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Tuesday, February 9, 2010

Staying In Touch



"Do you mind if I touch you," she asked.

"No, not at all," I replied, not at all worried that my wife might object.

It was the respectful question the Tai Chi instructor always asked before physically showing us how to reposition a errant limb.

Or limbs, as it was in my case. She turned my hands palm up, pulled both arms closer into to my body, placed my left arm over top of my right.

"There," she said. "Do you feel the difference?"

"So I was only doing everything wrong" I guessed.

She smiled, "Well, just about."

I was having an odd experience. The harder I tried, the more I was messing up. And I was messing up a lot this week.

Which only made me try harder.

And mess up more.

The tiny, but limber, instructor moved back to the head of the class. Paused. Looked back at me. Shook her head, and came back over.

"You know what I think you're doing wrong this week? You're trying to think your way through this. Your body knows what to do, but you've lost trust in it. Stop thinking and just let your body do what it knows how to do."

And I thought, oh great, now how do I do that?

She held my gaze for a minute before walking back to the front of the room. "Lets start over from the beginning."

We all lined up.

And I stopped trying. Just went along for the ride.

And found my body did know what to do. Not perfectly, but much better than I did.

We repeated the first fourteen moves twice more before she called us to a halt.

"No no sweety," she said, but this time to one of the women in the class. "Do you mind if I touch you?"

"Oh please," said the woman. "I haven't been touched in way too long!"

We all laughed.

And I discovered I had a right brain that knew what it was doing.

Sunday, February 7, 2010

The Bell And You



High on the wall next to the exit from the Chemo Day Care Centre at Princess Margaret Hospital a bell is waiting for me. As I mentioned in my post a week ago Friday, there is a ritual at PMH that those patients completing their last treatment of chemotherapy, ring the bell as they leave.

And whenever it rings the nurses and volunteers and other chemo patients pause for a moment and applaud.

When I finish my last injection of chemo, on Thursday February 18th at about 2pm Eastern Standard Time, I'm also ringing that damn bell!

As loud and as long as I can!

My cancer may not be cured. I may find myself back there again sometime, but for now, at least, I'm declaring victory. After all, you don't have to win the whole war before celebrating victory in battle.

When I posted my intention to ring that bell last Friday a number of people told me they would listen for that clang. Bonnie, in Montreal will be listening as will Two Flights Down in Japan. A dozen others have told me they plan to applaud and cheer and dance.

Now if I really hammer that sucker and if things will just quiet down on the 401 corridor between Toronto and Montreal, it is possible Bonnie might hear a triumphant peal just on the edge of audible sound.

And I might just hear the sound of her cheering in return.

But even if we were to shut down the engine of every city between here and the west coast and managed to turn the mighty Pacific Ocean into a mill pond, I can't imagine the ring of that bell making it all the way to Japan.

Alas, poor Two Flights Down!

Fortunately, people have started offering to help, to join in the ringing of bells on the 18th.

Anvilcloud
a former teacher will pitch in, as will JarieLyn, and Leslie Avon Miller, JeanetteLS will ring and dance and Delwyn has her donger all ready.

If you'd like to join us in the effort to get the sound of that bell all the way to Japan, just let me know in your comment to this post and I will create a box on the sideboard listing all those who are planning to join in: ring a bell, applaud, cheer, commit to making some kind of joyful noise around 2 pm on Thursday February 18th (Eastern Standard Time)!

Not just for me, but for everyone who has ever struggled against impossible odds and won.

Lets declare a victory on behalf of us all and let the world know it!

Or at least Two Flights Down in Japan!

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Bell photo courtesy of Photobucket.

Saturday, February 6, 2010

Sepia Saturday-- William Fraser 1867--1952



My great uncle, William Fraser, was born on April 2, 1867 in Inverness-shire Scotland and immigrated to Canada at age five in 1872. This photo of him with his younger sister is the oldest in our family album. He attended St. Paul's School in Toronto and the University of Toronto's St. Michael's College. Following his graduation (about 1888) William joined the building trades as a carpenter like his father, working at his trade for over a decade. Then he made a very dramatic move,joining the Trappist Monks at the Abbey at Our Lady of Gethsemani of the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, in Louisville Kentucky in July of 1896 at 29 years of age. Although second oldest in the family, William was the last to join a religious order.

William became attracted by the monastic life after doing some carpentry work at his sister Teresa's convent. The peace and tranquility of her new life as Sister St. John, had a profound affect upon him.

William also believed that the monistary offered hope of his becoming a priest. However, when it became clear that this was not to be the case, after three years as a monk (he had taken the religous name of Brother Andrew), William left in 1899 to study for the Priesthood at the Collegio Brignole-Sale, in Genoa, Italy where he majored in Philosophy. He was ordained on March 31, 1905 and literally set sail to join his younger, brother Msgr. John Fraser as a missionary in Ichi Kiang, China until 1909. However, he did not have the same linguistic skill as his brother and could never master the Chinese dialect. He returned to Toronto as Associate Pastor of St. Ann's Parish until 1913, then was named Pastor of St. Joseph's Parish in Grimsby Ontario. 1915 found him serving as Associate pastor at St. Michael's Cathedral and associate pastor of St. John's. In January of 1917 he served as associate pastor at St. Francis of Assisi (later St. Agnes) at 15 Grace Street in Toronto, just a block away from his parents home at 41 Grace St. He was joined there for the summer of 1917 by his nephew, the future Bishop Francis Carrol, just prior to Francis Carrol's first appoitnment as pastor of his own church. William was still at St. Agnes when his parents died, within six months of each other, in 1920.


Fr. William Fraser, originally uploaded by Anexplorer.



Father William was an easy going man who enjoyed a cigar and a occasional drink. When in the wake of a scandal involving a young priest, the church, in Toronto, decided no priest would be permitted to drive within twelve hours of consuming alcohol or ever ride in the same car with a woman, Father William, one of the oldest men present at the meeting called to announce the new rules, publicly challenged the Cardinal's decrees, saying they went too far. The Cardinal was not amused.

After a brief stint as administrator of St. John the Evangelist Parish he returned to China with his brother from 1926 until 1929. Finally returning to Toronto in 1929 at 52 years of age, he was appointed Champlain of Loretto Abbey and Loretto College School, an exclusive Catholic Womens College in Toronto. According to Sister Juliana Dusel, General Archivist of Loretto Abbey, William went blind in the latter years of his time at the Abbey, however he had memorized two forms of the Mass (The Mass of the Blessed Virgin and the Mass of the Dead) so that he could continue to serve. However, blind and now old, his saying of the Mass began to take so long that the Sisters, required to be at their various schools to teach, were frequently made late. Sister Juliana also notes that, "he is remembered fondly by all who knew him, and who describe him as having been always kind and gently--an excellent chaplain to the Sisters and our boarders."



revwilliam, originally uploaded by Anexplorer.



Notes from the handwritten annals of the Abbey track his decline:

"April 16, 1950 - Father Fraser has not been able for some time to say mass. He is not able to walk and comes to the second Mass on Sundays in a wheel chair. Msgr. Fraser is soon to leave for Japan and the parting will be hard.

"June 5, 1950 - Bishop Carroll said Mass at 8 a. m. He is to give the priests' retreats at St. Augustine's Seminary in the next three weeks. He spoke of Father Fraser and intends to speak to the Cardinal, he thinks Mercy Hospital would be the best place for him now that he is no longer able to say Mass.

"Sept. 22, 1950 - Our dear Fr. Fraser whose strength has not returned enough to enable him to say Mass at all since last March had finally become reconciled to moving to Mercy Hospital and was ready when a room was announced for him for today. Mother General and a number of the community were at the door to see him into the car with Mr. Smith (driver for the sisters), his radio and other things occupying the other seat. M.M. Dionysia had done much, and Mrs. Ralston his neice the rest, in sorting and packing everything. He was very lonely leaving but cheered up somewhat when Mother General (Victorine O'Meara) held out the hope that he would come back to say Mass in the new chapel."

Father Fraser lived out the last years of his life at his nephew, Bishop Carroll's beloved St. Agustine's Seminary until his death on November 24, 1952 at age 85. He is buried in the Regina Cleri Cemetery in Scarborough Ontario. Bill and Rosanna Fraser, attended his funeral where they met several relatives (Father's Frank and Gerald Fraser) who were Catholic priests from Chicago, Illinois, son's of William's brother Alexander, from the Chicago branch of the family. Father William was well known to them and had visited them in Chicago many times.

Carpenter, Trappist Monk, Parish Priest, Missionary to China, religious poet, Chaplain to St. Micheal's Hospital and Lorretto Abbey. Although the paths of our lives crossed in time, sadly I never met him and never even knew of his existence until I began researching my family history in 1990.

To view the many other contributors to Sepia Saturday, most not as wordy as this one turned out to be, CLICK HERE

Friday, February 5, 2010

Friday Shoot Out--Circles


Linda and I are continuing to combine our efforts and jointly host a single page for our Shootouts on Friday. And that's where you'll have to go to find our post on CIRCLES this week.

Our joint contribution will continue at least until I'm through this new round of chemotherapy (which will end on the 18 of February!!).

To see our contribution please CLICK HERE

We'll see you over there!

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Proof The Universe Is Unfair



Lindsay is standing in the open doorway of the bathroom wondering what I'm doing.

I'm wondering what I'm doing.

Alright, I know it's called shaving and I used to do it everyday, sometimes twice a day, across my full adult life (well, except for that year I grew a beard but that's another story).

However, chemo is suppose to kill all rapidly growing cells in the body, including hair. I've lost my eyebrows, and the hair on my head and other places, and yet my beard continues to grow.

Not grow normally, mind you. It is weird, scraggly, wispy stuff that now grows on my face. Oddly brittle, it also hurts when I touch it, sort of like pushing pins into my flesh.

This weird stuff grows slowly, so I only have to shave every ten days or so. And shaving it is more like wiping cobwebs from my face than scraping away an actual beard.

Lindsay looks on with intense fascination as I apply the shaving cream. I take out the razor and, due to the cobweb-like consistency of my chemo-beard, in thirty seconds I'm done. Shaved for the next ten days. And as I start to put my shaving equipment away she gives me a look that says, "You're done already? You went to all that trouble for thirty seconds of running that thing over your face? Humans are weird!"

No Lindsay, humans aren't weird, chemo is weird.

And the fact that I still have to shave during my time of baldness is proof the Universe is unfair.

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UPDATED AT 12:30 PM

Willow has asked me to post a picture of me in the beard I mention in this post. I grew it about 9 years ago to look more "grandfatherly" for the birth of my granddaughter Natasha. Not many pictures were taken of me with the beard (for which I'm grateful), but here is one that survived. Obviously I'm the one with the beard. Also in the photo are Linda and Natahia.

Remember, you asked for it. Or, at least, Willow did.

Wednesday, February 3, 2010

The Corrosiveness of Doubt



I doubted.

I hurt and I shivered and I doubted.

And I sat, immobile, frozen to my core in a warm house under two blankets.

While the red numbers on the digital clock moved forward at an inexorable pace.

There really was no sense going to tai chi today. I had missed the first class and the forth class, out of four, due to conflicts with oncologist appointments. That was fifty percent. Half the sessions. I was too far behind with no hope of catching up.

And I was wracked with chemo side effects: I had lost feeling in my feet and finger tips, all the joints of my body ached, I had a head ache, a sharp pain in my lower spine, I had bone deep chills and couldn't get warm no matter how many blankets I put on, and I was weary and profoundly tired. All I wanted was another blanket, a comfortable position to lie in and to be left alone.

While the red numbers on the digital clock moved forward an an inexorable pace.

It was stupid to go to tai chi. It was stupid to have signed up for tai chi in the first place while I was still on chemo and would be missing every third session due to hospital appointments. Missing today would put me so far behind I would never catch up, but I could take the class over when it was offered again in the spring, when chemo was finished and I could make every session.

However, while my brain was busy debating the issue, I pushed off the blankets and got up on weary legs and started putting on my coat and shoes.

This was stupid. I shouldn't go. I'd missed too much, I hurt too much. I was too far behind.

I put on my hat and walked carefully out to the car.

Besides, I thought, it's too late. I'd spent too much time debating whether to go or not and now, unless I got every green light, I'd be late for class.

I started the car and made every green light.

At the Scarborough Village Recreation Centre the class hadn't started yet. The previous group using the room had run late and my group were still waiting in the lobby.

One of the women was complaining to the instructor that she was so far behind that she was getting confused with the movements. And suddenly everybody was agreeing. They were all getting confused. Confronted with a mutiny, the instructor agreed to use today's class for a review.

And she had brought a tape of the first 17 movements if anyone wanted to borrow it. It wasn't available in DVD, only on VHS. So there were no takers. However, I still had my VHS player hooked up to my TV and since no one else was interested, I took the tape. And asked the Instructor to order me my own copy.

In the class I discovered I was no more confused and behind than a majority of the people. And as I moved and stretched and twisted and reached I began to feel better. Aching knots in my body began to undo, painful joints eased.

Now between the tape, an instruction book my cousin had sent, and with the last of my chemotherapy sessions looming on the horizon, I began to believe I could do this.

I had faced my doubts, caught up with the class and went home a happier man.

At home I buried myself under three blankets, whimpered pitifully a few times, took an Advil and went promptly to sleep.

Monday, February 1, 2010

A Beautiful Noise

Let's try this again. I just lost an entire post. Hit the wrong button, or something and poof it was gone. Now it will have to be a more modest posting--

Neil Diamond has invaded my head. He is not often there, but when he does come to visit he is often hard to shake. His music is infectious. I walk with Lindsay along the beach at the foot on the bluffs, trying to focus on the sounds of the waves, the rustle of the wind through the bushes and trees, the music of the bird calls; but all I hear is Neil's tribute to the sounds of the City.

It was my fault, of course. I had invited him in. I'd been thinking about a recent Friday Shootout on the sounds in our community. And suddenly, there was Neil singing.

And singing.

In my head.

However much I might yearn for the peace of the country, I am a city boy, and the sounds of the City I love fit me as well as a hand in a glove....




The weather was mild enough yesterday for me to go out on our back deck and listen to the sounds of the night: the distant whistle of the GO train, the hammering of the guy three houses over who's building something (what do you build outdoors in the winter?), the sirens from the fire station a kilometer away, the sirens from the EMV on Kingston Rd a kilometer in the other direction, the roar of the 747 passing over head. Ah, and breathe in the taste of that air (cough, cough)!"

Alright, I love the city that I know, where I was raised and lived most of my life. But I love the country too, where I lived for more than a decade. Like Neil, but in a more modest way, I'm caught between two shores.

Or maybe I just need to go back to bed.