two-hour mark.
The pacing native stops pacing and leans up against a bed a mere six feet away from us. His eyes pierce through us like a cutting torch.
The fat lady barks at a nurse pushing a wheelchair to get her some booties for her disgusting ankle. The nurse refuses to respond.
“You don’t have to be so rude,” the fat lady blathers at the nurse pushing the wheelchair—and then stuffs another candy bar into her mouth.
Another nurse stands to our right talking to his patient. The native saunters up to the nurse, ignores the patient, and demands immediate attention.
“Jay, I’m sorry. You can go. Let’s stand over here by security. I don’t want to be near the others.”
I tip right, like I’m a little teapot.
A — pardon the meanness — fat woman lay on the bed nearest where we are stumping. Her ankle is huge, blue, bruised, disgustingly gross. Her obese boyfriend sits beside her. I shudder hoping for them to remain silent. A fantasy to become unfulfilled.
I whisper to Jay, “I want to go home.” I pout. “It’s been one-and-a-half-hours. You don't have to stay."
Miss Ankle takes my whispering as her queue to pipe in, “It will be another five hours.”
I ignore her.
The whiney lady is still on her phone. The masked woman stares at me. A nurse calls five names. A native gentleman paces the waiting room. A tattered man whose near critically high, tweaks in a corner. A street person (?) enters. He’s filthy. He stinks of dumpster diving. He picks up the courtesy phone and commences to blab out his life at high volume—sharing his crap with all.
One-hour-forty-five minutes have passed.
In the past fifteen: the fat woman hoovered three chocolate bars + two bags of chips—washing them down with three heavily caffeinated energy drinks. She sends her BF out for more food.
Jay and I stump in silence. I’m grateful for the wall. My right-hand spasms.
The two-hour mark.
The pacing native stops pacing and leans up against a bed a mere six feet away from us. His eyes pierce through us like a cutting torch.
The fat lady barks at a nurse pushing a wheelchair to get her some booties for her disgusting ankle. The nurse refuses to respond.
“You don’t have to be so rude,” the fat lady blathers at the nurse pushing the wheelchair—and then stuffs another candy bar into her mouth.
Another nurse stands to our right talking to his patient. The native saunters up to the nurse, ignores the patient, and demands immediate attention.
“I’ve been here for three hours,” he yaps.
The fat lady screams, “I’ve been here since one.”
Mr High shouts out, “I’ve been here for four hours.”
The guy on the phone blasts out, “Can you fucking keep it down. I’m on the phone.”
The native man returns to his piercing staring. I am certain he is preparing to stab us.
I make a snap decision: I must murder a gaggle of people.
I pause, share my intentions with the admitting nurse, telling her it’s been over two hours since I was informed five-minutes.
The admitting clerk agrees: murder makes sense.
The clerk leads me back into the examination room; I think it's for me to collect weapons, I’m told to take a seat. I now understand why guns shouldn’t be easy to obtain.
Five minutes later a nurse tells me, “Take a low-dose aspirin. Outpatient services will call you. You can go.”
Can I take a few people with me, wink?
A nurse calls five names. Nobody answers.
I feel sorrow for the medical professionals. I wonder: does everyone deserve health care—the thought troubles me.
I’m scared—but I’m grateful as well—Jay stumped with me for more than two hours.
The fat lady screams, “I’ve been here since one.”
Mr High shouts out, “I’ve been here for four hours.”
The guy on the phone blasts out, “Can you fucking keep it down. I’m on the phone.”
The native man returns to his piercing staring. I am certain he is preparing to stab us.
I make a snap decision: I must murder a gaggle of people.
I pause, share my intentions with the admitting nurse, telling her it’s been over two hours since I was informed five-minutes.
The admitting clerk agrees: murder makes sense.
The clerk leads me back into the examination room; I think it's for me to collect weapons, I’m told to take a seat. I now understand why guns shouldn’t be easy to obtain.
Five minutes later a nurse tells me, “Take a low-dose aspirin. Outpatient services will call you. You can go.”
Can I take a few people with me, wink?
A nurse calls five names. Nobody answers.
I feel sorrow for the medical professionals. I wonder: does everyone deserve health care—the thought troubles me.
I’m scared—but I’m grateful as well—Jay stumped with me for more than two hours.
The day after I heard about Jeffbo—I worked out hard—for my friend.
Tomorrow will be a better day!
Tomorrow will be a better day!
“Although I am Caucasian—” is without question: the worst opening to a story I’ve ever read. It’s not profound—it’s ignorant. The writer of the vile words attempted to compare the challenges of a physical disability to being—I’m certain you get the gist.
The litmus test for writing about sensitive subject matter might be best if you asked yourself a simple question before hitting post: Would it be prudent to start a story with: Although I am black?”
I vent. I read the story containing those words this week. I wanted to see if I could possibly spin them. Let's spin.
The litmus test for writing about sensitive subject matter might be best if you asked yourself a simple question before hitting post: Would it be prudent to start a story with: Although I am black?”
I vent. I read the story containing those words this week. I wanted to see if I could possibly spin them. Let's spin.
Jody Goods is a steroid-abusing, opioid-using, alcohol-swilling, profanity-spilling, violent racist. He scares me. At times he works for us as a temp worker. His strength is an asset on construction sites—when he keeps his trap shut.
In our office, if a worker shouts out racist, homophobic, misogynistic or anything highlighting an “ism” —I do not hesitate to shut the conversation down + stamping the worker unemployable for the day. When Jody espouses his disgusting blame-the-world-for-who-I’ve-become views—I shamefully, cower.
In our office, if a worker shouts out racist, homophobic, misogynistic or anything highlighting an “ism” —I do not hesitate to shut the conversation down + stamping the worker unemployable for the day. When Jody espouses his disgusting blame-the-world-for-who-I’ve-become views—I shamefully, cower.
The sun scorched Vancouver on this late spring day; hinting summer would soon come. The morning rush ended. A rare calm immersed the office. At 9:10, I was left alone with the next co-worker scheduled to arrive at 10. I enjoyed being alone + being able to unwind from the frantic pace of sending out over 100 workers to their jobs during the morning crush. I sat back in my chair in the empty office, not thinking.
I heard the office door open and then slowly creek shut. My desk is offset from our work counter, not allowing me a view of the entrance. I glanced up to see who’d come in—5-seconds passed—nobody arrived at the counter—I took a deep breath and relaxed—alone once more.
When I looked up again a few seconds later, the counter gate opened. Jody Goods stomped behind the counter. He paced two steps away from me swaying. He pivoted and swayed toward me. Sweat poured from his skin. A toxic acidic stink filled the air. He mumbled. His cheeks pulsed in such a way it looked like his face was trying to swallow itself. He tweaked so violently his face looked pixelated. He mumbled more, stuttering, agitated, confused; yet strangely, full of purpose. The only words I could make out were, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I must; I must, I will. I’m sorry.”
I calmly leaned back in my chair. “Are you okay?”
He had a sheen about him, caused by the sweat dripping from his face. He stood up, stumbling toward me and said once more, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I will get you help. Are you okay?”
I heard the office door open and then slowly creek shut. My desk is offset from our work counter, not allowing me a view of the entrance. I glanced up to see who’d come in—5-seconds passed—nobody arrived at the counter—I took a deep breath and relaxed—alone once more.
When I looked up again a few seconds later, the counter gate opened. Jody Goods stomped behind the counter. He paced two steps away from me swaying. He pivoted and swayed toward me. Sweat poured from his skin. A toxic acidic stink filled the air. He mumbled. His cheeks pulsed in such a way it looked like his face was trying to swallow itself. He tweaked so violently his face looked pixelated. He mumbled more, stuttering, agitated, confused; yet strangely, full of purpose. The only words I could make out were, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I must; I must, I will. I’m sorry.”
I calmly leaned back in my chair. “Are you okay?”
He had a sheen about him, caused by the sweat dripping from his face. He stood up, stumbling toward me and said once more, “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. I will get you help. Are you okay?”
I called for help. I thought Jody’s life story was about to end by overdose. A man I feared, had been reduced to broken, hate-filled, shell of himself. I needed to be terrified. I remained calm. Five minutes passed—it felt like hours. Jody apologised once more and spat out, “I need to do this.” His words splashed on my shirt.
I heard a tapping on the front door. I walked from my desk to the door, unlocked it, in marched two paramedics.
Jody stood up, looked at the paramedics, his face swallowed by defeat, his twitching slowed. The paramedics knew him by name. They administered an injection that quickly brought Jody back to a semblance of living. They escorted him to the door asking him if he’d like to go to the hospital. He declined, turned left, and began zig-zagging north up Main Street.
Moments later, Kyle, my friend and co-worker, returned to the office. I shared the morning story. We went to the video surveillance feed and replayed the event. When Jody had entered the office, he paused, scanned the room, slowly paced to the counter, glanced my way (without me seeing him), returned to the front door, and locked it.
A twinge of fear shot through my veins.
We rarely leave office staff alone in the office. We employ a diverse crew. I am Caucasian. I am not a small man.
Jody Goods is (was?) a steroid-abusing, opioid-using, alcohol-swilling, profanity-spilling, violent racist.
Although I am Caucasian--
I heard a tapping on the front door. I walked from my desk to the door, unlocked it, in marched two paramedics.
Jody stood up, looked at the paramedics, his face swallowed by defeat, his twitching slowed. The paramedics knew him by name. They administered an injection that quickly brought Jody back to a semblance of living. They escorted him to the door asking him if he’d like to go to the hospital. He declined, turned left, and began zig-zagging north up Main Street.
Moments later, Kyle, my friend and co-worker, returned to the office. I shared the morning story. We went to the video surveillance feed and replayed the event. When Jody had entered the office, he paused, scanned the room, slowly paced to the counter, glanced my way (without me seeing him), returned to the front door, and locked it.
A twinge of fear shot through my veins.
We rarely leave office staff alone in the office. We employ a diverse crew. I am Caucasian. I am not a small man.
Jody Goods is (was?) a steroid-abusing, opioid-using, alcohol-swilling, profanity-spilling, violent racist.
Although I am Caucasian--
I’m living in denial. It’s been a day since being freed from the pains of the ER. I am now an outpatient, on call for a gauntlet of tests. I’m not well. I resist admitting it. Stupid.
In the coming days I will be summoned to have my brain examined, MRI, gadgets hooked to me, blood, blood, blood + doctor after doctor after doctor, weekly. I pretend nothings wrong.
At work, I set up a worker for the day. I provide him with a map. I try to write a bus number on the map. My brain sends the signal to my hand. I can only scribble. I try to sign a copy of my memoir. I have trouble holding the pen. When I walk, I feel like I’m floating. This part of the story takes place in January—it will take me to mid-March to admit I suffered a catastrophic brain injury, and my body is struggling desperately to reset. I’m not sure it’s resetting.
Life is dramatic—this is my drama. I have become stoic, except of course for this sentence—a man in the throes of stoicism would likely not identify himself that way.
I must believe tomorrow will bring better health.
I don’t want to lose who I am!
In the coming days I will be summoned to have my brain examined, MRI, gadgets hooked to me, blood, blood, blood + doctor after doctor after doctor, weekly. I pretend nothings wrong.
At work, I set up a worker for the day. I provide him with a map. I try to write a bus number on the map. My brain sends the signal to my hand. I can only scribble. I try to sign a copy of my memoir. I have trouble holding the pen. When I walk, I feel like I’m floating. This part of the story takes place in January—it will take me to mid-March to admit I suffered a catastrophic brain injury, and my body is struggling desperately to reset. I’m not sure it’s resetting.
Life is dramatic—this is my drama. I have become stoic, except of course for this sentence—a man in the throes of stoicism would likely not identify himself that way.
I must believe tomorrow will bring better health.
I don’t want to lose who I am!
LEVITY BREAK (borrowed from “I SAW YOU”)
Pinked Haired Lady
I saw a woman. I am a man.
We passed like ships. First passing Davie/Howe (not). I would love to take you to dinner. You can usually find me at Blend at 3 PM.
I AM OLD GUY
Pinked Haired Lady
I saw a woman. I am a man.
We passed like ships. First passing Davie/Howe (not). I would love to take you to dinner. You can usually find me at Blend at 3 PM.
I AM OLD GUY
YOU HAVE A GIRL'S NAME
The following bits are a collection of ramblings by job seekers in my office during the morning of Thursday, March 29th – 2018.
Every conversation was unprovoked. The words literally floated around the room bouncing from wall to wall.
Every conversation was unprovoked. The words literally floated around the room bouncing from wall to wall.
Jobseeker Denis: My x-girlfriends boyfriend's brother's cousin's dog walker’s girlfriend likes to hunt roadkill; she’s hunting right now.
Random Audience Member: Hunt roadkill?
Me: Wow.
Random Audience Member: Hunt roadkill?
Me: Wow.
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Somewhat Altered (SA) Jobseeker (who happens to be native): Hey, dispatch guy, will I make 100 dollars today? Will I? I can control the Northern Lights by whistling.
Mark (co-worker): That guy over there (points at SA), he wants me to tell you, you have a girl’s name.
Me: Wow.
SA: $2 - $5 - $10 - $2 – an hour – five hours $50 - $100 - $1,000 - 1K - 2K – hundreds of thousands of dollars. I made hundreds of thousands.
Dispatcher: You must be rolling in it.
SA: It’s all gone.
Dispatcher: All gone? What did you spend it on?
SA: Crack.
Me: I fall out of my chair laughing.
SA: I’m 35. I love crack. I’m going to quit when I’m 40. I’m enjoying it too much.
Me: Sounds like a great plan. Maybe one day you’ll be on the cover of CRACK SUCCESS MAGAZINE?
Mark (co-worker): That guy over there (points at SA), he wants me to tell you, you have a girl’s name.
Me: Wow.
SA: $2 - $5 - $10 - $2 – an hour – five hours $50 - $100 - $1,000 - 1K - 2K – hundreds of thousands of dollars. I made hundreds of thousands.
Dispatcher: You must be rolling in it.
SA: It’s all gone.
Dispatcher: All gone? What did you spend it on?
SA: Crack.
Me: I fall out of my chair laughing.
SA: I’m 35. I love crack. I’m going to quit when I’m 40. I’m enjoying it too much.
Me: Sounds like a great plan. Maybe one day you’ll be on the cover of CRACK SUCCESS MAGAZINE?
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Me: Have you seen the latest copy? It’s thick: full of success. It has a travel section, Top Location this month: a cardboard box. Nah, it’s a soggy ripped piece of what looks like a magazine sitting in a puddle in a dank, dark alley—fares are low this time of year. There’s also a mouth-watering food section featuring the best-of-the-best dining options consisting of rusty barrels in the same alley, with a fire burning stacks of free daily papers, for you to cook: whatever road scraps you'd like to sear. Okay, there isn’t a barrel. There’s only your hallucinations. Tasty. Five more years of crack and I’m certain you’ll be gracing the cover and join the legions of—I must be honest: the magazine isn’t thick. It’s only a few pages. Okay, that’s a lie: it’s only the covers. Sorry, I lied again, the non-existent magazine is soaking in the puddle in its very own non-existent travel section.
SA: (Whistles. The office lights flicker). I love crack. $55. I’m going to stare at my hand for an hour, seriously, contemplating it. Did I tell you about the day when I worked for another company, and I was so high I tried to eat the gravel--
Dispatcher: Stop talking.
Jobseeker Denis: You think having a girl’s name is tough. (I don’t) You should try being Denis with only one n. The kids used to change the first letter of my name to P. Now, that’s what I call tough.
Me: Wow. You’re in your 50s. You do know two ns wouldn’t necessarily have changed the outcome. And, are you suggesting I take a time machine back several decades and then legally changing my name to Pennis?
Jobseeker Denis: What?
SA: (Whistles. The office lights flicker). I love crack. $55. I’m going to stare at my hand for an hour, seriously, contemplating it. Did I tell you about the day when I worked for another company, and I was so high I tried to eat the gravel--
Dispatcher: Stop talking.
Jobseeker Denis: You think having a girl’s name is tough. (I don’t) You should try being Denis with only one n. The kids used to change the first letter of my name to P. Now, that’s what I call tough.
Me: Wow. You’re in your 50s. You do know two ns wouldn’t necessarily have changed the outcome. And, are you suggesting I take a time machine back several decades and then legally changing my name to Pennis?
Jobseeker Denis: What?
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Geddy: I need to grab my timesheet. I’m in a hurry.
Dispatcher: The site is pissed at you. They say if you’re late again they are letting you go and we’re losing the contract.
Geddy: That’s BS. Late again?
Dispatcher: They say you are late almost every day. It screws up the site. They can’t have that—they’re pissed. I’m just letting you know.
Geddy: It’s BS.
Dispatcher: Are you ever late?
Geddy: Yes. Almost every day. My alarm sucks. It’s still BS.
Dispatcher: It’s BS they want you there on time?
Geddy: You might have to find me another gig. It’s BS for them to hang this over my head. If I’m late again, they’ll let me go. Mumble. I don’t like them hanging that over my head.
Me: So, Geddy, you’d prefer: you’re fired?
Geddy: What? I don’t understand.
Geddy: Hey, Dispatcher, do you think I could get a raise?
Dispatcher: I don’t understand.
Dispatcher: The site is pissed at you. They say if you’re late again they are letting you go and we’re losing the contract.
Geddy: That’s BS. Late again?
Dispatcher: They say you are late almost every day. It screws up the site. They can’t have that—they’re pissed. I’m just letting you know.
Geddy: It’s BS.
Dispatcher: Are you ever late?
Geddy: Yes. Almost every day. My alarm sucks. It’s still BS.
Dispatcher: It’s BS they want you there on time?
Geddy: You might have to find me another gig. It’s BS for them to hang this over my head. If I’m late again, they’ll let me go. Mumble. I don’t like them hanging that over my head.
Me: So, Geddy, you’d prefer: you’re fired?
Geddy: What? I don’t understand.
Geddy: Hey, Dispatcher, do you think I could get a raise?
Dispatcher: I don’t understand.
The months have slipped by since my early January catastrophic brain event. I’m cranking six-toxic medications per day + a seventh over the counter med. I’ve researched each of them. The list of effects fills six or seven pages—none appetising—every single one suggesting nausea. The research is accurate. Upon completing my research, I guffawed, quaking with each laugh.
Mark: What’s so funny?
Me: Look at the final side-effect of medication six: Death (rare). Is rare comforting if it’s in brackets?
Mark: That doesn’t explain your laughter.
Me: Medicine seven is ibuprofen. If the other six don’t kill me, take an aspirin. That’s precious. Hey, I know your ailment is severe, scary, life-changing, would you like some orange juice?
I hadn’t seen my doctor in five years before my brain day. I am now seeing him weekly. He’s carefully monitoring my vitals. I don’t mind the weekly visits.
Doc: You don’t see the neurosurgeons until May 17th. That’s ridiculous. They needed to fix you when you went to the ER. Everything I’m doing, all of the medication, all of it, are band-aids. Our system is flawed. You wouldn’t need these meds if they addressed the problem in the first place.
Mark: What’s so funny?
Me: Look at the final side-effect of medication six: Death (rare). Is rare comforting if it’s in brackets?
Mark: That doesn’t explain your laughter.
Me: Medicine seven is ibuprofen. If the other six don’t kill me, take an aspirin. That’s precious. Hey, I know your ailment is severe, scary, life-changing, would you like some orange juice?
I hadn’t seen my doctor in five years before my brain day. I am now seeing him weekly. He’s carefully monitoring my vitals. I don’t mind the weekly visits.
Doc: You don’t see the neurosurgeons until May 17th. That’s ridiculous. They needed to fix you when you went to the ER. Everything I’m doing, all of the medication, all of it, are band-aids. Our system is flawed. You wouldn’t need these meds if they addressed the problem in the first place.
Doc: You do remember going to the ER? Before you go: with these medications, drinking is okay, but be careful with hot tubs? See you next Tuesday.
Me: Band-aids. I think I’m going to be having brain surgery.
Better check Google: Maximum Dosage of Medicine five: 10mg. A side effect of overdosing: Death (rare).
Me: Band-aids. I think I’m going to be having brain surgery.
Better check Google: Maximum Dosage of Medicine five: 10mg. A side effect of overdosing: Death (rare).
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Before having more brain added I’d like to announce:
April 5th – I’m the guest of a Book Club to discuss my book.
May 8th – Book Warehouse @ Main + King Edward: An evening with me talking and doing other things.
Music – Talk – Comedy – Snacks – Me!
I’m hoping Pink Haired Lady + I AM OLD GUY attend the event!
Dare to dream!
What does the Book Warehouse call their warehouse?
April 5th – I’m the guest of a Book Club to discuss my book.
May 8th – Book Warehouse @ Main + King Edward: An evening with me talking and doing other things.
Music – Talk – Comedy – Snacks – Me!
I’m hoping Pink Haired Lady + I AM OLD GUY attend the event!
Dare to dream!
What does the Book Warehouse call their warehouse?
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The sun beat down on the gridiron of Griffiths Stadium on this mid-fall day. The air crisp, perfect weather for football. The Calgary Dinosaurs versus the U of S Huskies—the last game of the season—both teams failed to qualify for the post-season—only pride was on the line.
“Hey Deutsch, this is it brother, the end of five years for you, your final game,” I said to Ron Deutscher as we were having our ankles taped by the trainers before we hit the field.
Deutsch had been recruited five years ago to be the Huskies future at quarterback, but injuries + other factors lead to him switching from signal-caller to receiver, slot back. A gifted athlete. A better friend, teammate, brother.
“Deutsch, have you ever scored a touchdown?”
“No, Winch, I haven’t.”
“You will today? I guarantee it.”
Why did I say that? I’m a quarterback and could facilitate the reality, except for one major factor—I wasn’t scheduled to play.
“Hey Deutsch, this is it brother, the end of five years for you, your final game,” I said to Ron Deutscher as we were having our ankles taped by the trainers before we hit the field.
Deutsch had been recruited five years ago to be the Huskies future at quarterback, but injuries + other factors lead to him switching from signal-caller to receiver, slot back. A gifted athlete. A better friend, teammate, brother.
“Deutsch, have you ever scored a touchdown?”
“No, Winch, I haven’t.”
“You will today? I guarantee it.”
Why did I say that? I’m a quarterback and could facilitate the reality, except for one major factor—I wasn’t scheduled to play.
The quarters passed like lightning—we had taken a 23 to 13 lead. With 2:33 left on the clock the Dino’s failed on a third-down gamble turning the ball over to us—on their 45-yard line—it was time to run out the season and put a victory stamp on Deutsch’s final game.
Coach Schneider barked out, “Lindsay, get in there, finish off this victory for us.”
First Play: Deutsch flanked left in a slotback position. I called his number: a 12-yard out to the short side.
I barked out the cadence: “Blue 45 – Blue 45 – hut – hut – hut.”
The first steps of my drop back I realised the Dino’s were bringing the farm; Dino outside linebackers blasted past our slotbacks.
I screamed, “hot, hot, hot!”
Deutsch broke off his pattern slanting hard over the middle. I fired a perfect spiral over the top of the outstretched hands of the lineman just as a linebacker attempted to exterminate me. The pass hit Deutsch in the numbers—a 12-yard gain and a first down.
The clock slipped down to 1:34.
Second Play: 55 full-back lead. I handed the ball to Joe Manich, he slashed between the guard and tackle, picking up 3-yards.
Third Play: 48 seconds remaining. Second and seven from the Dino 30-yard line.
“Okay boys, Pro 55 fake, roll right, slotback corner on two. BREAK!”
“White 19. White 19. Hut. Hut.”
The fake to Manich held the outside linebacker for a fraction of a second. I managed to roll outside the tackle. Joe slipped into the flat running a five-yard out. Swatter flanked right, ran a hard out with the cornerback draped all over him. The Dino’s linebacker tracked me hard, frothing, inflicted pain pierced from his eyes.
Deutsch, hit the 10-yard line, his back to me. He had managed to create separation between himself and the halfback. The linebacker dove at me. Just before contact, I released the ball—aiming for 3 or 4 yards deep in the end zone; 12-yards from where Deutsch was about to make his hard cut. Deutsch cut. My spiral was tight. Ron kept a step on the defender. The arc of the ball began its descent. Deutsch chased hard as he cut 45 degrees dashing after the flight of the ball. He hit the 1-yard line and leapt into the end zone, arms outstretched. He snatched the ball out of the air with both hands, his body slammed violently into the turf, grass spitting upward covering his jersey and face shield. He rolled, stopping on his back—he thrust his arms into the air, the ball secured in his grip.
Coach Schneider barked out, “Lindsay, get in there, finish off this victory for us.”
First Play: Deutsch flanked left in a slotback position. I called his number: a 12-yard out to the short side.
I barked out the cadence: “Blue 45 – Blue 45 – hut – hut – hut.”
The first steps of my drop back I realised the Dino’s were bringing the farm; Dino outside linebackers blasted past our slotbacks.
I screamed, “hot, hot, hot!”
Deutsch broke off his pattern slanting hard over the middle. I fired a perfect spiral over the top of the outstretched hands of the lineman just as a linebacker attempted to exterminate me. The pass hit Deutsch in the numbers—a 12-yard gain and a first down.
The clock slipped down to 1:34.
Second Play: 55 full-back lead. I handed the ball to Joe Manich, he slashed between the guard and tackle, picking up 3-yards.
Third Play: 48 seconds remaining. Second and seven from the Dino 30-yard line.
“Okay boys, Pro 55 fake, roll right, slotback corner on two. BREAK!”
“White 19. White 19. Hut. Hut.”
The fake to Manich held the outside linebacker for a fraction of a second. I managed to roll outside the tackle. Joe slipped into the flat running a five-yard out. Swatter flanked right, ran a hard out with the cornerback draped all over him. The Dino’s linebacker tracked me hard, frothing, inflicted pain pierced from his eyes.
Deutsch, hit the 10-yard line, his back to me. He had managed to create separation between himself and the halfback. The linebacker dove at me. Just before contact, I released the ball—aiming for 3 or 4 yards deep in the end zone; 12-yards from where Deutsch was about to make his hard cut. Deutsch cut. My spiral was tight. Ron kept a step on the defender. The arc of the ball began its descent. Deutsch chased hard as he cut 45 degrees dashing after the flight of the ball. He hit the 1-yard line and leapt into the end zone, arms outstretched. He snatched the ball out of the air with both hands, his body slammed violently into the turf, grass spitting upward covering his jersey and face shield. He rolled, stopping on his back—he thrust his arms into the air, the ball secured in his grip.
Our bench unloaded onto the field swallowing Deutsch in celebration. Much like a team winning a championship!
I felt chills shoot down my spine.
When I reached our bench, the clock had expired, a 30-13 victory for the good guys!
Coach Schneider patted me on the back and said, “Great play.”
To which I replied, “How’s that for running out the clock!?!”
I felt chills shoot down my spine.
When I reached our bench, the clock had expired, a 30-13 victory for the good guys!
Coach Schneider patted me on the back and said, “Great play.”
To which I replied, “How’s that for running out the clock!?!”
After unpacking this brilliant memory, I turned to Google to see what my friend and teammate is up to these days. I found sadness.
RIP DEUTSCH
February 2, 1960 – June 29, 2002
February 2, 1960 – June 29, 2002
Final Play of his Huskie Career
30-yard touchdown—Lindsay Wincherauk to Ron Deutscher!
30-yard touchdown—Lindsay Wincherauk to Ron Deutscher!
It’s time to put the wrap on the real life medical drama: Maybe When I Have Grandchildren: Season 1.
Episode 1: Vancouver Med, launched with a catastrophic brain event on Jan 3-5—an event that is threatening my survival.
Episode 10: Let Good + Bad Follow Closely Behind in the Baggage Car, draws to a close by mixing profound sadness with a realisation: I’m fortunate—my time is not up, yet.
As the last keystrokes end this volume of my story, with a difficult subject matter, I will stress the importance of remembering those whose time ended, far too early. With a heavy heart, it is hard to spin positives of my survival when others have not been so fortunate.
In the spirit of meta: I don’t know what to type next, so, I will move on.
I’m three months into my journey to hopefully many more years. A journey bursting with doctors’ visits + tests + medications to keep me going, to get my vitals under control.
I felt the need to update WORK, on my condition. I drafted an email.
Episode 1: Vancouver Med, launched with a catastrophic brain event on Jan 3-5—an event that is threatening my survival.
Episode 10: Let Good + Bad Follow Closely Behind in the Baggage Car, draws to a close by mixing profound sadness with a realisation: I’m fortunate—my time is not up, yet.
As the last keystrokes end this volume of my story, with a difficult subject matter, I will stress the importance of remembering those whose time ended, far too early. With a heavy heart, it is hard to spin positives of my survival when others have not been so fortunate.
In the spirit of meta: I don’t know what to type next, so, I will move on.
I’m three months into my journey to hopefully many more years. A journey bursting with doctors’ visits + tests + medications to keep me going, to get my vitals under control.
I felt the need to update WORK, on my condition. I drafted an email.
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I’m lucky. Although the doctors haven’t come to a definitive diagnosis of what happened at the start of January—I’m lucky the symptoms presented the way they did, if they hadn’t, I wouldn’t be here today. Back away Drama Police.
WORK, I suffered a catastrophic brain event. The docs’ found a blockage in my brain. This blockage is causing me to feel unstable. The docs’ have skirted around saying stroke, however, what happened presented similarly. Like guys do, I thought of ignoring my light-headedness, fortunately, my floaty-head instructed me to quit being stupid. My floaty-head turned out to be correct: if I didn’t go to the ER that night, catastrophic would have turned into fatal. |
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If struck by a lightheaded feeling, or just feeling off, don’t ignore what your body is trying to tell you, go straight to the ER, preferably by ambulance. We’ve all lost friends and family members to things they or we often brush off as “nothing” and then hear the news later: “Did you hear about so and so?” – Turning love + caring into tears + sadness.
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3-months into my new medical regime, I feel okay for the most part. Sure, the plethora of prescriptions knocks the crap out of me, mostly nausea.
I’m visiting my doctor + specialists at least once per week. Tests, tests, plus more tests. My doctor monitors me to assure the medications have the desired results. And, he likes seeing me breathing on a weekly basis. He cares. On May 17, I see a neurologist/neurosurgeon. He will be making a plan of action: to-surgery-or-not-to-surgery, that will be the question— If the spin-of-the-wheel lands on surgery, rumour has it: I won’t be able to speak for a month or two—something about entering my brain through my neck. As I wait, my system is trying to reboot. Up until a week ago, my gait tripped right. It’s recently returned to balanced. My fingers had been tingling since January—not so much today, un-tingling fingers crossed. I’m confident everything will return to normal, with or without surgery. 
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WORK, My Doc, said to me: “Go about life normally. Except for, be careful when using hot tubs. And, oh yeah, get a Shingles vaccine.”
I kid you not. 
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Update complete, WORK.
Now you're up to speed. Lindsay |
Transparency feels good. WORK now knows: what’s up. If I seem off or in need of medical care–they know not to ignore.
Before the Book Warehouse Event, I’ve been blessed to be the guest of a book club: Lit + Libations League. 8-wonderful ladies, who’ve all read, me!
Before I meet with the ladies, a message arrives from WORK:
Before the Book Warehouse Event, I’ve been blessed to be the guest of a book club: Lit + Libations League. 8-wonderful ladies, who’ve all read, me!
Before I meet with the ladies, a message arrives from WORK:
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Lindsay,
I appreciate you keeping us in the loop, I'm amazed at your positive take on scary things. Thanks for sharing the advice in the PSA. Full Stop. No. It’s also great that you are able to enjoy your writing hobby— WORK |
Hello, Lit + Libations. Be kind.
Lit + Libations: “Your first memory is at age 5. What happened before you were 5?”
Me: “Well, I was born in a place where secret babies were born, a shame to the family—religion—community judgement. The Edmonton Journal used to run ads advertising babies for Christmas. The babies, me, were usually adopted to farm families or sold to rich Americans. I must’ve been too ugly; my family members tossed me around like a hot potato.”
Lit + Libations: “As if you’re not hot!”
BLUSH
Me: Time to change direction. “Today I asked Google a question. Let me show you. 'Okay, Google—What is a fart?'”
Google: “Fart emit gas from the anus."
The night turned into a wonderful success—my hobby presses forward.
I’m lucky.
Lit + Libations: “Your first memory is at age 5. What happened before you were 5?”
Me: “Well, I was born in a place where secret babies were born, a shame to the family—religion—community judgement. The Edmonton Journal used to run ads advertising babies for Christmas. The babies, me, were usually adopted to farm families or sold to rich Americans. I must’ve been too ugly; my family members tossed me around like a hot potato.”
Lit + Libations: “As if you’re not hot!”
BLUSH
Me: Time to change direction. “Today I asked Google a question. Let me show you. 'Okay, Google—What is a fart?'”
Google: “Fart emit gas from the anus."
The night turned into a wonderful success—my hobby presses forward.
I’m lucky.
I’m loved. I have medical-induced life challenges ahead. I’m trying to unlearn things that have been following me for decades—I need to unlearn. Loved ones want to help. Loved ones grow frustrated. It’s important to understand: loved ones = loved.
Sometimes being alone would be easier. Being alone is never best, it’s selfish.
Sometimes being alone would be easier. Being alone is never best, it’s selfish.
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Another doctor appointment: My doctor tells me he’s retiring at the end of June.
I smile, and then sadly congratulate him, still sporting a smile.
I smile, and then sadly congratulate him, still sporting a smile.
IN MEMORY
(December 26 – March 24)
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Dylan GIFFIN
Age 25
Employee |
Kimberly FLETT
Age 51
Employee |
Jeff Vallevand
Age 53
Friend |
Denis GOUR
Age 53
Friend |
Cherish life!
