A day or three ago, I listened to a piece on CBC Radio (much akin to public radio in the USA, I think) about The Secret and The Law of Attraction and so on. Last season, many of us heard about the same topic on Oprah. When it was on TV, I couldn't see what the big deal was because, to me, it's no secret, for the law has always been pretty darn obvious, at least the way that I would understand it. In my universe, your values influence your thoughts which, in turn, influence your life. What the recent radio program clarified for me was that it (the law of attraction) has been distorted to mean something slightly more than that: if you think about being rich and visualize it, then you shall become rich.
Is it just me, or do you find it so very shallow? Maybe I am mistaken, but I don't seem to hear anyone of these motivational gurus talking about using the law of attraction to become smarter or to serve one's fellow humans in order to make the world a better place. Oh yes, the CBC did interview one apostle who opined that rich people had more resources with which to serve and aid. Who can argue with that? But, let's face it, that's not exactly the drawing card. It's not what the movement is all about.
From what I heard in this documentary, they (the proponents) will admit that it doesn't work for everyone, but their explanation is pretty much like those of certain faith healers, and it goes something like this: if it (the program, the secret, whatever) doesn't work for you, then you did something wrong. Puhleeze give me a break. Let's call a spade a spade, for that's just a convenient rationalization, an escape hatch as it for these proclaimers of the gospel of the secret.
Do you ever wonder why all of these people have to write books and shill multimedia packages if they possess the secret knowledge of wealth accumulation? I mean, if you truly possessed such a secret, would you be forced to make a living by charging others for it? Give me another break! I mean, really, according to this radio report, they were selling such educational kits for up to five hundred dollars at a recent convention in Toronto. Tell me that's not about making money.
I believe I have discovered the real secret that I am willing to share with you: write a motivational book telling others how to get rich, and you shall reap untold rewards.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
As the Wheel Creaks
Soon, I must find a topic other than my recent medical trauma, but here goes one more post.
It's simple really: just that I have been reminded of the cycles of life, the wheel of time as it were. You see, I remember visiting my Dad when he underwent the very same surgery. He was older than I, in his late seventies, if I've recalled correctly, so I was concerned. Because his surgeon had told me that he would recover better with lots of family support, I took three days off work to spend as much time with him as possible. (Not to worry: we were permitted this time by our contract, and it was deducted from my sick time anyway.) When it was all over, he said that the time we had spent together was a real highlight for him. I think he actually said, "The highlight of my year." Maybe it wasn't a very good year, eh?
The point is that family rallied around, and, of course, they have done that for me too, even though I am much younger now than Dad was then. Cuppa has been and continues to be her usual rock-like self: "Let me go upstairs and get that for you." Thesha and Theboy visited both nights and have continued to be supportive ever since: "Dad you shouldn't be lifting that, let me get it." The A-team has called from Vancouver and sent a little care package, and I am touched.
While I won't go as far as Dad and call the experience a highlight, I think I understand. It is, indeed, very satisfying to experience such concern and support. What isn't so especially wonderful is to have the wheel of time turn so relentlessly. It was one thing for it to be old Dad's turn to undergo that operation, but it's somewhat sobering to have my own turn come around.
It's simple really: just that I have been reminded of the cycles of life, the wheel of time as it were. You see, I remember visiting my Dad when he underwent the very same surgery. He was older than I, in his late seventies, if I've recalled correctly, so I was concerned. Because his surgeon had told me that he would recover better with lots of family support, I took three days off work to spend as much time with him as possible. (Not to worry: we were permitted this time by our contract, and it was deducted from my sick time anyway.) When it was all over, he said that the time we had spent together was a real highlight for him. I think he actually said, "The highlight of my year." Maybe it wasn't a very good year, eh?
The point is that family rallied around, and, of course, they have done that for me too, even though I am much younger now than Dad was then. Cuppa has been and continues to be her usual rock-like self: "Let me go upstairs and get that for you." Thesha and Theboy visited both nights and have continued to be supportive ever since: "Dad you shouldn't be lifting that, let me get it." The A-team has called from Vancouver and sent a little care package, and I am touched.
While I won't go as far as Dad and call the experience a highlight, I think I understand. It is, indeed, very satisfying to experience such concern and support. What isn't so especially wonderful is to have the wheel of time turn so relentlessly. It was one thing for it to be old Dad's turn to undergo that operation, but it's somewhat sobering to have my own turn come around.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
Pill Confusion
I just took my morning antibiotic pill a few minutes ago — at 8:00 o'clock. I'll take the next one at the same time tonight.
This was the antibiotic prescription given to me by the surgeon when I left the hospital last week. We've got the instructions under control now, but we had a few perplexing and funny moments trying to figure them out last week when we got home. I suppose you had to be there to see the humour, that it won't be funny in the telling, but I feel compelled to try to sketch it out anyway.
You must understand that both Cuppa and I were very tired. I had just been through an operation, and she had been driving down to see me, and you know how tiring visiting in a hospital can be. It's terribly draining for most people. I hadn't slept at all well in my two nights in the ward, and neither of us had slept well in the two nights prior to the procedure, our minds active with apprehension.
So, we got home, and got the pills out: Take on an empty stomach; don't eat for two hours before the operations and for one hours after; don't consume dairy products in the six hours prior to ingesting medication and for two hours afterward. Picture two very tired people trying to get it all straight.
I'd look at the instructions, understand them, and then get confused. Hmmm ... was that don't drink milk for six hours prior to taking the pill or don't drink milk for six hours afterward? So, we'd look again, and then get confused about when I was to eat. Frankly, we got rather giddy and started laughing really hard over our confusion. Finally, Cuppa went downstairs for one more read. When she took her time getting back, I knew that she was making notes.
I was right. She came back upstairs with a timeline diagrammed out, and we figured it all out. To the point: I take the pill twice daily at 8:00 on the clock. I must eat before six o'clock or after nine but not between those hours, and I may consume dairy products between the hours of ten and two only. Except when I forget that ice cream is a dairy product!
On top of that, when I opened the pills on that first night, something seemed wrong. There were too many; the bottle said to take them for three days only, but I had a mittfull of them. And on closer inspection they were Tylenol 3's, the same as the other prescription that I had sent home with. Cuppa took them back to the pharmacy. They changed the Tylenols to the correct antibiotics but still gave her twenty tablets and not six. She asked about it; they checked again ... and changed the instructions to read ten days rather than three.
So, here I am almost a week later, still taking the pills and mostly getting it right. I will ingest the last blasted tablet on Saturday morning, but right now, it's time for breakfast. Drat! I have to wait until nine o'clock. I'm not very hungry today; maybe I'll just have a bit of cereal at 9:00. Double drat! Cereal would require milk, and I have to wait until ten o'clock before I am permitted to consume dairy products.
Sigh.
This was the antibiotic prescription given to me by the surgeon when I left the hospital last week. We've got the instructions under control now, but we had a few perplexing and funny moments trying to figure them out last week when we got home. I suppose you had to be there to see the humour, that it won't be funny in the telling, but I feel compelled to try to sketch it out anyway.
You must understand that both Cuppa and I were very tired. I had just been through an operation, and she had been driving down to see me, and you know how tiring visiting in a hospital can be. It's terribly draining for most people. I hadn't slept at all well in my two nights in the ward, and neither of us had slept well in the two nights prior to the procedure, our minds active with apprehension.
So, we got home, and got the pills out: Take on an empty stomach; don't eat for two hours before the operations and for one hours after; don't consume dairy products in the six hours prior to ingesting medication and for two hours afterward. Picture two very tired people trying to get it all straight.
I'd look at the instructions, understand them, and then get confused. Hmmm ... was that don't drink milk for six hours prior to taking the pill or don't drink milk for six hours afterward? So, we'd look again, and then get confused about when I was to eat. Frankly, we got rather giddy and started laughing really hard over our confusion. Finally, Cuppa went downstairs for one more read. When she took her time getting back, I knew that she was making notes.
I was right. She came back upstairs with a timeline diagrammed out, and we figured it all out. To the point: I take the pill twice daily at 8:00 on the clock. I must eat before six o'clock or after nine but not between those hours, and I may consume dairy products between the hours of ten and two only. Except when I forget that ice cream is a dairy product!
On top of that, when I opened the pills on that first night, something seemed wrong. There were too many; the bottle said to take them for three days only, but I had a mittfull of them. And on closer inspection they were Tylenol 3's, the same as the other prescription that I had sent home with. Cuppa took them back to the pharmacy. They changed the Tylenols to the correct antibiotics but still gave her twenty tablets and not six. She asked about it; they checked again ... and changed the instructions to read ten days rather than three.
So, here I am almost a week later, still taking the pills and mostly getting it right. I will ingest the last blasted tablet on Saturday morning, but right now, it's time for breakfast. Drat! I have to wait until nine o'clock. I'm not very hungry today; maybe I'll just have a bit of cereal at 9:00. Double drat! Cereal would require milk, and I have to wait until ten o'clock before I am permitted to consume dairy products.
Sigh.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Pondering Me and Me Mateys ...
... my hospital roommates, I mean.
Dan is directly opposite me; our feet point towards each other. He's the oldest in the ward, sleeps a lot and has poor hearing, so I don't get to know him very well. He is eighty years old, I think, and suffers from diabetes. I see his feet one day, and they seem to have white, diseased spots. About four o'clock in the morning of my first long and largely sleepless night, I see him sitting up at the side of the bed. He does this for two hours. The nurses try to their best to help and endeavour to give him medication. He refuses. They cajole, but he is steadfast. Eventually, they call his wife who advises him to take it, and he does, very compliantly. He's just very frustrated, and I blame him not, for I feel some sorrow for him and think, "This is not a good way to spend one's final months." I don't think Don is exactly on death's doorstep, but he can surely glimpse the door not too far down the hall ... and it is slightly ajar.
Meanwhile, Allan is diagonal to me. He's old too, but I can't determine just how old. He's an odd, little fellow but very friendly and outgoing. He's a diabetic too but clearly not as severe a case as Don: at least I hope not because I find him eating a large chocolate bar in the lounge on my final day after I am untethered and permitted to roam. He weeps on the second morning: for his wife who died "about a year ago." In part he cries because he hasn't thought about her enough for a few days, and that adds to his remorse. In the afternoon, I find him in the lounge and bid my farewell. I ask if he will be getting out soon. He says that it doesn't matter, that he likes it well enough in the hospital, that when he is discharged he will probably go to a nursing home, and that doesn't matter either because he has no one for his only son lives thousand of miles away. How sad that seems to me, who will be fortunate enough to drop in to see daughter and granddaughter, however briefly, on my way home.
After me, they admit Ralph to the bed beside me. He's old and grey. He's in to have his lungs drained — again! It challenges his stamina greatly to creep to the washroom, and he breathes hard and coughs when he lies down again. His coughing keeps me awake. On the second night, I am bold enough to find my stash of cough drops and pass one to him on the other side of the curtain. It helps. He tells me that he has been a heavy drinker, that he is retaining fluid because there is something wrong with his liver. That's when he mentions that he must change his lifestyle now that he's fifty. Do I hear correctly? Did the man who looks to be seventy really say "fifty"? Perhaps not. I mention it later to Cuppa and then to Thesha, but both are incredulous. So am I, but later, when he tells me his story yet again, he affirms that he is forty-eight. He seems to believe that he must stop drinking and that all will be well. I think, "He fools himself." I think, "He has cirrhosis and will deteriorate very rapidly." The next day Ralph decides to drag his feeble and tired body outside for a cigarette. I think, "You might as well, for it can do you little more harm." I feel sorry for all me mateys but especially for Ralph. He has made his bed, as it were, but he didn't mean to. He just got it wrong. I fear that his dutiful mother who comes to visit everyday will soon bury her son. And that will be hard.
Sometimes this week, in a bit of a post-operative funk, Mr Anvil has invited Mr Cloud over for a bit of a Pity Party. Sometimes, I say. It's natural, I suppose, after the stress of it all, but I am the first to count my blessings. I have so much goodness about me: the wife and children and grandchild that I do go on and on about in this space, and even the puss who choses to doze next to me and my computer almost each and every morning. Someday, many years from now if I'm spared that long, I will be readmitted to the ward and some young whippersnapper will join us in the room. He will recuperate rather quickly and bid farewell. Perhaps he will feel some pity ... for he will not know how blessed my days have been.
Dan is directly opposite me; our feet point towards each other. He's the oldest in the ward, sleeps a lot and has poor hearing, so I don't get to know him very well. He is eighty years old, I think, and suffers from diabetes. I see his feet one day, and they seem to have white, diseased spots. About four o'clock in the morning of my first long and largely sleepless night, I see him sitting up at the side of the bed. He does this for two hours. The nurses try to their best to help and endeavour to give him medication. He refuses. They cajole, but he is steadfast. Eventually, they call his wife who advises him to take it, and he does, very compliantly. He's just very frustrated, and I blame him not, for I feel some sorrow for him and think, "This is not a good way to spend one's final months." I don't think Don is exactly on death's doorstep, but he can surely glimpse the door not too far down the hall ... and it is slightly ajar.
Meanwhile, Allan is diagonal to me. He's old too, but I can't determine just how old. He's an odd, little fellow but very friendly and outgoing. He's a diabetic too but clearly not as severe a case as Don: at least I hope not because I find him eating a large chocolate bar in the lounge on my final day after I am untethered and permitted to roam. He weeps on the second morning: for his wife who died "about a year ago." In part he cries because he hasn't thought about her enough for a few days, and that adds to his remorse. In the afternoon, I find him in the lounge and bid my farewell. I ask if he will be getting out soon. He says that it doesn't matter, that he likes it well enough in the hospital, that when he is discharged he will probably go to a nursing home, and that doesn't matter either because he has no one for his only son lives thousand of miles away. How sad that seems to me, who will be fortunate enough to drop in to see daughter and granddaughter, however briefly, on my way home.
After me, they admit Ralph to the bed beside me. He's old and grey. He's in to have his lungs drained — again! It challenges his stamina greatly to creep to the washroom, and he breathes hard and coughs when he lies down again. His coughing keeps me awake. On the second night, I am bold enough to find my stash of cough drops and pass one to him on the other side of the curtain. It helps. He tells me that he has been a heavy drinker, that he is retaining fluid because there is something wrong with his liver. That's when he mentions that he must change his lifestyle now that he's fifty. Do I hear correctly? Did the man who looks to be seventy really say "fifty"? Perhaps not. I mention it later to Cuppa and then to Thesha, but both are incredulous. So am I, but later, when he tells me his story yet again, he affirms that he is forty-eight. He seems to believe that he must stop drinking and that all will be well. I think, "He fools himself." I think, "He has cirrhosis and will deteriorate very rapidly." The next day Ralph decides to drag his feeble and tired body outside for a cigarette. I think, "You might as well, for it can do you little more harm." I feel sorry for all me mateys but especially for Ralph. He has made his bed, as it were, but he didn't mean to. He just got it wrong. I fear that his dutiful mother who comes to visit everyday will soon bury her son. And that will be hard.
Sometimes this week, in a bit of a post-operative funk, Mr Anvil has invited Mr Cloud over for a bit of a Pity Party. Sometimes, I say. It's natural, I suppose, after the stress of it all, but I am the first to count my blessings. I have so much goodness about me: the wife and children and grandchild that I do go on and on about in this space, and even the puss who choses to doze next to me and my computer almost each and every morning. Someday, many years from now if I'm spared that long, I will be readmitted to the ward and some young whippersnapper will join us in the room. He will recuperate rather quickly and bid farewell. Perhaps he will feel some pity ... for he will not know how blessed my days have been.
Friday, August 24, 2007
O Canada
As luck would have it, I was born in Canada. Over these past few days I have been reminded of how fortunate I was in my accident of birth. It's something that I always know is true, but I certainly don't think about it on a regular basis.
Well, I thought about it in the OR on Monday morning as two doctors and three nurses hovered around and about endeavouring to patch my body. I wondered what the bill would come to ... the bill that I will never see. The cost of all of that expertise plus the room with all of its expensive equipment must be quite staggering, but it hasn't cost me one red cent. Oh I know that all we citizens pay for such benefits in taxes and such, but I'm certainly not stuck with a huge, one-time outlay at a moment in my life when it would be very difficult to afford.
Later, I considered the three-day, post-operative care, once again funded by public health care. I wondered what that bill would look like. I do know, for example, that I could have upgraded to a semi private room for a hundred and fifty bucks, so if an upgrade costs that much, it rather staggers me to think of what the basic cost of a bed plus food plus meds plus nursing would amount to.
Our national anthem is O Canada. Indeed.
Well, I thought about it in the OR on Monday morning as two doctors and three nurses hovered around and about endeavouring to patch my body. I wondered what the bill would come to ... the bill that I will never see. The cost of all of that expertise plus the room with all of its expensive equipment must be quite staggering, but it hasn't cost me one red cent. Oh I know that all we citizens pay for such benefits in taxes and such, but I'm certainly not stuck with a huge, one-time outlay at a moment in my life when it would be very difficult to afford.
Later, I considered the three-day, post-operative care, once again funded by public health care. I wondered what that bill would look like. I do know, for example, that I could have upgraded to a semi private room for a hundred and fifty bucks, so if an upgrade costs that much, it rather staggers me to think of what the basic cost of a bed plus food plus meds plus nursing would amount to.
Our national anthem is O Canada. Indeed.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Reporting In
The Cloud is back home, feeling somewhat dazed and battered and wondering in what direction this post will go ... if any at all. In my previous post, I chose to not reveal the reason for my absence but now confess that I underwent what Cathy has called male-specific surgery.
The event took place Monday morning at 8:00 AM, and they discharged me yesterday, Wednesday, at 3:30. PM. After spending two days catheterized with copious quantities of fluid dripping in and out of me, they unshackled me yesterday morning and sent me home in the afternoon once they were certain that appropriate bodily functions had resumed satisfactorily.
I was awake for the surgery. The spinal was all that was required to eliminate all feeling from the lower half of my body, and my iPod drowned out any and all concomitant surgery-related noises. Aside from some soreness from being catheterized for so long, I have felt no pain from the actual surgery. My back, however, suffered severely for awhile when the "freezing" was leaving me. The back and leg pain became so acute that I had to have demerol — right away, no faster! Yes, it was that bad. It seems that the needle going into the spine found and exploited all of the weaknesses of my deteriorated lower back.
But it's over, and I'm doing fine although this rather bare-bones report is about all that I can seem to force myself to write. I thought I might be able to summon some deep and trenchant observations, but alas ...
The event took place Monday morning at 8:00 AM, and they discharged me yesterday, Wednesday, at 3:30. PM. After spending two days catheterized with copious quantities of fluid dripping in and out of me, they unshackled me yesterday morning and sent me home in the afternoon once they were certain that appropriate bodily functions had resumed satisfactorily.
I was awake for the surgery. The spinal was all that was required to eliminate all feeling from the lower half of my body, and my iPod drowned out any and all concomitant surgery-related noises. Aside from some soreness from being catheterized for so long, I have felt no pain from the actual surgery. My back, however, suffered severely for awhile when the "freezing" was leaving me. The back and leg pain became so acute that I had to have demerol — right away, no faster! Yes, it was that bad. It seems that the needle going into the spine found and exploited all of the weaknesses of my deteriorated lower back.
But it's over, and I'm doing fine although this rather bare-bones report is about all that I can seem to force myself to write. I thought I might be able to summon some deep and trenchant observations, but alas ...
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Parting Shots
The old Cloud will be away for a little while. Not that you'd notice because I often neglect my blog for a number of days, but I thought I'd let you know anyway.
In the meantime, I leave you with a few recent photos of our park.
Aside: this morning, after a poor nights sleep, I made coffee early — but forgot the coffee. I made hot water instead. I just thought you'd like to know how absent minded a Cloud can be.
Lilypads and Driftwood
A Fine Tree
Cuppa Gazing
Sunset (How I Wished to See It)
In the meantime, I leave you with a few recent photos of our park.
Aside: this morning, after a poor nights sleep, I made coffee early — but forgot the coffee. I made hot water instead. I just thought you'd like to know how absent minded a Cloud can be.
Lilypads and Driftwood
A Fine Tree
Cuppa Gazing
Sunset (How I Wished to See It)
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