Santa, I Believe!

When I was but a wee girl, the week leading up to Christmas was a time when many an argument would be had as our parents sent us kids to bed early, so that "Santa" could wrap our gifts & magically place them under the Christmas tree.

That is until Rex, my aunt's dog, would get a hold of them and open a few on his own. Apparently, HE didn't get the memo, & neither did Grandma, who still fed him oranges and other food under the table. Grandma, after all, placed special white envelopes ON our trees, not under.

Envelopes that seem to keep showing up some 30 yrs later. Imagine that!

Although there was that one other white envelope that had my name on it, when I was 8, and contained tickets to the Montreal Forum to see my beloved Habs! WHAT!!!! No way!!!!! 10 rows behind the Canadiens bench, no less. Santa, I believe! I believe!

I don't think my feet touched the ground until the New Year, second week in.

Some of the relatives (and pet) from my childhood are no longer with us, but I'm sure, as was our old tradition on Christmas Eve, they will be sitting at a special table graced with many a palette-teasing foods & plenty of drink to make Grandma's cheeks colour. Dad might just be trying to fill Grandma's glass, yet again. Silly Dad, like mother, like daughter.... neither could or can hold their liquor.

I wish you and all your loved ones a blessed and Merry Christmas, and a Happy New Year full of joy, rip-roaring fun, happiness, good health and many fond, memorable moments.

Garo's Way

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.

Ode to Mom

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)

Pictures Don't Lie

"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.  

How May I Help You?

"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?

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!

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

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.