Friday, November 30, 2018
Thursday, November 29, 2018
Throwback Thursday: Leo
DW is primarily a dog person but she has a love of all creatures. When her dog, Laddie, passed away in 1991, she was naturally heartbroken.
We had only been living together for a few months when he died. He was living with her parents, as he didn't go with her when she moved into her first town home, and when she and I moved into an apartment together, pets of any kind were discouraged by our landlord.
In 1992, however, DW wanted another pet. She wanted another creature to cuddle, and so we went to the humane society to find a kitten.
There were plenty of cats in the old shelter on Champagne Avenue, and the display room had more than enough kittens. I spied a tiny tabby who lazily curled up on a blanket. "How about that one?" I suggested. My family has had its fair share of cats but we had never had a tabby, and I liked them the most.
The assistant moved to the door to get the tabby, but when she opened the door, a white kitten with grey patches pushed all the other kittens out of the way and tried to make a break from the room, as if to say, "I'm outta here, suckers! These two are my ticket out!"
The tabby hardly lifted its head. It was more concerned with rest than adoption.
DW couldn't help but notice the white and grey cat. The assistant had to pick it up to prevent it from getting loose. "How about that one?" DW asked.
The assistant brought the tiny male cat to DW and it began to purr and rub his head against hers. "Oh, Ross, he's perfect."
We filled out the paperwork, paid the fees, and the cat was ours. We named him Leopold, after the famous conductor Stowkowski, made even more famous by the Bugs Bunny cartoon. We called him Leo, for short.
Leo was an energetic kitten with plenty of affection. He loved to socialize, and would hang out in our living room when we had guests. When DW and I curled up on the sofa to watch TV, Leo would be on one of our laps, often moving from one person to the other, and back.
DW took this photo in the late spring of 1992. Leo is sitting on our bed, looking out at the window, either at a bird or some activity that is occurring on one of the balconies in the neighbouring apartment building.
We had Leo from '92 to 2003, when he developed a kidney disease. Our oldest daughter vaguely remembers the cat, but our youngest was only a few months old when we said our goodbyes.
We really are cat people.
We had only been living together for a few months when he died. He was living with her parents, as he didn't go with her when she moved into her first town home, and when she and I moved into an apartment together, pets of any kind were discouraged by our landlord.
In 1992, however, DW wanted another pet. She wanted another creature to cuddle, and so we went to the humane society to find a kitten.
There were plenty of cats in the old shelter on Champagne Avenue, and the display room had more than enough kittens. I spied a tiny tabby who lazily curled up on a blanket. "How about that one?" I suggested. My family has had its fair share of cats but we had never had a tabby, and I liked them the most.
The assistant moved to the door to get the tabby, but when she opened the door, a white kitten with grey patches pushed all the other kittens out of the way and tried to make a break from the room, as if to say, "I'm outta here, suckers! These two are my ticket out!"
The tabby hardly lifted its head. It was more concerned with rest than adoption.
DW couldn't help but notice the white and grey cat. The assistant had to pick it up to prevent it from getting loose. "How about that one?" DW asked.
The assistant brought the tiny male cat to DW and it began to purr and rub his head against hers. "Oh, Ross, he's perfect."
We filled out the paperwork, paid the fees, and the cat was ours. We named him Leopold, after the famous conductor Stowkowski, made even more famous by the Bugs Bunny cartoon. We called him Leo, for short.
Leo was an energetic kitten with plenty of affection. He loved to socialize, and would hang out in our living room when we had guests. When DW and I curled up on the sofa to watch TV, Leo would be on one of our laps, often moving from one person to the other, and back.
DW took this photo in the late spring of 1992. Leo is sitting on our bed, looking out at the window, either at a bird or some activity that is occurring on one of the balconies in the neighbouring apartment building.
We had Leo from '92 to 2003, when he developed a kidney disease. Our oldest daughter vaguely remembers the cat, but our youngest was only a few months old when we said our goodbyes.
We really are cat people.
Wednesday, November 28, 2018
Monday, November 26, 2018
The Man in the Van
I pulled ahead of the GMC van and recognized the business right away. The orangy-yellow vehicle with the red name, formed like a stamp on an important document. Cohen. The company was further down Merivale Road, toward Slack.
The Cohen van was stopped at the doors to the M-Store, on Merivale at Meadowlands, which had formerly been called Miracle Mart. I had worked there, years ago, but this evening, I was picking up my new girlfriend, who was just finishing her shift.
When my girlfriend, who I now refer to as DW, emerged from the department store, she didn't walk to my car. Instead, she went to the driver's side of the Cohen van and spoke with the driver. I looked in my rear-view mirror but could only see the front grill and headlights of the van. Looking out my side-view mirror, I could see DW and only make out a partial shadow from within the van.
DW spoke a few words and then made her way to my car. "Who was that?" I asked as she climbed into the passenger seat.
"My dad."
I turned to look as he pulled out and drove past us. An older man waved as he passed by. It was my first encounter with Stan, my future father-in-law.
Stan passed away on Friday, November 16, at the age of 91.
Though no guy can ever be perfect for a dad's daughter, Stan was always kind to me. The first time he struck up a conversation with me, he asked, "Did you see the game last night?"
"What game?" I countered. Stan liked lots of sports, but I learned that day that hockey was, by far, his favourite. I had to gather the courage, that first time, to admit that I don't follow the game, that I wasn't much of a sports fan. It didn't stop him from continuing, "You should have seen..." and telling me about the highlights.
I listened, nodded. Over the years, I had learned to pay close attention to CBC Radio, during John Hancock's sports report, to make a mental note of the teams that played the night before, and any highlights that stood out.
When Stan would ask me, "Did you see the game last night?" I could at least engage him in the teams, the scores, and who made any headlines. Stan would fill in the gaps.
And so it went.
One of his youngest granddaughter's fondest memories is when she went with him to a Sens game.
Stan was very much a family man. Coming from a farm near Smiths Falls with eight other siblings, Stan knew hard work and the value of giving to his family. Putting himself first was something truly unfamiliar to him. He was always a "How can I help?" man.
DW and I dated for five years before we married, but Stan treated me like family long before then. I remember how happy he was on our wedding day, the proud father of the bride, and he embraced me, telling me how proud he was to have me as a son-in-law.
Stan was modest, never choosing to talk about himself, but he has had many achievements. Having worked in the construction industry, Stan helped shape Ottawa's landscape. He helped build the YMCA buildings on Argyle and the Grace Hospital, at Parkdale and Wellington. He helped build the Queensway, parts of Hwy 401, and the stretch of Regional Road 6 (Roger Stevens Drive), which cuts through the Marlborough Forest between North Gower and Smiths Falls.
Stan later worked as a mobile crane operator, and has taken down many Ottawa landmarks, such as the Capitol Theatre, part of Somerset House, and the aforementioned Grace Hospital (he put it up and took it down).
Stan even operated a crane to raise a photographer high above the RCMP musical ride. The photo that was shot later adorned the 50-dollar bill for decades to come.
Stan ran that crane well into his 80s. On his 81st birthday, Hallie Cotnam, from CBC's Ottawa Morning, interviewed him at his crane. At the time, stopping work was something that did not interest him.
Stan had been a grandfather three times over before DW and I increased the size of the family, and it was always such a joy to see Stan with all of his grandkids. All told, he has eight grand children, and no matter how far away they were, he loved them with all his heart.
When his own wife fell ill, Stan stayed by her side, visiting her in the care home almost every day for about 10 years, until she passed away.
In his final years, Stan's health waned but he never gave up. He came out for an evening with Ian Rankin, one of the only fiction writers that he read regularly. When he met Rankin for a book signing, Stan told Ian, "You know, the last time I was in this church, I got married."
Even earlier this year, Stan was still playing pool and still beating us.
I've known Stan for almost 30 years and it's going to feel strange not having him around. I sometimes feel that I saw him more frequently than I saw my own parents, and I think that goes back to his devotion to family and how he passed that on to his own kids. DW says there's so much of him in her that he'll never be far.
Stan has been so much to me but I still remember the first time I went to pick up my girlfriend from work, and this caring, loving man was there ahead of me. There were plenty of times when I would pick DW up from work, where she would call him to let him know that I would be collecting her, but he would still pull up to the M-Store, just to make sure that she was taken care of.
For him, it was no effort. Even seeing that van in the parking lot, as I would pull up, didn't bother me. He would see my car, honk his horn, wave, and make his way home. Stan, the man in the van, had done his fatherly duty.
I know that I'll be doing the same for my girls, when they are done their jobs for the evening. I'll tell them it's my fatherly duty, going back a generation.
The Cohen van was stopped at the doors to the M-Store, on Merivale at Meadowlands, which had formerly been called Miracle Mart. I had worked there, years ago, but this evening, I was picking up my new girlfriend, who was just finishing her shift.
When my girlfriend, who I now refer to as DW, emerged from the department store, she didn't walk to my car. Instead, she went to the driver's side of the Cohen van and spoke with the driver. I looked in my rear-view mirror but could only see the front grill and headlights of the van. Looking out my side-view mirror, I could see DW and only make out a partial shadow from within the van.
DW spoke a few words and then made her way to my car. "Who was that?" I asked as she climbed into the passenger seat.
"My dad."
I turned to look as he pulled out and drove past us. An older man waved as he passed by. It was my first encounter with Stan, my future father-in-law.
Stan passed away on Friday, November 16, at the age of 91.
Though no guy can ever be perfect for a dad's daughter, Stan was always kind to me. The first time he struck up a conversation with me, he asked, "Did you see the game last night?"
"What game?" I countered. Stan liked lots of sports, but I learned that day that hockey was, by far, his favourite. I had to gather the courage, that first time, to admit that I don't follow the game, that I wasn't much of a sports fan. It didn't stop him from continuing, "You should have seen..." and telling me about the highlights.
I listened, nodded. Over the years, I had learned to pay close attention to CBC Radio, during John Hancock's sports report, to make a mental note of the teams that played the night before, and any highlights that stood out.
When Stan would ask me, "Did you see the game last night?" I could at least engage him in the teams, the scores, and who made any headlines. Stan would fill in the gaps.
And so it went.
One of his youngest granddaughter's fondest memories is when she went with him to a Sens game.
Stan was very much a family man. Coming from a farm near Smiths Falls with eight other siblings, Stan knew hard work and the value of giving to his family. Putting himself first was something truly unfamiliar to him. He was always a "How can I help?" man.
DW and I dated for five years before we married, but Stan treated me like family long before then. I remember how happy he was on our wedding day, the proud father of the bride, and he embraced me, telling me how proud he was to have me as a son-in-law.
Stan was modest, never choosing to talk about himself, but he has had many achievements. Having worked in the construction industry, Stan helped shape Ottawa's landscape. He helped build the YMCA buildings on Argyle and the Grace Hospital, at Parkdale and Wellington. He helped build the Queensway, parts of Hwy 401, and the stretch of Regional Road 6 (Roger Stevens Drive), which cuts through the Marlborough Forest between North Gower and Smiths Falls.
Stan later worked as a mobile crane operator, and has taken down many Ottawa landmarks, such as the Capitol Theatre, part of Somerset House, and the aforementioned Grace Hospital (he put it up and took it down).
Stan even operated a crane to raise a photographer high above the RCMP musical ride. The photo that was shot later adorned the 50-dollar bill for decades to come.
Stan ran that crane well into his 80s. On his 81st birthday, Hallie Cotnam, from CBC's Ottawa Morning, interviewed him at his crane. At the time, stopping work was something that did not interest him.
Stan had been a grandfather three times over before DW and I increased the size of the family, and it was always such a joy to see Stan with all of his grandkids. All told, he has eight grand children, and no matter how far away they were, he loved them with all his heart.
When his own wife fell ill, Stan stayed by her side, visiting her in the care home almost every day for about 10 years, until she passed away.
In his final years, Stan's health waned but he never gave up. He came out for an evening with Ian Rankin, one of the only fiction writers that he read regularly. When he met Rankin for a book signing, Stan told Ian, "You know, the last time I was in this church, I got married."
Even earlier this year, Stan was still playing pool and still beating us.
I've known Stan for almost 30 years and it's going to feel strange not having him around. I sometimes feel that I saw him more frequently than I saw my own parents, and I think that goes back to his devotion to family and how he passed that on to his own kids. DW says there's so much of him in her that he'll never be far.
Stan has been so much to me but I still remember the first time I went to pick up my girlfriend from work, and this caring, loving man was there ahead of me. There were plenty of times when I would pick DW up from work, where she would call him to let him know that I would be collecting her, but he would still pull up to the M-Store, just to make sure that she was taken care of.
For him, it was no effort. Even seeing that van in the parking lot, as I would pull up, didn't bother me. He would see my car, honk his horn, wave, and make his way home. Stan, the man in the van, had done his fatherly duty.
I know that I'll be doing the same for my girls, when they are done their jobs for the evening. I'll tell them it's my fatherly duty, going back a generation.
Friday, November 23, 2018
Thursday, November 22, 2018
Stand Up, Lying Down
...Continued from "Magic Carpet Ride"
I tried to move but couldn't. I felt too weak.
My left foot felt warm and heavy. My toes tingled but I couldn't move them. I felt as though I was weighted down. I didn't even want to move my arms. I hadn't the energy to open my eyes.
But I must have made some sort of motion, for a soft voice was soon near me. It was reassuring. "It's okay, Ross. Lie still. You're doing well." I felt a hand on my covered chest, just above my heart, then it moved to the left side of my face.
"I'm not going anywhere," I wanted to say, but my lips only blew air out of my mouth. And then I was asleep again.
I felt my covers lift gently from around my hip. I had no idea about how much time had elapsed. Gentle, warm hands lifted my gown, exposing my hip. Fingers tracing a numb area on my body. I could feel something was attached to my leg, just above the knee. I was trying to make sense of it all, but I was too groggy to make any thoughts stick.
I drifted off again.
I raised my right hand to my face, could feel the tubes going into my nostrils. I inhaled more deeply and could feel the fresh oxygen. It helped me open my eyes. I could see that I was in a large, open space. I could sense beds on either side of me but had no desire to turn my head to confirm. A central desk area and more beds on the other end, though I couldn't focus enough to see if they were occupied.
I remembered the first surgery, on my right foot, more than 25 years ago. I remember first stirring, detecting something on my face. A mask. I pulled it off and a nurse quickly returned it over my nose and mouth. I pulled it off a second time and she once again put it back in place.
A third time, I pulled it off, and the nurse did nothing. After what seemed like seconds, after taking a few breaths, I reached for the mask and secured it over my face.
I had no mask, this time, but I had learned that lesson. I wasn't about to pull the oxygen tubes from under my nose.
When the nurse returned, I said something to her and she laughed, but I have no idea what I said. She placed her hand on my cheek and brought her face close to mine. She was young, pretty, with her light-brown hair in a tight pony tail. Large round glasses made her eyes as big. "I'm Stephanie," she said. "I'm going to take good care of you."
She lifted my sheets again and I could feel her look under my gown to check the bandages on my leg and hip.
I said something and she laughed. I either said, "Don't look at my junk," or "Don't cool my junk."
"You're funny," she said, covering me up again.
"I'm here all week."
"Actually," she said, "you're here for about another hour. Just close your eyes and rest." She gave my shoulder a tender squeeze and moved away. As she moved to another patient, I could see that she was petite, under five feet in height.
Years ago, in Montalcino, Italy, DW spied a shopkeeper of an oenoteca, a wine shop in an old hill town. He was sweeping his front steps as we pulled our car into a vacant spot across the street. I noted his short stature—no more than five feet—and DW said, "He's adorable: let's scoop him up and bring him home."
DW could say it of the shopkeeper but I knew I couldn't say the same of Stephanie.
I dozed off and on over the next hour. Stephanie checked on me regularly and I would try to talk. Words left me but I didn't hear them or try to control them. My nurse would grin or chuckle, add an, "Oh, Ross, you're a funny one." Whenever she talked directly to me, she would always bring her face close to mine, would always lay a hand on my chest or on my face.
As I woke more, she took my blood pressure and told me she was going to move me to another ward for final recovery. She said that she would stay with me until I was settled in my new place. Two hours in her ward, she explained, two hours in another ward.
"They're going to call your wife and let her know she can take you home at 4:30. In the other ward, she's welcome to visit you beforehand."
"She works not far," I said, "it won't take her long to get here."
An orderly came to move my gurney. Stephanie walked alongside, holding my hand, giving me reassurance that I was fine. I couldn't feel anything below my left knee, but that was the point.
The second recovery room seemed smaller. There was a center corridor with beds on either sides, each bed partitioned with a curtain. I was moved to the end and placed in a spot with a wall to my right, a curtain to the left. Across from me, a woman in her late 60s lay awake, watching me as I was wheeled into position.
Stephanie spoke with the nurse in this ward. She was about my age, with dark, wavy hair. I drifted in and out, but then I felt a warm hand on my face, and Stephanie was leaning in to come face to face. "I'm leaving you in good hands, Ross. Rest well and have a speedy recovery."
I took her hands in mine. "You're awesome," I told her.
The new nurse introduced herself but my head was getting foggy, my eyes found it hard to stay open. The only thing I heard her say was, "You're here for two hours, which will take you to 4:30. The only thing you need to worry about is resting. Just close your eyes and relax, and I'll check on you from time to time. In a few minutes, I'm going to call your wife."
The curtain remained open, and I could see across to the woman across from me. She seemed wide awake and was watching me, but I just closed my eyes. Rest was all I needed.
The nurse stirred me every half hour to take my vitals and check the bandages on my hip. When she drew the gown aside, I could see the patient across from me watching. "Make sure you don't share my junk," I said. "Trust me: nobody wants to see it."
The two hours flew.
The nurse returned near 4:30 and woke me: "I have to see if you can support yourself on crutches before we release you." This was the moment that made me the most concerned. In previous surgeries, on my right foot, I was taken straight from recovery to a hospital bed. I stayed in that bed for a week, not leaving it for at least three days. And today, I was going straight from recovery to crutches.
The nurse brought me a new set, which belonged to the hospital. DW had my set. "I'm sorry they're a bit short," she said, "it's the only pair we have."
I looked at the crutches and immediately adjusted them. "I have the exact same set," I told her, pointing out the pinholes down the bottom. "See the markers that show the height?" I clicked them into place to match my own.
The nurse pulled the bedsheets off me and the gown rode up to my waist, fully exposing me to her, an assistant, and the woman across from me. "Please don't show my junk," I said. "Who do you think I am, Tony Clement?" I had said it loud enough for everyone in earshot, and it was followed by laughs from around the room, including patients I couldn't see. Someone next to me applauded.
"Will you hold my gown in place?" I asked the nurse. "I don't want anyone peeking in my back door." More laughter.
I took five steps down the corridor and five steps back to my bed. "Perfect," the nurse said. "I'll get your clothes and find an orderly to take you to your wife. She's parked out front."
Getting dressed was a bigger challenge than navigating the room on crutches. I couldn't bend at the waist, and getting my plastered foot through my underwear and pants was a workout. I had left my winter jacket in the car with DW but had a thick hoodie from Nova Scotia that I pulled over my head. By the time the wheelchair arrived for me, I had worked up a sweat and was panting.
From getting dressed.
I was secured in the chair, thanked the nurse for her excellent care, and was whisked out of the room and down the corridor.
The orderly moved at a brisk pace, as though there was some urgency and I had to evacuate the building. The pace he moved made me think of a movie, where an elderly woman was being whisked through a hospital hallway, doctors swarming her in shock.
The woman kept repeating the same excited phrase: "DOCTOR GAVE ME A PILL AND I GREW A NEW KIDNEY!!"
I started screaming it out as we passed folks in the hall.
The orderly looked at me as though I had lost my mind.
So did DW, when I saw her and shouted it out to her.
I guess I do some of my best comedy under sedation.
I tried to move but couldn't. I felt too weak.
My left foot felt warm and heavy. My toes tingled but I couldn't move them. I felt as though I was weighted down. I didn't even want to move my arms. I hadn't the energy to open my eyes.
But I must have made some sort of motion, for a soft voice was soon near me. It was reassuring. "It's okay, Ross. Lie still. You're doing well." I felt a hand on my covered chest, just above my heart, then it moved to the left side of my face.
"I'm not going anywhere," I wanted to say, but my lips only blew air out of my mouth. And then I was asleep again.
I felt my covers lift gently from around my hip. I had no idea about how much time had elapsed. Gentle, warm hands lifted my gown, exposing my hip. Fingers tracing a numb area on my body. I could feel something was attached to my leg, just above the knee. I was trying to make sense of it all, but I was too groggy to make any thoughts stick.
I drifted off again.
I raised my right hand to my face, could feel the tubes going into my nostrils. I inhaled more deeply and could feel the fresh oxygen. It helped me open my eyes. I could see that I was in a large, open space. I could sense beds on either side of me but had no desire to turn my head to confirm. A central desk area and more beds on the other end, though I couldn't focus enough to see if they were occupied.
I remembered the first surgery, on my right foot, more than 25 years ago. I remember first stirring, detecting something on my face. A mask. I pulled it off and a nurse quickly returned it over my nose and mouth. I pulled it off a second time and she once again put it back in place.
A third time, I pulled it off, and the nurse did nothing. After what seemed like seconds, after taking a few breaths, I reached for the mask and secured it over my face.
I had no mask, this time, but I had learned that lesson. I wasn't about to pull the oxygen tubes from under my nose.
When the nurse returned, I said something to her and she laughed, but I have no idea what I said. She placed her hand on my cheek and brought her face close to mine. She was young, pretty, with her light-brown hair in a tight pony tail. Large round glasses made her eyes as big. "I'm Stephanie," she said. "I'm going to take good care of you."
She lifted my sheets again and I could feel her look under my gown to check the bandages on my leg and hip.
I said something and she laughed. I either said, "Don't look at my junk," or "Don't cool my junk."
"You're funny," she said, covering me up again.
"I'm here all week."
"Actually," she said, "you're here for about another hour. Just close your eyes and rest." She gave my shoulder a tender squeeze and moved away. As she moved to another patient, I could see that she was petite, under five feet in height.
Years ago, in Montalcino, Italy, DW spied a shopkeeper of an oenoteca, a wine shop in an old hill town. He was sweeping his front steps as we pulled our car into a vacant spot across the street. I noted his short stature—no more than five feet—and DW said, "He's adorable: let's scoop him up and bring him home."
DW could say it of the shopkeeper but I knew I couldn't say the same of Stephanie.
I dozed off and on over the next hour. Stephanie checked on me regularly and I would try to talk. Words left me but I didn't hear them or try to control them. My nurse would grin or chuckle, add an, "Oh, Ross, you're a funny one." Whenever she talked directly to me, she would always bring her face close to mine, would always lay a hand on my chest or on my face.
As I woke more, she took my blood pressure and told me she was going to move me to another ward for final recovery. She said that she would stay with me until I was settled in my new place. Two hours in her ward, she explained, two hours in another ward.
"They're going to call your wife and let her know she can take you home at 4:30. In the other ward, she's welcome to visit you beforehand."
"She works not far," I said, "it won't take her long to get here."
An orderly came to move my gurney. Stephanie walked alongside, holding my hand, giving me reassurance that I was fine. I couldn't feel anything below my left knee, but that was the point.
The second recovery room seemed smaller. There was a center corridor with beds on either sides, each bed partitioned with a curtain. I was moved to the end and placed in a spot with a wall to my right, a curtain to the left. Across from me, a woman in her late 60s lay awake, watching me as I was wheeled into position.
Stephanie spoke with the nurse in this ward. She was about my age, with dark, wavy hair. I drifted in and out, but then I felt a warm hand on my face, and Stephanie was leaning in to come face to face. "I'm leaving you in good hands, Ross. Rest well and have a speedy recovery."
I took her hands in mine. "You're awesome," I told her.
The new nurse introduced herself but my head was getting foggy, my eyes found it hard to stay open. The only thing I heard her say was, "You're here for two hours, which will take you to 4:30. The only thing you need to worry about is resting. Just close your eyes and relax, and I'll check on you from time to time. In a few minutes, I'm going to call your wife."
The curtain remained open, and I could see across to the woman across from me. She seemed wide awake and was watching me, but I just closed my eyes. Rest was all I needed.
The nurse stirred me every half hour to take my vitals and check the bandages on my hip. When she drew the gown aside, I could see the patient across from me watching. "Make sure you don't share my junk," I said. "Trust me: nobody wants to see it."
The two hours flew.
The nurse returned near 4:30 and woke me: "I have to see if you can support yourself on crutches before we release you." This was the moment that made me the most concerned. In previous surgeries, on my right foot, I was taken straight from recovery to a hospital bed. I stayed in that bed for a week, not leaving it for at least three days. And today, I was going straight from recovery to crutches.
The nurse brought me a new set, which belonged to the hospital. DW had my set. "I'm sorry they're a bit short," she said, "it's the only pair we have."
I looked at the crutches and immediately adjusted them. "I have the exact same set," I told her, pointing out the pinholes down the bottom. "See the markers that show the height?" I clicked them into place to match my own.
The nurse pulled the bedsheets off me and the gown rode up to my waist, fully exposing me to her, an assistant, and the woman across from me. "Please don't show my junk," I said. "Who do you think I am, Tony Clement?" I had said it loud enough for everyone in earshot, and it was followed by laughs from around the room, including patients I couldn't see. Someone next to me applauded.
"Will you hold my gown in place?" I asked the nurse. "I don't want anyone peeking in my back door." More laughter.
I took five steps down the corridor and five steps back to my bed. "Perfect," the nurse said. "I'll get your clothes and find an orderly to take you to your wife. She's parked out front."
Getting dressed was a bigger challenge than navigating the room on crutches. I couldn't bend at the waist, and getting my plastered foot through my underwear and pants was a workout. I had left my winter jacket in the car with DW but had a thick hoodie from Nova Scotia that I pulled over my head. By the time the wheelchair arrived for me, I had worked up a sweat and was panting.
From getting dressed.
I was secured in the chair, thanked the nurse for her excellent care, and was whisked out of the room and down the corridor.
The orderly moved at a brisk pace, as though there was some urgency and I had to evacuate the building. The pace he moved made me think of a movie, where an elderly woman was being whisked through a hospital hallway, doctors swarming her in shock.
The woman kept repeating the same excited phrase: "DOCTOR GAVE ME A PILL AND I GREW A NEW KIDNEY!!"
I started screaming it out as we passed folks in the hall.
The orderly looked at me as though I had lost my mind.
So did DW, when I saw her and shouted it out to her.
I guess I do some of my best comedy under sedation.
Wednesday, November 21, 2018
Tuesday, November 20, 2018
Magic Carpet Ride
I awoke more than an hour before my alarm, afraid that it wasn't going to happen. But I was also nervous about what was to come.
I had been stressed all week. On the weekend before, as the list of things to do mounted up, a head cold struck. Sore throat, congestion, coughing, sneezing, chills, sweats, and fatigue. Above all else, my health was paramount, so I rested, drank plenty of fluids, wrapped myself in blankets.
I was able to go to work on Monday, but my voice couldn't conceal the cold. I drank lots of liquids, avoiding coffee, and used sheer willpower to get through the day. When I got home, I took some NyQuil and went to bed.
I worked from home on Tuesday, popping DayQuil capsules, guzzling grapefruit juice, and wrapping myself in blankets while huddling over my office laptop.
Wednesday was a repeat, with more cold capsules and liquids, though I stopped taking meds 12 hours before I was scheduled to arrive at the hospital. The sore throat was abating and my sinuses were clearer. I wasn't supposed to be taking anything so close to the surgery, but I had no choice.
At about 3:15 on Thursday morning, I awoke thirsty. My mouth was so dry that my tongue had stuck to the roof of my mouth. I knew that I wasn't supposed to take in any liquid after 4:30, when my alarm was due to sound, so it was safe to drink the half cup or so of water from the bathroom sink.
Swallowing, I was relieved to discover that I had no sore throat. My sinuses were clear, though as the water hydrated me, I could feel a slight mucus buildup deep down my esophagus.
I returned to bed, closed my eyes, but couldn't fall back to sleep. I spent the final hour before my alarm trying to sense how I felt. Was this going to happen?
Oh yes, this was going to happen.
The alarm told me to take a shower. I had had a full one before bed, taking a sponge of chlorhexidine, to cleanse myself from the waist, down. My morning shower would repeat that process with a second sponge. I would wrap myself in fresh clothes, and then wake DW.
"Time to go," I whispered. My voice was all but gone, dried and cracked. Just great, I thought, they're going to know I'm sick as soon as I open my mouth to check in.
DW drove me in the dark to the Civic Campus of the Ottawa Hospital. We were equally surprised at the amount of traffic before 6 am. At Hunt Club and Woodroffe, we encountered more cars than I usually see on my commute along Colonel By Drive. But we pulled up at the Carling entrance just a few minutes after 6, plenty of time before my 6:15 check-in time.
The day-surgery reception room was more than half full, and I thought I would be waiting beyond 6:30. There was a queue to the receptionist in addition to those waiting in seats, and I was fourth in line. The clock said 6:10 by the time I could tell the receptionist my name.
I gave all three of my names. I know the hospital goes by the first name on my health card, so I stress my second name, the one that I use. It doesn't always work, but I do it all the same.
"Did you have a name change?" the kind-faced receptionist said.
"No. My full name is Gregory Ross Brown but only computers use my first name."
"My name's Ann," she said, pulling my file. She wrote ROSS in large letters and surrounded it with quotation marks. "I don't need to see your health card, so go ahead and have a seat and we'll call you in a few minutes."
I took a seat as even more people piled in. During my interaction with Ann, other patients had been called, and I saw that many people who had been there when I arrived were already gone.
At precisely 6:15, a nurse called my name. She called me Ross. I smiled and followed her. "How are you?" she asked.
"Tired," I squeaked, then added, "I sound worse than I feel."
The nurse led me to a room with many beds encapsulated in curtains. She gave me plastic bags and told me to take everything off and place them in the bags, to put the bags on the floor beside the bed. She showed me a hospital gown and reminded me how to put it on, and pointed out slippers with which to cover my feet. "Then climb on the bed and pull the sheet over you to stay warm. Someone will be with you in a couple of minutes."
Once comfortable, I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing. I hadn't realized until this point that I was nervous. I could hear that other patients had a loved one at their side, and I was alone. Though I kissed DW goodbye, it would have been nice to have her with me with all the strangers who surrounded me.
Another nurse arrived and asked me how I was feeling. Unable to conceal my feelings, I admitted, "Nervous."
She heard my dry, crackling voice and asked me if I was okay. I told her that I was getting over a cold but that I felt fine, felt better than I sounded. Unconvinced, she took my temperature.
"You're a little warm," she said when the thermometer read 37.3 degrees.
"That's not warm to me," I said. "I always run a little warm. My wife calls me her little furnace."
The nurse continued to take my vitals. Everything showed normal. "You haven't eaten since before midnight?" she asked. I hadn't. "When did you last have a drink?"
"Between 3:15 and 3:30," I said. "Water. I could really use some now."
"I'm going to get you some water. You need to take some meds." She gave me a half-cup of water, some Tylenol, and "Something to mellow out your anxiety."
She placed a cap that matched my slippers over my hair as she explained that the main anesthesiologist would be with us soon. She also lifted the left side of my sheet and examined my leg. "We're doing your left foot..."
"Yes, left, left, LEFT!" I felt the need to stress which side but I didn't mean to be so loud and aggressive. I dropped my voice. "Left."
She smiled. "We're going to insert a pain blocker from the knee, down. It'll numb your foot for a couple of days."
"Numbing is good," I said. "Do you know if my surgeon will be harvesting bone from that shin? Will the pain blocker help that, too?"
"No," she looked at a chart. "I understand that Dr. M— will be accessing bone from your pelvis or from a cadaver."
The head anesthesiologist joined us and introduced herself. When I greeted her, she looked at me and said, "Do you have a cold?"
"It's fading," I said. "The other nurse took my stats. I'm fine."
She looked unconvinced. Her assistant was already wrapping a blood pressure band around my arm (my blood pressure was taken only 5 minutes earlier) but she placed a thermometer under my tongue.
Thirty-seven-point-two degrees.
I reached out, took the anesthesiologist's hands in mine, looked her in the eyes. "This is happening today," I said, almost as a plea.
She paused, continuing to look in my eyes. "Okay," she finally said.
The younger anesthesiologist came back to me. "Now, there are three ways we can..."
"Knock me right out," I interrupted. "I want no part of this."
She laughed. "Plan A it is."
They rolled me onto my stomach. I could feel a ballpoint pen making marks on my body. The drugs were starting to calm me down. Looking around, it was as though I was looking through water. My arms were above my head, so I closed my eyes and let them work.
It was about two hours of prep time, but to me, time was irrelevant. Time had no meaning. I was at peace.
He explained the procedure but it was too technical for me. He confirmed that he was looking for enough cadaver bone but would probably have to extract some of my bone from my pelvis. "I'm sorry," he said, compassionately, like he knew of the pain that I would be experiencing. "I've booked four hours in the operating room but I think it shouldn't take more than three. We'll have you out of there by lunchtime. We start at 9."
He's a good guy. I feel indebted for the arthritic pain relief he's given me. He told me that he would follow up with foot injections for my right foot, which would be carrying my weight, with crutches, for the next three months. "We don't want to put undo pain on that foot," he said.
I looked him in the eyes. My dry throat choked out words. "Brad," I called him by his first name, "if you open my foot and the bones and arthritis look like one complicated mess, just cut the fucker off."
He laughed. "I'm not taking your foot off today."
"Don't forget about that loose piece of bone."
"I'll get it. It'll go straight in the garbage."
I almost wanted to ask if he could somehow preserve it for me. Put it in a vial in a solution. A reminder of one of the many issues with this foot.
I must have fallen asleep. When my anesthesiologists woke me, they rolled me onto my back, wrapped me so I was good and toasty. The operating room awaited me, and it was going to be cold.
My left knee was taped in gauze, a thin, plastic tube ran from the bandage to a fanny pack with a miniature pump. An IV tube was attached to my right hand, fluids keeping me hydrated.
I felt nothing.
My bed was on the move again. We went down the corridor. I was surrounded by at least four people. I couldn't tell. I didn't bother to count. Into a bright room where my surgeon was set, where unrecognizable people were moving around my periphery.
A mask came over my face, a disembodied voice said, "Just a couple of deep breaths, if you please." I complied.
I thought I would try to count to see how long it would take before I forgot everything, but it was too late...
Everybody knew this song. I knew that Steppenwolf was the band.
I had heard it in a Star Trek movie. "First Contact"?
(To be continued...)
I had been stressed all week. On the weekend before, as the list of things to do mounted up, a head cold struck. Sore throat, congestion, coughing, sneezing, chills, sweats, and fatigue. Above all else, my health was paramount, so I rested, drank plenty of fluids, wrapped myself in blankets.
I was able to go to work on Monday, but my voice couldn't conceal the cold. I drank lots of liquids, avoiding coffee, and used sheer willpower to get through the day. When I got home, I took some NyQuil and went to bed.
I worked from home on Tuesday, popping DayQuil capsules, guzzling grapefruit juice, and wrapping myself in blankets while huddling over my office laptop.
Wednesday was a repeat, with more cold capsules and liquids, though I stopped taking meds 12 hours before I was scheduled to arrive at the hospital. The sore throat was abating and my sinuses were clearer. I wasn't supposed to be taking anything so close to the surgery, but I had no choice.
At about 3:15 on Thursday morning, I awoke thirsty. My mouth was so dry that my tongue had stuck to the roof of my mouth. I knew that I wasn't supposed to take in any liquid after 4:30, when my alarm was due to sound, so it was safe to drink the half cup or so of water from the bathroom sink.
Swallowing, I was relieved to discover that I had no sore throat. My sinuses were clear, though as the water hydrated me, I could feel a slight mucus buildup deep down my esophagus.
I returned to bed, closed my eyes, but couldn't fall back to sleep. I spent the final hour before my alarm trying to sense how I felt. Was this going to happen?
Oh yes, this was going to happen.
The alarm told me to take a shower. I had had a full one before bed, taking a sponge of chlorhexidine, to cleanse myself from the waist, down. My morning shower would repeat that process with a second sponge. I would wrap myself in fresh clothes, and then wake DW.
"Time to go," I whispered. My voice was all but gone, dried and cracked. Just great, I thought, they're going to know I'm sick as soon as I open my mouth to check in.
DW drove me in the dark to the Civic Campus of the Ottawa Hospital. We were equally surprised at the amount of traffic before 6 am. At Hunt Club and Woodroffe, we encountered more cars than I usually see on my commute along Colonel By Drive. But we pulled up at the Carling entrance just a few minutes after 6, plenty of time before my 6:15 check-in time.
The day-surgery reception room was more than half full, and I thought I would be waiting beyond 6:30. There was a queue to the receptionist in addition to those waiting in seats, and I was fourth in line. The clock said 6:10 by the time I could tell the receptionist my name.
I gave all three of my names. I know the hospital goes by the first name on my health card, so I stress my second name, the one that I use. It doesn't always work, but I do it all the same.
"Did you have a name change?" the kind-faced receptionist said.
"No. My full name is Gregory Ross Brown but only computers use my first name."
"My name's Ann," she said, pulling my file. She wrote ROSS in large letters and surrounded it with quotation marks. "I don't need to see your health card, so go ahead and have a seat and we'll call you in a few minutes."
I took a seat as even more people piled in. During my interaction with Ann, other patients had been called, and I saw that many people who had been there when I arrived were already gone.
At precisely 6:15, a nurse called my name. She called me Ross. I smiled and followed her. "How are you?" she asked.
"Tired," I squeaked, then added, "I sound worse than I feel."
The nurse led me to a room with many beds encapsulated in curtains. She gave me plastic bags and told me to take everything off and place them in the bags, to put the bags on the floor beside the bed. She showed me a hospital gown and reminded me how to put it on, and pointed out slippers with which to cover my feet. "Then climb on the bed and pull the sheet over you to stay warm. Someone will be with you in a couple of minutes."
Once comfortable, I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing. I hadn't realized until this point that I was nervous. I could hear that other patients had a loved one at their side, and I was alone. Though I kissed DW goodbye, it would have been nice to have her with me with all the strangers who surrounded me.
Another nurse arrived and asked me how I was feeling. Unable to conceal my feelings, I admitted, "Nervous."
She heard my dry, crackling voice and asked me if I was okay. I told her that I was getting over a cold but that I felt fine, felt better than I sounded. Unconvinced, she took my temperature.
"You're a little warm," she said when the thermometer read 37.3 degrees.
"That's not warm to me," I said. "I always run a little warm. My wife calls me her little furnace."
The nurse continued to take my vitals. Everything showed normal. "You haven't eaten since before midnight?" she asked. I hadn't. "When did you last have a drink?"
"Between 3:15 and 3:30," I said. "Water. I could really use some now."
"I'm going to get you some water. You need to take some meds." She gave me a half-cup of water, some Tylenol, and "Something to mellow out your anxiety."
I like to dream, yes, yesThe nurse covered me in a thin plastic sheet that she connected to a tube and a small, silent generator that inflated the blanket and warmed me from shoulders to feet. As soon as I was warm, an orderly wheeled my gurney down the hall, through a set of doors, around a corner, and into an alcove, where a young woman in her 20s, wearing scrubs and a hair cap introduced herself as one of my anesthesiologists.
Right between the sound machine
On a cloud of sound I drift in the night
Any place it goes is right
Goes far, flies near
To the stars away from here
Well, you don't know what we can find
Why don't you come with me little girl
On a magic carpet ride
She placed a cap that matched my slippers over my hair as she explained that the main anesthesiologist would be with us soon. She also lifted the left side of my sheet and examined my leg. "We're doing your left foot..."
"Yes, left, left, LEFT!" I felt the need to stress which side but I didn't mean to be so loud and aggressive. I dropped my voice. "Left."
She smiled. "We're going to insert a pain blocker from the knee, down. It'll numb your foot for a couple of days."
"Numbing is good," I said. "Do you know if my surgeon will be harvesting bone from that shin? Will the pain blocker help that, too?"
"No," she looked at a chart. "I understand that Dr. M— will be accessing bone from your pelvis or from a cadaver."
The head anesthesiologist joined us and introduced herself. When I greeted her, she looked at me and said, "Do you have a cold?"
"It's fading," I said. "The other nurse took my stats. I'm fine."
She looked unconvinced. Her assistant was already wrapping a blood pressure band around my arm (my blood pressure was taken only 5 minutes earlier) but she placed a thermometer under my tongue.
Thirty-seven-point-two degrees.
I reached out, took the anesthesiologist's hands in mine, looked her in the eyes. "This is happening today," I said, almost as a plea.
She paused, continuing to look in my eyes. "Okay," she finally said.
The younger anesthesiologist came back to me. "Now, there are three ways we can..."
"Knock me right out," I interrupted. "I want no part of this."
She laughed. "Plan A it is."
They rolled me onto my stomach. I could feel a ballpoint pen making marks on my body. The drugs were starting to calm me down. Looking around, it was as though I was looking through water. My arms were above my head, so I closed my eyes and let them work.
It was about two hours of prep time, but to me, time was irrelevant. Time had no meaning. I was at peace.
Well, you don't know what we can seeMy surgeon visited me and the three anesthesiologists working on me. He asked how I felt but all I could say was "This has been one long ride." It had been about two-and-a-half years.
Why don't you tell your dreams to me
Fantasy will set you free
Close your eyes girl
Look inside girl
Let the sound take you away...
He explained the procedure but it was too technical for me. He confirmed that he was looking for enough cadaver bone but would probably have to extract some of my bone from my pelvis. "I'm sorry," he said, compassionately, like he knew of the pain that I would be experiencing. "I've booked four hours in the operating room but I think it shouldn't take more than three. We'll have you out of there by lunchtime. We start at 9."
He's a good guy. I feel indebted for the arthritic pain relief he's given me. He told me that he would follow up with foot injections for my right foot, which would be carrying my weight, with crutches, for the next three months. "We don't want to put undo pain on that foot," he said.
I looked him in the eyes. My dry throat choked out words. "Brad," I called him by his first name, "if you open my foot and the bones and arthritis look like one complicated mess, just cut the fucker off."
He laughed. "I'm not taking your foot off today."
"Don't forget about that loose piece of bone."
"I'll get it. It'll go straight in the garbage."
I almost wanted to ask if he could somehow preserve it for me. Put it in a vial in a solution. A reminder of one of the many issues with this foot.
I must have fallen asleep. When my anesthesiologists woke me, they rolled me onto my back, wrapped me so I was good and toasty. The operating room awaited me, and it was going to be cold.
My left knee was taped in gauze, a thin, plastic tube ran from the bandage to a fanny pack with a miniature pump. An IV tube was attached to my right hand, fluids keeping me hydrated.
I felt nothing.
My bed was on the move again. We went down the corridor. I was surrounded by at least four people. I couldn't tell. I didn't bother to count. Into a bright room where my surgeon was set, where unrecognizable people were moving around my periphery.
A mask came over my face, a disembodied voice said, "Just a couple of deep breaths, if you please." I complied.
I thought I would try to count to see how long it would take before I forgot everything, but it was too late...
Last night I hold Aladdin's lampI couldn't open my eyes. I was warm, comfortable. A song played in my head though I only vaguely knew the words. The rocking beat was all that mattered. Where had I heard this song before in a movie?
So I wished that I could stay
Before the thing could answer me
Well, someone came and took the lamp away
I looked around a lousy candle's all I found
Well, you don't know what we can find
Why don't you come with me little girl
On a magic carpet ride
Well, you don't know what we can see
Why don't you tell your dreams to me
Fantasy will set you free
Close your eyes girl
Look inside girl
Let the sound take you away...
Everybody knew this song. I knew that Steppenwolf was the band.
I had heard it in a Star Trek movie. "First Contact"?
Well, you don't know what we can find
Why don't you come with me little girl
On a magic carpet ride...
(To be continued...)
Monday, November 19, 2018
Defense of Hong Kong Memorial
I was hoping that you regular contest players would jump right on this one. And while I thought you would resolve this challenge right away, you didn't disappoint by doing so by Wednesday night.
On the first day of last week's Where In Ottawa, I wrote that the photo challenge was related to Remembrance Day celebrations and honoured those who gave the ultimate sacrifice to maintain our freedom.
And while there are a fair number of monuments that are dedicated to our fallen, I had hoped that my clues would have honed in on the Defense of Hong Kong Memorial Wall, at the corner of Sussex Drive and King Edward Avenue.
Congratulations to one of my beer buddies and regular player, John MacNab, this month's winner.
Unveiled in 2009 to commemorate the 1,975 Canadians who sailed to Hong Kong in 1941 to assist the British in defending the colony against the Japanese invasion. In a 17-day battle, some 291 Canadians were killed, another 500 were wounded.
There is one error in a clue that I provided. I said that the battle began the same day as the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. In fact, the Battle for Hong Kong began the following day, on December 8, and ended with a full surrender on December 25.
No need to go over the clues at this point, right?
You can read more about the battle here.
Where In Ottawa returns as soon as I am mobile enough to get out there and explore the city.
On the first day of last week's Where In Ottawa, I wrote that the photo challenge was related to Remembrance Day celebrations and honoured those who gave the ultimate sacrifice to maintain our freedom.
And while there are a fair number of monuments that are dedicated to our fallen, I had hoped that my clues would have honed in on the Defense of Hong Kong Memorial Wall, at the corner of Sussex Drive and King Edward Avenue.
Congratulations to one of my beer buddies and regular player, John MacNab, this month's winner.
Unveiled in 2009 to commemorate the 1,975 Canadians who sailed to Hong Kong in 1941 to assist the British in defending the colony against the Japanese invasion. In a 17-day battle, some 291 Canadians were killed, another 500 were wounded.
There is one error in a clue that I provided. I said that the battle began the same day as the Japanese attack on Pearl Harbor. In fact, the Battle for Hong Kong began the following day, on December 8, and ended with a full surrender on December 25.
No need to go over the clues at this point, right?
You can read more about the battle here.
Where In Ottawa returns as soon as I am mobile enough to get out there and explore the city.
Friday, November 16, 2018
Thursday, November 15, 2018
Light at the End of the Tunnel
You've heard me bitch and moan about my foot for about two-and-a-half years.
It started as a complaint that it felt like some bones in my left foot were rubbing together, causing some discomfort. And while I could still ride my bike, it hurt to walk or stand for any length of time.
I was used to pain: severe osteoarthritis in both feet would often flare, especially on cold, damp days. I've lived with this pain since my early 20s: I would take some ibuprofen and acetaminophen, but that would be it.
It took the return route from the 2016 Rideau Lakes Cycle Tour to change everything. A few kilometres shy of Elgin, Ontario, I was climbing a hill in a headwind. When I stood up to get more power in my cadence, I felt the snap and a sharp pain. I hobbled to Elgin and ended my ride.
From then, I can't ride more than about 25 kilometres before my foot gets too sore.
My doctor diagnosed my condition as Meuller-Weiss syndrome and referred me to a foot specialist. It took about a year to see him. His diagnosis was different: he told me that I had Köhler disease, which is similar to Meuller-Weiss but occurs at a younger age. He suggested that I've had this condition in both feet since my youth—I had had the corrective surgery for Köhler disease when I was in my mid 20s and it was suggested at the time that I have the procedure done on both feet.
I only did the right foot because the left foot wasn't as bad. The arthritis was all I could feel.
My new surgeon and I learned that the snap I likely felt on my cycle tour was a piece of bone that had come away from my foot. A CT scan showed the loose bone. Occasionally, it jabs me when I walk. The doctor is going to remove it.
Today is the day. Perhaps, as you read this post, I'm undergoing the procedure to remove that loose bone and correct the Köhler's. He'll be removing bone from either my hip or my shin (he's suggested both but at the time of writing this, I don't know where he's harvesting bone) and fusing it with my degrading bones.
I'll be in a cast for three months.
In winter.
If all goes well, I'll still need to receive steroid injections for my osteoarthritis, but once that is managed, I'll be pain-free. I'll be able to ride my bike again. I'll be able to ski, to go for long walks, to maybe even dance again.
If all goes well.
I've told my surgeon that if, after he opens my foot, the arthritis is so extensive that it makes the procedure difficult, to simply take the whole foot off.
We'll see how things go.
Tomorrow's blog post is already set to publish. Same with Monday's post. If I have no post on Tuesday, my healing has taken longer than I expect. If there's no post on Wednesday, something's gone wrong.
(That's me: Mr. Drama. Sir Doom and Gloom.)
Fingers crossed...
It started as a complaint that it felt like some bones in my left foot were rubbing together, causing some discomfort. And while I could still ride my bike, it hurt to walk or stand for any length of time.
I was used to pain: severe osteoarthritis in both feet would often flare, especially on cold, damp days. I've lived with this pain since my early 20s: I would take some ibuprofen and acetaminophen, but that would be it.
It took the return route from the 2016 Rideau Lakes Cycle Tour to change everything. A few kilometres shy of Elgin, Ontario, I was climbing a hill in a headwind. When I stood up to get more power in my cadence, I felt the snap and a sharp pain. I hobbled to Elgin and ended my ride.
From then, I can't ride more than about 25 kilometres before my foot gets too sore.
My doctor diagnosed my condition as Meuller-Weiss syndrome and referred me to a foot specialist. It took about a year to see him. His diagnosis was different: he told me that I had Köhler disease, which is similar to Meuller-Weiss but occurs at a younger age. He suggested that I've had this condition in both feet since my youth—I had had the corrective surgery for Köhler disease when I was in my mid 20s and it was suggested at the time that I have the procedure done on both feet.
I only did the right foot because the left foot wasn't as bad. The arthritis was all I could feel.
My new surgeon and I learned that the snap I likely felt on my cycle tour was a piece of bone that had come away from my foot. A CT scan showed the loose bone. Occasionally, it jabs me when I walk. The doctor is going to remove it.
Today is the day. Perhaps, as you read this post, I'm undergoing the procedure to remove that loose bone and correct the Köhler's. He'll be removing bone from either my hip or my shin (he's suggested both but at the time of writing this, I don't know where he's harvesting bone) and fusing it with my degrading bones.
I'll be in a cast for three months.
In winter.
If all goes well, I'll still need to receive steroid injections for my osteoarthritis, but once that is managed, I'll be pain-free. I'll be able to ride my bike again. I'll be able to ski, to go for long walks, to maybe even dance again.
If all goes well.
I've told my surgeon that if, after he opens my foot, the arthritis is so extensive that it makes the procedure difficult, to simply take the whole foot off.
We'll see how things go.
Tomorrow's blog post is already set to publish. Same with Monday's post. If I have no post on Tuesday, my healing has taken longer than I expect. If there's no post on Wednesday, something's gone wrong.
(That's me: Mr. Drama. Sir Doom and Gloom.)
Fingers crossed...
Wednesday, November 14, 2018
Monday, November 12, 2018
Where In Ottawa LXXIII
This may be a really quick Where In Ottawa. But this month, that's the point.
I'm hoping that somebody solves my photo challenge by Wednesday, at the latest, because for the next couple of days after then, I may not be able to check on how my contest is going.
In three days, I'll be undergoing my long-awaited reconstructive surgery on my left foot, which has been giving me more than its fair share of trouble for the past two-and-a-half years. With any luck, by the end of Thursday, I'll either be on the road to recovery or one foot short.
But enough about that. Let's get back to my photo challenge.
For those of you who haven't played Where In Ottawa before, here's how it works: below, you'll see a photo that has been shot somewhere in Ottawa. Your job is to identify the spot and let me know by leaving your answer in the Comments section to this post. The first person to correctly identify the location of the photo wins (bragging rights only).
Please do not send me your answer through any other means: no Twitter, no Facebook, no e-mail, no smoke signals. You can guess as many times as you like.
For every day in which no correct answer is provided, I will leave a clue in the right-hand margin of this blog, below my goofy face. If the challenge isn't won by noon on Friday, November 16, the contest ends and I'll reveal the location on Monday, November 19.
Now, I'm not likely to be in any shape nor have the means to leave a clue on Friday, so in addition to the photo itself, I'm going to provide one clue right now.
Because yesterday marked 100 years since the end of World War One and was the day on which we all take a moment to honour those brave men and woman who have served and sacrificed for our great country, November's photo challenge is a salute to those who lost their lives so far from home.
That's the clue.
Ready for this month's challenge?
Think you know Ottawa? Prove it!
I'm hoping that somebody solves my photo challenge by Wednesday, at the latest, because for the next couple of days after then, I may not be able to check on how my contest is going.
In three days, I'll be undergoing my long-awaited reconstructive surgery on my left foot, which has been giving me more than its fair share of trouble for the past two-and-a-half years. With any luck, by the end of Thursday, I'll either be on the road to recovery or one foot short.
But enough about that. Let's get back to my photo challenge.
For those of you who haven't played Where In Ottawa before, here's how it works: below, you'll see a photo that has been shot somewhere in Ottawa. Your job is to identify the spot and let me know by leaving your answer in the Comments section to this post. The first person to correctly identify the location of the photo wins (bragging rights only).
Please do not send me your answer through any other means: no Twitter, no Facebook, no e-mail, no smoke signals. You can guess as many times as you like.
For every day in which no correct answer is provided, I will leave a clue in the right-hand margin of this blog, below my goofy face. If the challenge isn't won by noon on Friday, November 16, the contest ends and I'll reveal the location on Monday, November 19.
Now, I'm not likely to be in any shape nor have the means to leave a clue on Friday, so in addition to the photo itself, I'm going to provide one clue right now.
Because yesterday marked 100 years since the end of World War One and was the day on which we all take a moment to honour those brave men and woman who have served and sacrificed for our great country, November's photo challenge is a salute to those who lost their lives so far from home.
That's the clue.
Ready for this month's challenge?
Think you know Ottawa? Prove it!
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