Between & Betwixt

So There!

2011-08-11T17:41:00.000-04:00

While I await the funnies to revisit Casa Kalaydjian, feast your eyes on this! Maybe this cat has the right idea on how to turn an upside-down, inside-out world right-side up. You gotta love it all the way up there, Dad!

R.I.P. Dad

2011-07-10T09:27:00.003-04:00

You were and will always be the heart and soul of our family. Your courage inspired us, your determination fueled us.

You are finally free. Free from Parkinsons. Free from the hospitals. Free from the doctors. Free from it all.

Free to create, free to enjoy, free to walk, free to run, free to dance, free to laugh, free to eat, free to drink.

As you knock on the gates of heaven, St. Peter would be wise to let you in without delay. By then, you will have sized up heaven's landscapes, and determined what and how you could improve your new neighbourhood. Much like the neighbourhood in Mississauga you scoped out for us in the 70's before we moved here from Montreal.

Free at last.

Until we meet again, Dad. I love you always.

Garo's Way

2011-06-12T11:58:00.000-04:00

Dad’s way has always been about family.

From the family that he was raised in, for whom he sacrificed his own higher education and career aspirations in taking over a family business for an unappreciative father, to supporting his younger brother throughout his university years so that he could follow his dreams.

To our family, and the sacrifice of leaving our extended family behind in Montreal in 1977, so that my brother and I could have a more prosperous future, absent of the economic and politic shift in Quebec during its tumultuous years in the 70’s and 80’s.

To his new community in Mississauga, for whom he worked feverishly to set up Community Watch, after several homes, including ours, were broken into the first Easter we spent in our new home province.

To his new brother-and-sisterhood, the Parkinsons Community, for whom he toiled to raise funds for research and education, after he was diagnosed in 1997. And for whom he has agreed to donate his brain after he passes, so that Dr. Lang’s team at Toronto Western, along with the many other doctors who work tirelessly in pursuit of a treatment and solution to this insidious disease, can one day be victorious.

His way has also been about a strong will, truth and desire to live, love and enjoy. A spirit that shines in every nook and cranny in our familial home and every space that he occupies, indoors and out. A spirit that shouts out “Here I am, ready or not. And while you’re at it, just watch me”.

A spirit I inherited from him, come what may.

That spirit helped many a neighbour when household or outdoor items needed repairs. Sprinkler systems needed to be designed and installed? No problem. How about car repairs? I’ll be right there. Need your driveway shovelled? I’ll take care of it while I’m doing mine.

All done in his spare time on weeknights or weekends, after a long day or week spent at Hawker Siddley.

That same spirit helped the owners of a hotel we stayed in for many a summer holiday in Florida, during our youth. We might have been at the beach or in the ocean, enjoying the white-sand beaches of Clearwater, while Dad could be found back at the hotel, helping the owner re-wire a hotel room fixture, or fix a pump, or secure a faulty lock.

Dad was never good with free time. Free time was lost time.

Unless it involved Mom. In Dad’s mind, his time was her time. Any day, hour or week. Any chore, occasion or concern. Done, done and done. Well, maybe not dusting, cleaning washrooms or trips to locations not bearing beaches. Those were not part of any bargain.

And then there was his love for the Blue Jays. During the World Series in 1993, he was found huddled over a portable radio someone had snuck into a wedding reception, drink in hand, ready to salute his favourite team.

A couple of years ago, when Parkinsons and recovery from a broken hip significantly hindered his mobility, we were able to secure some seats for Dad and Mom at Rogers Centre. The smile from ear to ear said it all. As did a peaceful night, absent of nightmares and struggles that mars many a night for most Parkinsonian patients.

That spirit also helped him overcome a spinal infection in 2004, a broken hip in 2007, and since December 25^th, 2010, three seizures, two bouts of pneumonia, and a cracked rib. Most Parkinsonians wouldn’t have made it through these setbacks. Dad has. Much to the surprise and bewilderment of many a doctor, specialist and therapist at Trillium and Toronto Western who were ready to write him off again and again. A middle finger to all of you, his spirit and will shouted.

That shout was also evident a couple of weeks ago. Dad can no longer eat or drink, and relies on a gastric feeding tube to get his nutrition and hydration. He has great difficulty in speaking, even the fewest of words. For a man who loved and cherished his food and cold, tall glasses of water, it is heart-wrenching to see. Dad, on the other hand, never gives up, asking for souvalki , peanuts, mango juice, and his favourite, baklava, to be magically transported through a 3/8” feeding tube. Bring it to me, I’ll figure out a way, his eyes tell us.

On this particular occasion, he was alone in the family room, asleep, so we thought. I was in the basement, Mom organizing some files in her bedroom. I heard Dad waking up, and moments later, ask for water in a very hoarse and unclear voice, in Armenian, his native tongue. He repeated it several times, not loud enough for Mom to hear. Undaunted he switched to English, and called out again, several times. Once again, Mom did not hear. “Agua” he finally yelled out, using the Spanish he had learned from all those years of summer holidays in the Dominican Republic. Agua it was, although all Mom could offer him was water across his lips.

So, while he has valiantly fought this disease for 14 years, his heart and desire leading the way with gusto, his body and brain are now failing him, and the end is near. He may not be able to read this tribute, this recognition of his many ways. This appreciation from a daughter who is far too much like him, to have always appreciated the ways of her father. But, he can recognize his picture next to post. And he can recognize the walkway dedicated to him, Garo’s Walk, adjunct to Clifton Public School, in recognition of his community work and dedication. His pride swells, thrilled with the recognition the city bestowed to him.

Family. Friends. Community. His sacrifice, love, perseverance and desire to help any and all that came his way. That’s how I will always remember, honour and cherish Dad. Yesterday, today and tomorrow.

Happy Father’s Day, Dad. A week early, just how you like it.

Rant

2011-04-07T16:52:00.001-04:00

I normally keep things edgy on this blog, sometimes with a little lightness sprinkled in for good measure.

But as mentioned on my previous post, it has been a difficult time for our family lately, in large part due to my father's declining health, more than likely now in the last stage of Parkinsons disease. I mention it here, as I am providing a link to my other blog,role-reverse.blogspot.com for those interested in learning about our on-going journey, more like nightmare, in dealing with the Ontario healthcare system, particularly Trillium Hospital in Mississauga, Ontario.

Stay tuned.

Pain in the Backside

2011-04-06T02:59:00.005-04:00

While I have been away from writing for several months now, I hope to return in a couple of months, having had a second go round of spine surgery during March break. During this time, we have also had to deal with the last stage of my father's fight with Parkinsons' disease. I will share what I can on my other blog, role-reverse.blogspot.com and how our Canadian healthcare system is dangerously lacking, especially in the area of elderly care, management and health issues. While it may be too late for Dad, I'm sure what our family has learned will hopefully help other families as they try and navigate through the challenges of this debilitating disease, but also the Ontario healthcare system, particularly hospitals, where its been a daily battle just to ensure that some modicum of healthcare is delivered.

On a lighter note, many anecdotes and every-day stories that provided levity during my toughest days, are occupying space in my grey matter, and once the cob webs have cleared, and sitting is an activity I can partake in again, I'll return to share them with you.

In the meantime, as my ill, but courageous father says, what's the point of complaining when your amongst the stupids. (Its loses something in the translation from Armenian).

He also means the doctors and hospital staff at Trillium Health Centre, and not my generous readers. Trillium, is a whole other ball game...........in fact its a whole other sport. Too bad its actually life that we're playing with.

The Noises Inside my Head

2010-06-01T09:52:00.002-04:00

Thanks to my friend Nancy, who sent me this feed to Seth Godin's blog, I think I have just found the source of my adult-life affliction with migraines: the noises inside my head.

Leading, with much vim and vigour, in my grey matter are the Artist and the Evangelist, with a side order of the Boxer and the Hunter.

No wonder it takes 2 extra strength Advils, a decongestant, nasal rinse and peppermint oil to quiet a migraine attack.

And here I thought I was merely a nutbar. All I ever needed was the Zombie. I feel much better already.

Stalling Tactics?

2010-05-31T12:14:00.005-04:00

Apparently, there have been some new developments at our local pool/community centre/library, where I have been swimming for the past few months. A local teen was charged with, shall we say, excessive viewing pleasures.

Had he ventured into the washroom in the swimming pool change room, rather than the one he was caught in, he might not have come back for that second look, which ultimately led to his arrest.

Its mostly sagging boobs, varicose veins, where-did-they-come-from bruises, gnarled toe nails, mid-thrift fat, loose limbs, bottle-bleached hair on top with unmatching pubic hair, and a couple of walkers.

Loose lips, too. He wouldn't have made it out intact.

He also would have been begging for the cops to take him. Anywhere. Please. Now.

Well, I guess in a way, he knew what he was in for, when he chose to peep in on a young girl instead. Or is that part of the pre-dating ritual with teenagers today?

Is there an app for that?

Merry-Go-Round? No Mas!!!!!

2010-05-19T11:39:00.001-04:00

Summer has arrived in southern Ontario. So, while the birds chirp, the sun shines magnanimously, and everyone rushes outdoors in shorts and tshirts in typical Canadian style, beer in one hand, garden hoe in the other, yours truly is waiting for the room to stop spinning so that I too can share in the wonder of it all. And to be able to sit on this core stabilizer ball without feeling like I'm about to fall off the side of a cliff, while keying away on a laptop.

Vertigo. From a sinus infection no less.

Look up. Not so fast.

Look down. Not if you wish to join that downward motion all the way to the floor.

Turn around, and you'll feel like the room will forever spin. Round, and round, and round we go. No merry-go-round necessary.

Lie down. Words can't quite describe that one.

Food. Uh, no thanks. Not unless it comes with an airline-approved vomit bag. In fact, I may just need that bag for the next Flyers/Habs game on Thursday.

In the meantime, just a lot of head-holding, antibiotics, oil of oregano, candied ginger (makes me gag) and decongestants.

Is this payback from the Fearless-Foursome of the silver-haired variety at the Glen Abbey Pool? I suppose the deep end clearing kicking/splashing trickery was a little much. Or was it the muttering/swearing under my breath. Maybe it wasn't so much under my breath as I had hoped?

Gotta go. The next ride is coming up.

Virgin No Longer

2010-05-13T14:16:00.000-04:00

From a new friend, or follower, or fan, my first pat on the back for this blog. Thanks to Leeuna, at My Mind Wandered, I have been officially deflowered with the flower, er Sunshine Award. In fact, for many laughs, please give her a read. The comments posted by her readers alone will bring a smile to your face.

And now, back to my regular programming, whereby my Habs (Montreal Canadien's hockey team for all you non-hockey aficionados) have rocked the Stanley Cup playoffs and Gary Bettman's worst dreams, by knocking off the all-mighty Pens and Caps.

It was written in the skies the day that benevolent Cogeco sales rep handed me the keys to a HD PVR Plus digital box free for a year, all so that I could watch my Habs on tv, back in August of 2009. Where was she the past 30 years I have had to endure living in Leafs-land, surrounded by a bunch of toot-smokin Leafs fans that wouldn't know the directions to a Stanley Cup Parade, let alone how to throw one.

GO HABS GO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! All is right in the world again, Sydney-whiny-Crosby. Back to Nova Scotia, sans Le Cup. Take Gino Malkin with you.

Ode to Mom

2010-05-08T13:13:00.000-04:00

I was recently a guest columnist for The Booster, a supplement to the Mississauga News. Putting my sarcasm and edge aside for this one time, I wanted to properly honour Mom, a woman who has sacrificed it all for her family.

It was meant as a surprise, when I realized that chances were that the article would not necessarily be seen by Mom, as she had far too much on her plate to read back to front any newspaper. Once I found out which page the article would appear, I casually mentioned on Thursday that she might be interested in reading page 14.

Fifteen minutes later, she called, said she had seen my picture in the paper and an article, but hadn't had a chance to read it as Dad snatched it from her hands and wouldn't give the paper back. Neither of us know for sure, but we doubt Dad can read anymore. See pictures, yes, maybe a word or two, but not several sentences or paragraphs. That was okay; I informed her she could read it whenever time and Dad permitted.

Several minutes passed and the phone rang again. Mom, having retrieved the paper, and read the article, was in tears thanking me. Before things became overly emotional, I asked her how Dad had finally given the paper up, never an easy task, similar to the remote control for the tv or lift chair.

She told me that he thought he was going to read an announcement on my impending marriage. Kept looking for the groom-to-be's picture. Handed it back, when he didn't find it. Disappointed?

We laughed and laughed. Tears of joy.

As for any announcement, that shipped has passed.

"From the time she turned 18, my mother, Mary Kalaydjian, worked to support her family. Initially, to support her mother and sister, having lost her father at age 9. Then, along with my father, to support my brother and myself. Over the course of her lifetime, she worked for diverse organizations such as the United Nations, Canada Steamship Lines, and RJR-Macdonald. While raising us in the 80’s, she also went back to school to earn a ceriticate in Accouting from Ryerson Polytechnical, as well as to take numerous Human Resources courses in support of her career.

My parents, who worked and toiled hard so that my brother and I could go to university and enjoy what every immigrant hopes for their children, a better life. That took us from Montreal, to Mississauga in the late 70’s. Along the way, my father started community watch in our Mississauga neighbourhood after our home, along with 7 others, were broken into one Easter weekend. For his community work and support, he was honoured with a walkway called Garo’s Way earlier this decade, and featured in the Mississauga News, as it was the first of its kind for an individual still living.

Fast forward to 2004, when life changed drastically for my Mother and Father. Dad, who was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease in the 90’s, came down with a spine infection that somehow caused dementia to kick in literally overnight. Shocked, shaken, and feeling like the rug had been wrenched from under our feet, we spent the better part of 11 weeks, rotating shifts, at Toronto Western, watching over Dad, to make sure he was safe and sound. My mother did not leave his bedside for the first 3-4 weeks, until we were able to get the hospital (thanks to the Patient’s Advocate) to designate a sitter to watch Dad during the overnight hours. We didn’t know what exactly had happened to bring on the dementia over a 24 hour cycle, but we took Mom’s lead, to make sure that we stayed on top of the specialists to get to the bottom of things. I know Mom took some breaks during those 11 weeks, but it seemed that she literally lived in that room, watching his every move, helping him with every task, loving him, supporting him and trying her best to create a safe environment for someone who had just lost all sense of things and was confused literally out of his mind. She willed and prodded him to get better.

Somehow, somewhere, even though they were very pessimistic, we survived that ordeal, only to realize that life had just taken a very serious and dramatic turn that would require an entire shift in our paradigm. Dad came home, requiring around the clock supervision, limited mobility, with a whole host of drugs, some of which had troubling side effects, and ongoing doctor’s appointments. To this day, he requires 24 hour care.

Mom, who was a careful driver lacking confidence, knew little about the on-going maintenance of a home, who had a rich and productive life, decided that she alone would be his caregiver. All 5’2” of her. Through the incideousness that is Parkinson’s disease, the darkness and muddiness of dementia, a broken hip that required 7 months in a horrendous long-term care facility, she was at his side, day and night. As any family that has a loved one that has either of these diseases will tell you, the nights are the worst, and Mom somehow took care of Dad during the day and most sleepless nights.

Our beggings and pleadings finally sunk in two years ago, when she hired a live-in caregiver to help her. That in and of itself has been an ordeal, as we have gone though over 12 caregivers, half of whom never brothered to show up for work.

Three years ago, previous back injuries finally took their toll on me, and I had to move in with my parents as I could no longer take care of myself. So Mom, who already had her hands full with Dad, now had me to care for as well. My friends and other relatives helped as much as they could, but it was Mom who carted me to one specialist after another, urging me not to give up, holding my hand, holding me up, in essence, until the answer finally came in the manner of a surgeon in Buffalo. Mom, the careful and reluctant driver, who had taken over all the driving duties for my Dad, actually drove me several times to Buffalo, even in the dead of winter.

It is because of this woman, my mother, Mary Kalaydjian, that my father continues to live, feel safe, and even thrives more than any doctor can medically explain. It is also because of my mother that I have a chance at some semblance of a life after spine surgery 16 months ago. And for all these as well as for so many other reasons, that I would like the rest of our community to learn about this incredible woman, my mother.

She has stubbornly hung onto her determination that her family be given their best chance at life. It is her fierce love, support, will, faith, dedication, selflessness, perseverance, and strength that has willed life and soul into our lives. She is our centre, our rock, our definition of Mother. At the end of the day, it is a Mother’s story and a love story. And in honour of her, and to somehow convey the depth of our love and appreciation for her, really feelings that cannot be conveyed in words, I hope that you will consider sharing the story of Mary Kalaydjian." (The Booster, Friday, May 6, 2010)

TTC - The Better Way?

2010-04-28T15:49:00.000-04:00

Why fly, when you can ride? Especially when there is all this ash floating around, some gazillion metres above the earth, grounding million dollar planes and causing mayhem for human air travelers.

Just when our transit system has been demonised and received a healthy dose of crow, in terms of their definition of customer service, or lack thereof, along comes a pigeon out to prove everyone wrong.

Then again, the pigeon didn't have to deal with sleeping ticket agents, long line ups for tokens, use the despicable washrooms that most humans avoid at all costs, walk over and around puddles that test the hairs, follicles and passages of one's sinus cavities or defend against the sharply edged elbows, carry-on bags or strollers of fellow riders.

Nope, just waltz in, gravitate to the centre pole, away from the rush, and casually walk out the sliding doors when your station comes up.

What does this pigeon know that we don't? And why is he better behaved than the average TTC customer?

Sign him up, quick.

Pictures Don't Lie

2010-04-12T16:57:00.005-04:00

"The police have a warrant for my arrest."

Not exactly the way I had envisioned ending my evening, with a tall, spicy ceasar in one hand, phone in the other, some 10 years ago.

Yup, that got my attention pretty quick. The ceasar would have to wait.

After a quick run-down of the particulars of how my brother's name had been added to the dotted line on a warrant, I quickly pinched myself to see whether this was yet another vivid dream that I would eventually wake from.

Nope, not this time. Besides which, most of those dreams involved, well, let's just say, no brothers, no mothers, no fathers, no family and no friends. Just strangers, of the male persuasion, wearing..........smelling........yeah.

Back to the warrant. It seemed my naive and generous brother, in opening his home to a friend in trouble, had managed to be impersonated by said "friend". While my brother provided room, board, comfort and counselling to this said friend, (let's call him Fool), Fool was a busy, yet confused bee.

After a short period of time or reflection or straightedness, Fool fell off the proverbial wagon, and began to slowly but surely relieve my brother of various electronic equipment, clothing, etc to feed his Wagonness. I guess my brother, we'll call him Stephen, should have been more clearer on how he defined Help, because something got lost in translation.

Fool was no Fool. He decided to really test the boundaries of Help, only in public. While out and about, Fool decided to continue to try and feed his Wagonness in many creative ways. When that creativity was noticed by the general folk, say taxi drivers for one or two or three, he decided to inhabit Stephen, and in essence became the New Stephen to the public at large.

The New Stephen rode taxis for free, forgetting to pay for fares as he ran out of taxis before the taxi driver could ask for his fare. The New Stephen also took his relieving act on the road, specifically Yonge Street, where he relieved a few shops of their wares, but not before introducing himself as the New Stephen. The New Stephen ate a few free dinners, saw a few free films and generally tested the boundaries of being the New Stephen. All while he still lived under the roof of the Old Bro.

Until he got the attention of the police. And hence the warrant. Old Stephen's name on the New Stephen's face.

A phone call was made to the police station, explaining the error of their ways. We exchanged information, set up a time to bring in the Old Stephen, so as to set things straight formally. You see this was before we had cameras on most corners or in every store, and before there was an extensive database and information on all citizenry. Big Brother was still in his teens then.

We walked into the police station at midnight, introducing ourselves to the officer at the front desk. It took about two seconds to compare the Old Stephen in his current form to the New Stephen on the warrant, shared a couple of nervous laughs (mostly ours), a few details on where they could find the New Stephen, aka Fool and we were done.

I could have sworn we heard some laughter as we exited the police station. You see, the New Stephen, aka Fool was black. My brother the Old and Only Stephen, is white. Fool was not the sharpest tool in the shed.

In fact, he was really Stupid. Really Stupid.

When Four Became Six.....and then Eight

2010-03-31T15:29:00.012-04:00

The Fearsome Foursome have multiplied. Not the mice, thank God.

At first, it was a simple addition to the equation. On one fine Monday afternoon, six silver-haired aristocratic fashionistas took over the deep end of the Glen Abey Pool. Yes, I was a little late to the pool that day, but I had grown accustomed to having the Deep Zone to myself. Aha! Just when I had grown complacent. The Fearsome Foursome + 1 + 1 friends (truth be told, with less silver, more black, or hint o' black), wading flush in the middle of the Deep Zone, deep in conversation about one MBA'ed son or another, one trip to Europe or another, one party or gala or another. Bla, bla, bla.

"My son .....brilliant.......took over.......".

"Promotion......bonus......lakefront property........yacht........".

"Gorgeous grandchildren.........dean's list........".

"Five-star hotel.....limo........ gourmet chef.......".

Bla. Bla. BLA. "My.....". "Well, MY...".

Yep. This was a pissing match, of the gray-haired variety. Minus the pissing, but with sneers where mouths usually rested. Although at that age, the bladder is a little weaker, so I've been told. Hey, we were all in a pool, sharing water after all. Nose and mouth above water level at all times. Just in case. The rest could be shaken and shivered off in a shower. Ingested, not so much.

So, with the obstacle grown to six, it meant a few more fakes and fumbles for me, as I crossed from one side of the deep end to the other. I even tried my kicking-up-a-storm routine, splashing and gesturing as I got to within a couple of feet of the party-of-six. If you can't join them, splash them.

But when additions became a multiple from the original four, I acquiesced. Not defeated. Acquiesced.

The lane for lengths would be my next zone to conquer. It would only force my legs to work harder, nerves to pump and regenerate more. Better stronger, faster? Besides which, the legs didn't have the goods to kick-up-a-storm for eight. Six was pushing it a little. Eight, nada.

Lengths it would be. 30 metres. Swimming, sharing a lane with others, ahead or behind me. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Float on your back, quick. Turn over, now.

Mayday. MAYDAY.

How May I Help You?

2010-03-22T11:25:00.014-04:00

"The screen is black. What do I do? What has your father done now! Call me."

"The screen is fuzzy. I tried turning the tv on and off. Same with the digital box. Nothing. Call me when you get this message."

"My answering machine isn't working. Misty has chewed through the wires again. I swear, I am opening the side door, and she can leave, and I don't care anymore. Bye"

"The hot water tank is leaking. There's also grey dust all over the top of the tank. Should I worry? Call me."

"The air conditioning isn't working. What's wrong with it?"

"I can't turn the channels on the tv. What button am I supposed to press? Call me when you get home."

"Carol, where are you? I asked you to call me."

"I can't open my emails. I can't pay my bills on-line. I have deadlines. Its Mom. Call me."

I have programmed a specific ring tone on my land line for calls that come from my parents' home. When I'm home and the phone rings, I wait for that familiar tone to set in, and generally try and pick it up at around the third ring. By then, I have quickly reviewed in my mind, the various manuals I have had to memorize on all things electronic in my parent's home, visualized their three remote controls, and had a quick moment to take in a last breath.

While I lived with them, as they cared for me during my back woes, my parents 20+ year-old CRT Sears brand TV broke down. Flat screen, I immediately thought. Yes, they agreed, especially since the tv was such a huge part of my Dad's day, and a way for Mom to keep Dad distracted (perhaps while the caregiver snoozed, read or was last seen riding a bus - see previous post).

Digital box, I thought again. And not just any digital box, but a HD PVR box. To top if off, my mother wanted Bell, the company that forgot customer service. Then moved it to India.

I rue the day that the satellite and PVR digital box were installed. Make it the two weeks it took for Bell to install that equipment properly, and even then, I had to use my technical chops to get it functioning properly. Something the customer service rep from India was unable to do. "Shovel the snow off your rooftop", he advised. "That should get your tv a clear signal." Yes, of course, that must be it. Climb up two stories to remove the snow off the satellite. In the middle of winter, with limited mobility that just barely got me to the washroom most days. It dawned on me that fateful winter day in 2007 that this was the inaugural beginning of my new role as Technical Help for Mom and Pop Kalaydjian.

While I was a floor away from the Electronics Hell locale, communication around technical glitches often involved yelling from one floor to the rest. Sometimes it involved climbing a few stairs to the family room, playing around with a remote or two, checking out a furnace or heater, keeping my mother from throwing the "I'll-chew-any-device-or-wire-you-leave-out. I-love-the-buzz" cat, or simply encouraging my mother on as she hot wired yet another wire, cable or device Misty had branded.

Some days it meant calling in repairmen, or choosing new water heaters or air conditioners. Or waiting through another call to Bell. That is a whole other topic for another day. Children have been conceived, born and raised while Bell works on a technical issue. Their bills reflect that.

Now that I'm back to my own home, managing my own technical issues, mostly an old laptop that my brother has to service once in a while, the original Electronics Hell locale remains. While we joke about men and their remotes, I can tell you that even when they're ill, that need to be physically connected to a remote never changes. Hand gripping remote at all times, even whilst asleep. Just try and take it away!

And with that, a button accidentally hit, fingers ravaged by Parkinson's drumming on the surface of the remote, jumping from one missed key to another, feverishly trying to get the screen to comply. TSN, no CNN, no Sportsnet, no CBC Newsworld (or whatever they're calling themselves now, with the flashy new set). No picture, no sound. No go.

My phone rings. Their tune kicks in. We're at the starting gate. "Hi Mom. What's up?".

And the gun goes off.

What Happened to the "Care" of Care-Giving?

2010-03-13T16:09:00.008-05:00

This post will be more of a rant than a musing

Some background first. My father, a Parkinson's patient with dementia, requires 24/7 care. Early on in the course of the disease, between our health care system's hours for elder care in their own homes and my heroic mother, we were able to manage the requirements.

The past two years have evolved to the point where a live-in caregiver who works from Monday to Friday is an absolute must. Fortunately, the federal government, through the Live-In Caregiver Program, allows Canadians to sponsor caregivers from around the world, to help meet the growing needs for families wishing to keep their loved ones at home for as long as possible. Certain criteria must be met, but that has not been an issue in our case.

What has been is the quality of individuals who use this criteria to enter our country in terms of their true credentials; the ethics of the agencies that match caregivers looking for sponsors and families in need of caregivers; the certification process of caregivers now available in Ontario through questionable private academies; the caregivers sense of commitment and understanding of the importance of the role they wish to fulfill; and lastly the attitude and sense of entitlement that the newest crop of entrants bring to the interviews, having been coached by other caregivers living here in Canada, originally from their home towns, or their roommates.

My father's case requires some experience and knowledge of the nature of his disease, and patience. And more patience. In light of that, we offer a private bedroom, laundry facilities, home-cooked meals all made from scratch by my mother, opportunities to earn additional income if they wish to assist in other areas of the home, and open arms into our family's activities and events.

I say all this having gained a deep and intimate understanding of this entire process, as we have gone through over 14 caregivers in two years, over half of whom we thought we had hired, only to have no-shows on their start dates.

Several stayed between 1-4 days; one stayed up to the exact day she gained her OHIP card (health card that entitles them to free health care in Ontario, three months from arrival date into Ontario); two male caregivers stayed for the week it took for them to gain employment in a restaurant, their actual hoped-for role in Canada, even though they entered Canada under the guise of caregivers.

In the last three weeks alone, we have hired three caregivers, none of whom bothered to show up after having committed to the full-time role. In as much as it pains me to say this, the next statement is factual and you are free to draw your own conclusions: each of these 14 caregivers are originally from the Philippines, using different ports of entry to Canada, whether from Dubai, Saudi Arabia, Hong Kong, or elsewhere.

I wish I could say that this experience is unique to our family's, but it is not. We have spoken to many other families who have had similar experiences with similar frustrations.

Humour may be the only way to survive this, but when you are watching your mother deteriorate before your very eyes as she gamely tries to bridge the time gap towards the next caregiver, anger and frustration are emotions that more easily bubble to the surface. I, with my limited mobility, can offer absolutely no help, either.

But humour is the best remedy, and with that in mind, I will give you a glimpse into the series of questions exchanged between the last caregiver we thought we had hired, and my mother. Keep in mind that this is a 26 year old young woman, in Canada for all of one week, staying with her mother's two sisters in a community near by:

"My aunt told me that I think you should pay for my transportation costs each month, like a $100 more". Yes, because any hard-working Canadian kid, fresh out of school, with no experience, expects their employer to cover their transit costs to and from their offices/place of employment. What??
"I speak to my mother every night for an hour and a half. I need Internet service." A stranger in my parent's home, who wishes to be able to have access to their wireless network, in this day and age of hacking and identity theft. Check.
"I need to get my OHIP card. So, I should be able to start on Wednesday." They were speaking on a Friday, and the next business day was Monday. What exactly was she going to do between 10:30 a.m. Monday (which is all the time she would need to fill out the papers, and present i.d, offices open at 9:00 a.m.) and Wednesday morning? Ride the bus? Maybe that's why she asked for the $100 monthly transit allowance.
"Will I be alone here, or will you also be here?" Because my 73 year-old-mother needed to babysit her, while she was taking care of my father. Taking care of my father mostly involves watching tv with him or distracting him with puzzles, exercises or mind-usage games. So my mother had to act as a babysitter for a hired caregiver? Check again.
"When I go to my room at night, will anyone come in?" I don't even know where to begin. She has a private room, living in a home with a 77 year-old man who cannot turn over without assistance, who cannot raise his arms above chest level at best, and a worn-out 73 year old woman who is hard of hearing and resembles a skeleton at the best of times.

Oh, yeah, Misty the cat. A cat that comes with personality plus, and a hard-won reputation as a no nonsense dudette, but please. She doesn't touch or like to be touched. By family, let alone a misguided 26 year-old wanna-be caregiver.

Check mate!

This was no Mickey

2010-02-19T17:01:00.008-05:00

Since late fall, my home, at least my basement, has played host to a smattering of unwelcome guests, of the four-legged and decidedly un-cute critter variety.

It took me a couple of weeks to wake up to the fact that those small black bits scattered here and there in my unfinished basement were not, say dried herbs or pieces of felt that my house cleaner had missed (not that she regularly vacuums the basement, but that's a whole other story).

Out came the plastic traps with the V (for Victory? or Vice? or Vermin?) in red on its outer shell and peanut butter as bait, the peppermint from my mother's garden (supposedly something they dislike) and several bags of well-pooped/peed litter from my mother's cat's litter box. Waste not, want not.

Scattered all around the perimeter of the basement, I figured that I had my bases covered, with three different types of ammunition to get these critters and once and for all to extend them a permanent invitation to hell.

Each day entailed a walk about of the entire basement, flashlight in hand, patrolling not only each of the traps, but most of the surface of the basement as well, on the lookout for evidence of new mouse poop. Trust me, after a while you can tell those blacks pellets from a few feet away.

Within the first couple of days, one small mouse was caught. Disposing of it was an ordeal I can't quite discuss yet, as the mere thought of it causes bile to quickly make its way up my throat, ready for a quick projection outwards.

But having been through this hosting of unwelcome guests once before, I knew that mice travelled in numbers, and where there was a baby mouse, mama or papa were not far behind. I kept up my vigil. Light in hand, I patrolled my basement diligently, day and night.

A few days passed, nothing. Another day, still my flashlight revealed only dust. I wasn't ready to celebrate yet. My guts, or bile, were tingling that something wasn't right.

I decided to get down on ground level and check the inside of the traps. What the f*&#? They/it had successfully been feeding on the peanut butter, without triggering the trap. Any of the 5 traps!

Over the next few days, every trap that was reset with new peanut butter, was empty by the next morning, or even by the end of that day. Before I knew it, this mouse/mice had eaten more peanut butter than I had. I was bankrolling the high-end eating habits of f^*(%^#$@ mice!

No more. It was No-Name from here on in. Not that it made a difference. For the next week, the mouse/mice happily ate the No-Name Smooth, and I stuck to the Kraft Crunchy variety.

I was starting to get pissed and frustrated; avoiding my basement at all costs, I could not face another empty trap, with peanut butter gone missing in action .

It was time to implement a new tactic, one of starving them/him/her to death. You ate through my traps, fine, then starve you little buggers.

What exactly was I thinking? As any wise mouse will tell you, if the mountain won't come to Mohamed, then Mohamed will come to the mountain. The mountain, in this case, happened to be a granola bar in my cupboard next to my kitchen sink. I think I almost passed out that day, knowing that a small critter was now patrolling my entire house, and not just my basement.

My knees buckled as I slowly dropped to the floor. Since my legs were of not much use to me, I stuck my head into the cupboard to see what other mountain the mouse had helped himself to, and where the hell the point of entry was.

The opening for the pipes! Not only in that cupboard, but under the kitchen sink as well. Now I was pissed and angry. No 4 inch critter was going to outsmart me.

I ran to Superstore, purchased several steel brush pads (the kind you use to get the worst of the gunk from the bottom of cooking pans), and stuffed every crevice and opening around every pipe in all cupboards in my kitchen and three washrooms. My neighbour also recommended that I trash the plastic mouse traps and use the wood ones from the Dollar Store. If that wasn't enough, she was kind enough to let me borrow a mouse sonar that emits a sound that apparently sends them off in directions other than your home. This was war!

Three days later, the deed was done. It was a mother of a mouse, several inches larger than the baby. More bile in throat, shovel in hand, that too was disposed.

Victory!!!!! The peanut butter was once again for human consumption only in Casa Kalaydjan. Those unwelcome guests were sent off in a garbage dump somewhere, leaving my home human-only territory once again.

Until today.

On my return from my afternoon walk, I passed by my car, parked on my driveway. A gray tail caught my eye. One crushed mouse, guts splashed by my passenger side tire. One day after I returned the mouse sonar to my neighbour.

Coincidence? Luck? I think I just need to lay down.

Who's Your Daddy?

2010-02-16T16:43:00.004-05:00

Back at the pool, it appears the fearsome foursome have gone missing!

At least for the past week.

When I made my way over to the deep end last Thursday, I started slowly swimming from one end of the pool to the rope, and back again. I kept that up for several minutes, but with my radar in place, scanning the horizon and pool side for a glimpse of silver hair. One lap, quick peek, nothing. A couple more laps, a nonchalant tossing of the head, and still nada. Except for a stiff neck. (You have to suffer from back woes to understand how the mundane become the PAIN).

Not a gray to be had, unless you consider the gray in cognito in most of the over-forty heads of hair. Sure they appear to be fire-engine red, majestic auburn, mocca brown, or sun-kissed blond, but only that little plastic bottle paid for at the cashier or our colourists know the trueness of the gray underneath.

The silver, though, at least in the quad formation of the fearsome foursome, was no where to be seen at Glen Abbey Pool. In the water, on the deck, in the change rooms, nor in the showers. And to think, all it took was some vigorous splashing to stake out some territory.

Fearsome Foursome. Where for art thou? Stay tuned.

Commotion at the Combo

2010-02-09T11:42:00.011-05:00

Part of my physio routine post spine surgery is swimming in the local neighbourhood pool. I use the word swimming loosely, as I attempt to build up some strength towards actually swimming laps.

I chose the "combo" session, twice weekly, as it has one lane, and ropes separating the deep end from the rest of the pool. It affords me the space and paraphernalia to warm up, and is non-structured enough that I can do as I please.

You get a smattering of other folks, generally seniors, working through various routines under water, limbering up joints and muscles that stubbornly stiffen with cold or just age ungracefully with arthritis; some mummies or grandparents with pre-school aged kids just learning to tread, on their way to becoming one with water; and some in betweens, like me.

After warm-up, where I try and coax my low back, hips and shoulders into some sort of submission, or at least work through enough kinks that I can actually bend, rotate, extend or flex said joints, I head to the deep end. Here, I can "swim" using front crawl and back pedal kick from one end of the roped area to the other, building atrophied muscles and willing and pushing those nerves that were damaged in my legs to pump rich new blood.

When I first checked out the various pool sessions available at Glenn Abbey Pool, I purposely stayed away from the family sessions to avoid swimming amongst young families, not trusting myself to be nimble enough to avoid young and powerful limbs underwater or exuberantly swinging arms above. I also declined lengths, until, well I could actually swim a length without my legs burnings or hips/back aching; same for water jogging, leisure (what is this the ocean or a pool?), and the ubiquitous rubber duckie (the imagination runs wild).

Combo, as described above, seemed the perfect fit. That is until I watched a fearsome foursome of silver-haired ladies, gradually wade towards the deep end, staking out their positions in the water, smack in the middle of the deep end, arms stretched out, supported by tubers or other flotation devices, completely oblivious to the rest of us who were already there. Once in position, it becomes virtually impossible to try and get by them. You think you have a straight line to the other end, when one floats oh so casually right in your path, so you swim or tread around them. You're in the middle of a stroke, when you get struck by an arm that's cupping water underneath, or demonstrating just how large the portion was at a daughter-in-law's anniversary party. All done with a knowing glance that whether they arrived first, second or last, this is their end, their reserved section, staked and soldiered.

At first I was patient. I waited; they laughed and floated. I arrived extra early; they arrived in mid-session and still they floated. I head-faked and arm-faked, swimming in one direction, then the other, in an indeterminable manner; they glanced and floated. I tried to smile and nod; they ignored and floated. I needed a new game plan.

I arrived early on Monday, warmed up, and walked underwater towards the deep end. There was no one there. I smiled and started my front crawl and back pedal.

Ten minutes in, the fearsome foursome appeared.

Slowly they made their way to the deep end. They floated by the ropes; I rested against the pool's edge, ready to enact the new game plan. Once they assumed their position, floating to the middle of the pool, I took a deep breath and started off. As I nudged by them, on my way to the other end, I kicked up a storm of water. On my next swim by, I exaggerated my kicking and splashed some more.

They sneered. I ignored.

Serve and game. My legs were burning anyway.

On-Time Travelling or Bending? The Clock is Ticking.

2010-01-24T15:33:00.010-05:00

This from James Roberts, professor of philosophy at U of T:

“… the phenomenon of the passage of time, that feeling that you have that time is actually passing. There are some terrific arguments to show that this is a kind of illusion. That.....things that happen in this great block universe but that there is no such thing as the passage of time."

Isaac Newton also believed that there was no such thing as time; only a sequence of events.
(http://www.thestar.com/opinion/article/754694--torch-relay-illuminates-debate-on-journalism)

Really? If only.

If time didn't pass, where, exactly, did the five hours go as I waited to see my spine surgeon? I read, went for a walk, discussed the merits of the Canadian health care system vs the American one, defended communist Canada while being called a socialist, sat, went for a walk, drank copious amounts of water, watched CNN, day-dreamed (on matters other than time), waited in line to relieve myself of the contents I had consumed, and walked again. Did I mention my specialist was in Buffalo? Was that an illusion?

Or Is it possible for a roomful of people to share the exact same illusion at the very same time, as we wait patiently for my brother to show up at yet another family function? Would that same illusion come complete with chanting stomachs, 3 tired and testy boys climbing around and through each other, a game of bingo, the butter congealing around another cooling dish, playing a game of using the remote to mute each of those 3 tired and testy boys, and finally the call at 2:00 p.m. from that said brother, announcing he was ready to be picked up at the Go-Train station, a good two hours after we were supposed to have lunch.

How about when it's five minutes to go before the movie starts, and you're freezing standing outside on an arse-numbing, frightfully cold Canadian day, because you volunteered to pick up the tickets for your brother? The movie theatre manager must have missed the part about time not passing us by; by the time we made it into the theatre, planting what remained of our arses in neck-stretching seats, the rest of the audience had already witnessed the first 15 minutes of the movie. It just an illusion!

Surely you have one of these time-benders in your family or circle of friends? Oblivious about other people's time, they manage to live on a different time zone, yet within the same city. For whom a quick mental math exercise must be done before you extend an invitation: for my brother Steve, its a full 2 hours before the actual time you are expecting him. In winter, add another 1/2 hour. On Sundays, post-Saturday evening celebrations, yet another 1/2 hour, adding up to a full 3 hours for those who are still counting.

On a celebratory note, Steve was actually on time for one important event during his lifetime; his birth. It was a pre-planned cesarean, after all. I love you anyway, bro.