New beginnings....... the last post here.

When we lived in Powassan, four hours north of Toronto, we had many friends we still keep in touch with. Two special friends Barry and I love very much are Bonnie and Jim. When we lived down the street from Bonnie and Jim, we had our girls, Kathy and Heather. Bonnie and Jim wanted children too, so they adopted two girls. Barry still in social work back then, was doing placements of babies with Childrens' Aid.... and so he was instrumental in getting children for Bonnie and Jim. Like Kathy and Heather, Bonnie and Jim's daughters are all grown up now and starting lives of their own.

The youngest daughter has been pregnant this summer and Barry and I were eagerly anticipating the arrival of Bonnie and Jim's first grandchild. At the hospital Barry kept asking me if the baby had arrived yet. I kept telling him not yet. Well, the baby did arrive.... finally. Barry passed on at noon on July 20th and the baby arrived at 10 pm. that same day! She is a girl, Ayla. She weighed in at 8lbs. 3oz. I emailed congratulations to Bonnie and Jim on the birth of their first granddaughter! =D

I really feel like baby Ayla's arrival completes our circle of life in a very unique and unexpected way. I am very anxious to meet little Ayla... she is a very special arrival to our world indeed! If you are interested, and Ayla's mommy agrees, I will write a post about her on my blog at a future date. Barry would be very happy that this little baby's arrival was his last post....
if he had to have a last post. Goodbye dear blog friends... of this explorer.

Barry's Memorial Service

We held a memorial service for Barry yesterday, Friday and a visitation Thursday night. Over two hundred friends, colleagues and family members came to pay their last respects to Barry. My daughter Kathy, printed a copy of the blog I wrote to tell you about Barry's passing. The reason she did that was for the family. All of us were so touched by your blog comments. Thank you for sharing your heartfelt messages. People who came to the memorial were also touched by your comments to the blog. I cannot read them without crying. We placed the blog in the white binder on the table below.



Another bit of work from Kathy was to visit many of the tribute pages bloggers had posted in remembrance of Barry. Kathy posted those beautiful bits of writing on display boards for all to read. People were not surprised by the words you wrote from blogland but only commented on how accurate your perceptions were for people who had never met Barry in person.



Barry would have wanted your voices to be heard at his memorial. Your writing captured his spirit. Everyone at the funeral loved Barry and all admired his gift for reaching out to people's hearts. Everyone felt he left our world to early and no one was ready to say goodbye to him yet. Neither was I. But I did and we did and you did. Thank you all.

Tomorrow I will post one more blog on this page. After a few days, I will leave the blog up but disable the comments sometime next week. I will still be blogging at Living in the Eastern Woodlands.

Barry

I am sorry to share this post tonight with all of you. Barry passed away at noon today. His breathing became very laboured and after they gave him several medications for pain, he stopped breathing.

Sometimes during a war, the General dies on the battlefield. It doesn't mean the battle is lost, it could mean the General won the war but lost his life trying. That is the stuff heroes are made of.

Barry did not loose his battle with cancer today. The cancer is dead and gone forever now. Barry however, will always live on in our hearts. I consider Barry a hero, not a person who has lost anything.

On the Saturday closest to April 3rd every year our family will meet at a local bookstore and celebrate "Buy a book for Grandpa Day" and we will all buy a book in Barry's memory.

Thank you for all of your love and support. Barry really did enjoy blogging and he looked forward to sharing all of your comments.

Barry Edward Fraser April 3, 1943 to July 20, 2010. Rest soundly, my love.

Where am I?

Today I flew.

I didn't expect to fly, but neither did I expect to almost pass way two weeks ago.

That life, what a kidder!

But I 'll write more about all that next week. It's still a bit touch and go here.

The flying part? They used a hoist to get into my new wheel chair.

I'll write more next time.

If you would like to keep up with news of Barry's time in the hospital, please visit my blog,


http://livingintheeasternwoodlands.blogspot.com/

I am Barry's wife Linda and I will be posting news every day. Thank you.

Hospitalized

About every five minutes as I type this, I'm stopped by a harsh, gasping cough as my lungs rebel against the constraints of the fluid that surrounds them. The same cough that has kept me awake nights for weeks now. The same cough that kept me awake until well after midnight last night until exhaustion finally overcame me and I drifted into a fitful sleep.

At 10:30 this Happy Father's Day, my daughter Kathy will arrive to take me on the long drive down deep into the City where I will be admitted to the Toronto General Hospital for best part of the week to have the fluid finally and completely drained from the pleura surrounding both lungs and to seal the pockets of the pleura to prevent this ever happening again.

I will be taking my laptop with me, but have already decided not to do any posts this week, even if the hospital has internet access. So don't expect any updates on this blog until at least next weekend. If anything really interesting happens, Linda will be sure to let you know.

In the meantime, I have some packing to do and a flood of pills to take.

Let me wish all the father's out there a Happy Father's Day.

As for me, like the President of BP once famously said, I'm looking forward to getting my life back. And hope this week will do the trick.

Sepia Saturday--A Father's Day Special

I put together this brief tribute to my father, William Fraser (1902--1987), several years ago. Given the proximity to Father's Day it seemed a reasonable post for this week's Sepia Saturday.

Also a sneaky way to get in lot of photos without over burdening blogger, or myself. The video is just over a minute in length.

"Bye, Bye Black Bird" was his favourite song.

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To see posts from other Sepia Saturday members (or to become one yourself) CLICK HERE

FSO Rocks

To see our Friday My Home Town Shoot Out for this week, with links to other contributors, please click here

Linda's Retirement Party

Linda stirs beside me in the bed and takes a peek at the clock. I snuggle up behind her and put my arms around her.

"It's the big day," I whisper.

"So it is," she agrees sleepily.

Today the staff at her school, where Linda has worked for 25 years, are celebrating her career. Former Principals will be there, family, former students, Board trustees and many, many others will be out to wish her well.

Linda has been instrumental in Berner Trail Public School winning the gold standard as an eco school, has lead the school choir for a generation (and even sang the anthems at a Blue Jays game). As a teacher and an artist and an environmentalist, Linda has left her mark on her profession and her school.

But, for the moment, Linda isn't anxious for the day to begin. It is comfortable just resting here in the early morning light.

Her brother Steve and I will take a taxi to the Party, since, between numbed feet, drugs and constricted lungs, I no longer trust myself to drive.

Linda was up late last night putting the finishing touches to a scrapbook she has been compiling of her career. Letters of commendation from the Board, photos of folk dancing groups she's led, the safety patrol she managed, the wilderness trips she supervised, photos of former teachers and friends.

So many memories.

But now Lindsay comes wiggle wagging her way into the room with a "come on guys its after getting up time and I need to go out" look on her face.

And Linda stirs, throws back the covers and her day begins.

Thoughtfulness

Lindsay hears it long before we do. She comes running out of the back office in full defensive mode, the hair standing up on the back of her neck, and rushes to the front window.

Linda and I exchange "what's got into the dog?" glances. And then I hear it too.

A very deep and distant "thup, thup" sound approaching rapidly from the East. Suddenly there is a vibration in the house and everything that's loose seems to be rattling.

Lindsay starts to bark ferociously.

And a large military helicopter sweeps quickly by over head destined for the distant towers of the downtown core where the G20 Summat preparations are in full swing. Defending the leaders of the world's most powerful nations on their two day visit to Toronto will cost tax payers over a Billion Dollars. More, even, than the recent Olympics held in Vancouver.

"Who's here?" asks Linda, noticing a car pulled into our driveway.

I've spent the last few days in a state of exhaustion punctuated by the return of a rattling cough that disturbs my sleep and irritates my days. The relief I'd been experiencing from the medications prescribed by the psychosocial oncologist, only mildly moderating the experience now exacerbated by the side effects of chemo.

My chair is closest to the window. "Looks like Wally and Ruth," I tell her.

Wally climbs out of the car and watches the massive helicopter receding into the distance. Wally and Ruth are my daughter Kathy's in-laws.

Linda goes to the door to greet them and I can hear laughter in the distance. The two women are talking and I can clearly hear Linda saying, "Oh now look, you have me in tears!"

I become concerned.

But there is more talk and more laughter before their car pulls back out of the driveway and Linda returns carrying a small blue box. Her eyes are wet with tears and happiness.

"They brought us muffins," Linda tells me. "Ruth was thinking about us and baked us some muffins."

And I marvel at this woman beside me who has been holding back the very Forces of the Universe to care for me, profoundly moved by a simple act of thoughtful kindness.

Wally and Ruth, two more good people in my debt.

Sepia Saturday--A Younger Me

As an Explorer I was always on the go. However, in my English Pram in 1945 I had to wait for Mommy Power to get me moving.



At that age all I could do was dream of being a train engineer.



By the time we had moved to Canada in 1946, I had discovered a love for dogs and was inspired by their freedom to move.



I thought about becoming a farmer and working with massive farm machinery.



I wondered if by being nice to girls they would take me for a ride. And many did. Just not always in ways I had imagined.



Of course I could always rely on my dad and dream of being a fireman.




Or I could just strike out on my own and see what adventure the world had to offer.



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To see posts from other Sepia Saturday members (or to become one yourself) CLICK HERE

In Which, To His Surprise, Barry Grows Up

"You don't happen to work for a circus, Mr. Fraser?" asked the Pharmacist from the doorway of my room at the Chemo Day Care Center. She was fairly short and I could just see her over the shoulder of my nurse who was busy tapping my forearm seeking a suitable location to insert the needle for my drugs and pausing only to make little "Grrr" sounds of frustration.

"Work sometimes felt like a three ring circus, but no, I never actually worked for a circus." I croaked in my weakened little voice.

"Because your chart says you are the tallest man I've ever met. Nine feet tall, in fact. How about basketball?"

"Baseball and hockey were more my games." I laughed. "But then I'm only 6 feet tall. Have always been six feet tall since I was 18."

The Pharmacist smiled. "So you're sure you didn't grow an additional 3 feet over the past week?"

"Grrrr!" said the nurse beside me, tapping even harder on my arm.

"I think my wife would have mentioned it." I assured her.

"Well, my loss." smiled the Pharmacist. "We formulate your drugs based on height and weight and legally we have to check any anomaly on the chart, and this was quite an anomaly. I'll get busy with your drugs and get them up to you as quickly as I can."

"Okay, I give up." said my nurse. I don't think you have any veins in your forearm. Maybe one of the other nurses will have better luck."

And she headed off to find help leaving me alone in my room.

The Chemo Day Care Center is beginning to feel like a comfortable place. I've been coming here for over a year now. The only difficulty for me was when I entered and had to pass by the bell that is rung when patients complete their final round of treatment. The bell I had rung back in February and whose ringing was echoed around the world by those friends who follow this blog.

Well, bell, I thought as I paused to look at it. I will be seeing you again in a few months time. Just wait right there for me.

And then my nurse returned with a slightly older colleague who found a suitable vein within thirty seconds and I was hooked up and ready to reacquaint myself with Taxol.

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To see Barry and Linda's contribution to the Friday Shoot Out please CLICK HERE

Barry Versus The G20

The words of the thoracic surgeon seem coated with oil and slip away from me as I try to grasp them. This gives them the sense of delayed meaning, as if they're being translated and I am always a meaning or two behind.

It isn't just his heavy French accent, it is also the content. He is telling me I will need to be hospitalized for 4 or 5 days to thoroughly drain all the pockets of fluid that surround my lungs and to then seal each of those pockets so fluid can never again accumulate.

The "never again accumulate" part sounds fine. But the five day hospital stay isn't what I wanted to hear.

It has been a long and frustrating day at the hospital, made much easier by the new regime of medication I have just begun. The day before, the Psychosocial Oncologist had replace all my pain meds with a new cocktail he promised would eliminate my pain and give me significant relief from the chronic, gasping cough that had transformed my life into a nightmare over the past three weeks.

I had begun taking the new medications in the morning and discovered the oncologist was as good as his word. My pain was gone, my cough was gone and I had none of the brain numbing drowsiness that accompanied the previous pain meds.

However, the fluid was still around my lungs sapping me of any energy I might have once possessed. And we'd been kept waiting for three hours past our appointment time with the surgeon, due to a crisis he'd had with an earlier patient.

But now we were negotiating my entry into hospital. It couldn't be this week because we didn't want to do anything to delay my starting chemo on Thursday. Then the chemo side effects would take a few days to pass. And the 17th was Linda's Retirement Party which I didn't want to miss, or have canceled so she could be with me.

Finally there was the upcoming G20 summit taking place in Toronto and the fact that the hospital was smack in the middle of the currently being fenced in security zone. We had to get me in, and out, of hospital before that circus began.

So we settled on the 19th, which will see me in hospital over Father's Day. Which was unfortunate.

Although, as Linda said, what better Father's Day gift could there be than the ability to breathe.

The Wizard Of Pills

"None?" I asked in disbelief,

"None," he said firmly. "No pain. none whatsoever, throughout the entire course of this disease. There is no need for it and your body spends too much energy fighting it when that energy could be put to better use fighting the disease."

Linda and I were in one of the treatment rooms in the GI Clinic at Princess Margaret Hospital having our first meeting with the Psychiatric head of the Psychosocial Oncology Department and Palliative Care Unit. He was a tall, calm man, with a soft voice and the body of a weightlifter.

"What did you think when you heard the term 'Palliative Care'?" he asked. "What did that term mean to you?"

"Preparation for death." I told him.

"Well, we can do that too," he agreed. "But that's not what we're really all about. We're about pain management and quality of life. And it looks like the quality of your life over the past few weeks has really sucked. So we need to fix that immediately."

"I'm all for that"

"Nothing we do here will affect the progress of the disease you're fighting. We will leave that up to your medical and radiation oncologists. We're here to make you feel better and maybe free up some of your energy to allow you to join back in the battle yourself. So, I'm changing all your medications....."

And an hour later, Linda and I are headed home, Linda clutching a fist full of prescriptions that will relieve my pain, stimulate my appetite, relieve my chronic and annoying cough and give me back the energy I've lost.

We drop off the prescriptions at the drug store ("Are all these for Barry!?" the Pharmacist asks in disbelief) and make it home half an hour later, Lindsay dancing for joy around our feet.

There are phone messages waiting for us. Linda settles wearily into her chair and plays them back.

"Hello," says the first voice. "This is Mary at the thoracic clinic. We have you booked in tomorrow at 9 am for a procedure...."

Across the room, I've already begun a ragged cough. You certainly do, I think. The sooner you get this fluid away from my lungs the better.

"If afraid the doctor has been called away and won't be available for your appointment...."

For Linda and I both, the room became suddenly cold and silent.

"However, I know you've been waiting quite a while for this procedure, so I've managed to book you in for another appointment at 1:30 tomorrow afternoon. Only a couple of hours later than you would have come. So we'll see you tomorrow at 1:30 not 9 as originally scheduled."

Linda and I collectively exhaled. And life went on.

Palliative Care

There are no longer any clocks that tick in our home. Or tock, for that matter. Once upon a time the metronomic beat of the clock was all there was to be heard in the silence of the night. But now, everything is digital. And quiet.

In a few moments Linda will be getting up to get ready for work. Lindsay will be asking to go out, neighbours will start pulling out of their driveways and heading off into the early morning. Birds will start their song.

I have coughed myself awake again and have brought myself out to the livingroom to allow Linda another hour or so of sleep. The procedure I had done to remove fluid from around my lungs has had minimal, if any effect and I am still staggeringly weak and often panting for breath.

And in pain.

My brother Keith came and took me over to his home for the afternoon yesterday where I relaxed in his backyard with his wife and son. They had a couple gifts for me. A shower chair for the bathtub to minimize any risk of a fall and a shillelagh to use as a cane when I walk.

"You look really cool with the shillelagh" Keith's wife told me.

"Just call me House," I replied in my thin new voice. A voice so strangled and strange I sometimes wonder who is speaking.

This afternoon is my first visit with the Palliative Care Unit at the hospital. Of course they don't call it that. Formally it is known as the Psychosocial Oncology Unit. But, of course, all the staff just call it palliative care. And among the services they offer, they do admit to "providing ongoing care and symptom management to meet the complex needs of individuals whose cancer has not responded to other treatment."

That would be me.

Although tomorrow I finally get in to see the thoracic surgeon to see if he can to anything further to relieve the fluids still trapped in pockets around my lungs. And on Thursday I restart chemo.

And by the weekend, maybe I will be feeling somewhat improved.

At least, that's the plan. For now.

As I hear the first car of the day creep up our street and somewhere far in the distance, the "rita, rita, rita" call of a Cardinal.

Pockets of Resistance

I'm sitting on the bed in the enclosed examining room at the back of the Chemo Day Care Center, my feet dangling over the side and my head resting on the surface of a pillow that's been placed on top of the table beside the bed.

My back has already been sterilized and injected with a local anesthetic.

"You shouldn't feel this," the doctor said as she inserted the long needle between my ribs and into my pleurae.

There are two pleurae, one around each lung. The pleurae act as a protective wrapping, fitting snugly over the lungs. Pleurae are made up of two layers. Normally, there is no space between the inner and outer layer. The layers are joined at the edges, so that the pleura might be compared to a closed balloon, completely empty of air and wrapped tightly around the outside of each of the lungs.

Normally, there is nothing but a thin layer of fluid between the inner pleural lining and the outer one. The smooth pleura linings and lubricating fluid allow the lungs to move freely in your chest, as they do in normal breathing.

In my case this space has fill up with fluid that is restricting the movement of my lungs. Crushing them, in effect.

A large bottle suddenly appeared beside my nose, filled with what looked like a fine ale, or light urine. Take your pick.

"Here's the fluid that was around your lungs. It looks clear. So, luckily no infection" the doctor went on.

"So we're trying for a litre?" I ask.

"Well, lets see what we get," she said.

And, about ten minutes later, she had three bottles full, a little over a litre and a half, when the flow ran out.

"Your lung has been cramped, kind of like a sponge, for the past couple of weeks, now it's time for it to expand into the space we've just created." she went on. "Do you notice any difference in your breathing?"

But I didn't.

So it was down to X-ray to see what was going on.

Half an hour later I'm back up in Chemo Day care, two doctors now pondering my latest chest X-ray. There is the possibility my lung may have collapsed during the procedure, in which case I'll be admitted to the hospital overnight while they re inflate it.

But something very different is going on, and at least as problematical.

"In a few people," the doctor explained, "The space between the inner and outer walls of the pleurae isn't just one empty space, but is divided into pockets. And you happen to be one of those people. We thought we'd removed all of the fluid around your right lung, the one that was the most problem, but it seems we've only tapped into one of the pockets. A large one, but a pocket none the less. The rest have remained filled with liquid. And that's also likely the case with your left lung as well. So there is still a significant amount of fluid trapped against your lungs and your lung can't expand to the extent we'd hoped."

"I am experiencing some relief," I told her. "I seem to be thinking more clearly and haven't coughed in about an hour."

"Well, you're seeing the thoracic surgeon on Tuesday. The fluid we've removed should make life more comfortable for you until then. You should be able to sleep better and have less of a cough. But, well, the problem will remain. The symptoms will just be less intense."

And so I'm home again where the symptoms are less intense and more tolerable, and I'm waiting until Tuesday.

As is Lindsay who hasn't had a good run with me for over three weeks now.

Changes

"So, we have a new plan," said the oncologist.

Linda and I waited. It had been a long and exhausting day at Princes Margaret Hospital. A day of concern and support and additional testing. A day of confirming, once again, the power of reality over hearsay.

I always thought I was a good communicator. After all I it had been the way I made my livelihood back in my working day, not so very long ago. But for the nurses and doctors my phone calls reporting on my condition paled into insignificance with one look at me panting and choking for breath in their office.

Suddenly my back and chest were being stethoscoped, my blood pressure taken, my oxygen level monitored. I was being given new chest X-rays and new blood samples were being taken. And Linda and I were urged to report on the increasing devolution in my condition that we had been experiencing over the past week.

Then Linda and I waited while the medical team huddled and conferred, coordinated and came up with a new plan for my future.

"So, we're canceling your chemo for this Thursday and moving forward the suctioning off of the fluid surrounding your lungs."

"Surrounding my lungs? I thought the fluid was actually in my lungs?"

"No the fluid is between the surrounding membrane and your lungs, putting pressure on them from the outside. Crushing them, in effect. We'll be suctioning off about a litre of fluid"

"A litre! Good Lord. A full litre of fluid?"

The oncologist smiled, "There's actually about a litre and a half of fluid there, but we're going to leave half a litre as a buffer and let the thoracic surgeon decide what to do about the more delicate work when you see him on the 8th. The risk isn't great but whenever your poking around the lungs with sharp pointy objects there is always the risk of puncturing and collapsing your lungs and we'd rather let the surgeon take that risk because then there'd be the need for more and immediate surgery."

Linda and I paled a little. Or a lot.

"He might also want to install a permanent tap in your chest to ease the risk of damage when further fluid extractions are required, because unfortunately, once you've had this done once, it may have to be repeated, unless the chemo proves even more effective at fighting off the disease this time around."

We paled again.

The oncologist smiled again, "But I promise, once the fluid extraction has taken place on Thursday you will notice a dramatic difference almost immediately. Not only will that panting and cough stop, but all your old energy levels will come back. And you should have no difficulty sleeping."

And so Linda and I left the hospital with a completely revised schedule of appointments including a plan for three new chemo cycles stretching forward into mid summer.

And hope.

Through The Slats

Through the slats on the Roman Blinds, I watch the weakened beam of a car's headlights as it pushes through the drizzle of an early morning. But it passes slowly by, the sizzle of its tires on the wet road slowly fading into the distance.

Linda and I are ready to go for my pre-chemo visit with the Medical Oncologist at Princes Margaret Hospital. A former student of Linda's has agreed to drive us today, despite the need to leave in the early hours of morning and face the frustrations of Toronto's rush hour traffic.

The congestion in my lungs had me up three times in the night, so I am feeling even more exhausted and sleepy than is usual even for me these days. And once I've taken my first oxycocet of the day, the exhaustion will only increase.

Another car slowly makes it way down our street, another neighbour on the way to work. Another neighbour going through the normal patterns of his life.

The rain signals an end to the oppressive heat wave that has hung over the city for the past week and that hasn't helped my breathing in the least. The forecast is for cooler temperatures and even more rain on into the coming weekend.

Maybe now we can turn off the central air conditioning for a while and let some fresh air into the house.

This time the car outside my front window slows and stops.

"Persaad's here," I tell Linda.

"Right on time," she says.

I start coughing, my lungs struggling to reject the fluid that weighs them down.

"Let's hope the Oncologist will find a way to speed up your getting your lungs tapped."

"I hope so too," I say, pushing my weakened body to its shaky feet.

And so we head off into the rain and the long drive downtown and an outcome we will not know until this afternoon.

Wish us luck.

Misery Loves Company

Despite a couple of nice things happening, it has been a miserable week.

And I'm not much looking forward to this one either.

I look back and marvel at the rapidity of my decline. It seems that everyday brings a noticeable increase in the intensity of my symptoms or the erosion of my strength. Linda has become so alarmed she has taken the day off work today, no longer certain I can be left on my own.

Tomorrow I have a visit with the Medical Oncologist and Thursday I begin a new cycle of chemo. On Monday the 7th I have my first appointment with Palliative Care and the next day I finally have an appointment to drain my lungs of the fluid that is nearly crippling me.

Everyday pulls me further from the series of radiation treatments I have just completed, but whose cumulative side effects will continue to build for a some days yet.

Poor Linda, my conversations become entirely focused on my own internal condition, my aches and coughing, wheezing, panting, crushing fatigue, bloating, diarrhea, pain and sorrow.

I am miserable company. Even Lindsay will attest to that.

I have never gone into chemo from such a low ebb and know chemo will add its own layer of side effects.

But it is the hope I cling to for some return to normalcy.

Clarification

I see today that I was so excited by Anvils generosity in turning the sheet music of my ancestor into actual music, that the images I chose to accompany the video I posted yesterday were somewhat confusing.

So let me try to straighten out a couple of points.

The 19 year old Alexander Simpson who lost his life in WW I was the son of the man who wrote the waltz. His father, the Alexander Simpson who was the composer of the waltz, lived a good long life living well into his 80's.

The Scottish tradition is to name the oldest son after the father, so there are always two males with the same name in every family--which makes genealogy work very interesting and challenging.

Margaret, the woman to the far right in the family portrait that appears briefly on the screen, is the daughter for whose wedding the waltz was written.

I'm glad so many enjoyed hearing the music as much as I did. While it will never make the hit parade, it is pleasant little tune. It was viewed 64 times yesterday.

Sepia Saturday--An Unexpected Pleasure

Last week I published a short history of my great grandfather's step brother, Alexander Simpson, poet and musician. The above death cards are for his wife Jane and oldest son Alex, who was killed in WWI.

A noted violinist as well as composer, Alexander composed a waltz for each of his children's weddings and sheet music for one of those waltzes had come down to me. Not being a musician in any way I had often wondered what those waltzes sounded like.

Now I know.

Last night I received this email from fellow blogger ANVILCLOUD:

It's AC here. Last Saturday you posted about Alexander Simpson. You also posted a copy of his composition, Wedding Waltz, and said you had never heard it.

Well, I thought I could help a bit by transposing it into ABC notation and generating computer music. I am attaching an MP3 of a computer trying to sound like a violin. It's computer generated and then recorded back from the computer speakers, so you'll hear some hissing. Sorry about that.

The printed copy was not terribly clear, and I was squinting, so if you wish to compare my version of the score with the original and see if there are errors, I can make necessary changes.

I also hope that you are able to enjoy your weekend somewhat. What a miserable time you are having. I feel for you. Your troubles make mine seem very small. In fact, they make my life seem trouble free. I admire your heroic spirit, Barry.

Using Anvil's work I have hastily put together the following little video. The first time Alexander's Wedding Waltz has been heard in 100 years.

Hope you enjoy it.



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To see posts from other Sepia Saturday members (or to become one yourself) CLICK HERE

FSO Home Town Heroes

This weeks My Home Town Shoot Out is Local Heroes. To see Linda and my contribution please CLICK HERE

It turns out they are not always who you might think.

In Which I Am Become An Industry

Once Upon A Time I did it on my own. All of it.

In fact, most of it I did on my own only a month or so ago.

Now, it seems, it takes an entire community, a veritable industry of people, to keep me stable. To maintain, as they all eventually end up saying, my quality of life.

Yesterday afternoon my home was invaded by an army of women (well 3 of them anyway). Lindsay and I ran and hid out in the bedroom, shut the door and crawled under the covers. Beyond the bedroom door was bedlam: laughing, shouting, giggling, the roar of vacuum cleaners and floor polishers, the strong sickly stench of powerful cleaning products.

We have been granted house cleaning services for the next few weeks while radiation and chemo therapies seek to return me to something like my former level of self-care.

Friday I go for a pedicure at the Providence Health Center, until I can bend over through the pain far enough once again to reach my own toes.

On Monday Kevin, our landscaper, comes to cut our grass, dig up our weeds, and prune our bushes.

On Wednesday a visiting Registered Nurse will be out to monitor how I'm surviving both my treatments and my newly intensified level of supportive-care. The radiation oncologist wants to tap my lungs to drain off the fluid that is causing me to be so short of breath and to spend so much of my time coughing. The medical oncologist wants to maintain the level of fluid and use it as a gauge of the level success of the specific drugs being administered during my chemo treatments.

The visiting nurse is a compromise. The fluid will remain and the current quality of my life will be eroded as the price to pay for a better future. But the nurse will alert us all if the situation becomes unstable. Or downright dangerous.

And I am astounded to find that it suddenly takes an entire industry of people to just maintain me.

Life was once a simpler thing.

When I did it all on my own.

In Unison

There are so many things wrong with me at the moment that if they all decide to act up in unison, the result is quite spectacularly miserable.

That was my day yesterday.

After a very promising morning (did I over do it?), my brother John took me downtown for my second last radiation treatment and had me home by 3 pm.

But by that time I felt nauseated, constipated, was gasping for air due to the fluid build up in my lungs, my abdomen had become a swallowed bowling ball pushing outward against my rib cage, my head hurt, the bottoms of my feet hurt, I ached and I was agitated and I coughed and I coughed.

But I no longer had sharp pains in my back.

"So, how are you doing today?" asked Linda as she arrived home from school, a lilt of hope upon her voice.

But there was little good news to be had from a husband in misery.

By bedtime things seemed to have settled to a tolerable level and I awoke this morning feeling not too badly, although my breathing is laboured and still I cough, the fluid rumbling around in my chest.

Today is the last day of radiation. John is picking me up around 8:30 and by 11:00 I should be back home again, this phase of treatment behind me.

Next Wednesday I begin a new cycle of chemo, which should put in check a lot of these symptoms, exchanging them for chemo side effects.

A change, they say, is as good as a rest.

End of the May 24 Weekend

Sully comes prancing across my brother's backyard, all puppy soft and wiggly, and climbs up on my knee. Sitting on my stomach he looks intently into my eyes before sticking out his tongue and tentatively licking my nose.

"Oh Sully, leave poor Barry alone," My brother's wife Lynda admonishes him. But Sully doesn't listen and neither do I.

We are enjoying each other under the dappled shade of the old Norwegian Maple that straddles much of Keith and Lynda's yard and shades us from the heat of the late afternoon.

Named in honour of Captain Sullenberger, pilot of the fated flight 1549, Sully the cocker spaniel is all gentle love and warmth.

Linda and I are over visiting my brother and his wife for the afternoon as an end to Canada's May 24th long weekend. We're also there to congratulate their son Mark on his acceptance to Law School at the University of Ottawa.

"So how are you feeling," Lynda asks me. She is a Registered Nurse and Manager of the Providence Center's Outpatient Department, so her questions carry more of a professional edge than most. I go through my litany of complaints and annoying symptoms and she makes suggestions for handling things differently. I ask about getting an appointment with the foot clinic at Providence, my back problems making it difficult for me to bend over far enough to cut my toe nails properly and she agrees to try to set up an appointment for Thursday.

My brother arrives back from his Tim's run with coffees for everyone. We talk about the last episode of LOST; they tell me about a new show they've just started watching called Pawn Stars; Linda tells them about plans for her retirement party at her school to which they are invited; Mark arrives and we give him a house warming gift for his new apartment; Keith tells me about how he is using a new app on his iphone to manage his exercise program.

A light wind brushes against the canopy of the large tree moving around the dappled streams of sunlight like spotlights at a rock concert.

And I think how good it feels to just be out doing normal things on a normal spring day with normal people and a warm puppy.

The Curious Incident Of The Dog In The Night

2:37 in the morning, according to the liquid red numbers floating in a sea of black.

In a distant part of the house Lindsay has erupted into a loud and vicious barking. Linda stirs awake beside me and sits up.

I push back the covers and jump out of bed.

The barking intensifies.

I put on the hall light and rush into the livingroom, but she is not there. The barking is coming from the french doors at the back of the house. So I swing around and there she is, enraged at something outside in the backyard.

Putting a hand on her back, calms her somewhat and I look out through the glass at the darkened world outside. This is the City so it is never totally dark, although our many trees and bushes provide ink-like shadows.

I see nothing and Lindsay's rage begins to lessen. I open the door and together we step outside into a much cooler and more humid world. Lindsay races out around the perimeter of the yard, running around and around the periphery.

Linda appears behind me, laying a hand on my shoulder.

"What was it?" she asks.

"Squirrel, maybe. Or the neighbour's cat."

"Or those raccoons," Linda suggests.

"Could be," I agree, looking for the back dog rushing through the night.

"Say, that was some mighty fine leaping out of bed there, mister. How is your back?"

I do a physical inventory of the seven cancerous hot spots in my back. "Not in any particular pain," I tell her with some surprise. "Maybe a little stiff."

"Adrenaline is an amazing thing, isn't it?" Linda smiles.

I put my hand on hers, "Need to bottle and sell that stuff."

"Do you feel like a cup of tea while we're up," Linda asks. "Its kind of nice out. Refreshing."

And so we sit and have tea and talk a little and the pains don't return to my back even as the adrenaline ebbs away.

Lindsay returns to the deck, curls up at my feet and goes comfortably to sleep.

And this morning, while my back feels tight and somewhat achy, the pain is still gone. Curious the effect a little black waggy tailed dog can have in the night.

Sepia Saturday--Alexander Simpson

Alexander Simpson

Alexander Simpson was my great grandfather William's half brother. Father of 4, he accompanied his youngest daughter, Margaret, and her husband to Canada in 1912.

Alexander Simpson and Jane Forsythe on their Wedding Day

Margaret's husband, Robert Watson, was a Marine Engineer who had hoped to get work on a ship on the Great Lakes. However the ocean liner they sailed on from Scotland could not get through the thick winter's ice and they ended up staying in Newfoundland for a year before finally settling in Windsor, Ontario. Instead of a Marine Engineer, Robert became a Tool and Die Maker at Ford's Plant in Dearborn until he retired at age 67. Sadly he died 2 yrs later.

While Margaret and Robert were getting settled in their new country, Alexander Simpson, now 75 years of age, took a book out of the Library and read instructions for building a house, which he then proceeded to build for them on his own. The home remained in the family until 1979 and is still in terrific shape.

Wedding Waltz composed by Alexander Simpson for his daughter Margaret's Wedding

Alexander was a poet and a noted fiddle player throughout his long life and wrote waltzes for each of his children on their Wedding Day. The above is one of his compositions. Not being a musician myself I haven't been able to hear it. One of these days I'll have to buy some software that will allow me to plug in the notes and finally experience this being played.

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To see posts from other Sepia Saturday members (or to become one yourself) CLICK HERE

FSO--At the Zoo

It is time for the My Home Town Friday Shootout again. This week the theme is "At the Zoo".

Our contribution can be found by clicking HERE. All of the photos this week were taken by Linda on one of her class tours of the Toronto Zoo, which is located not far from our home.

If you are interested in photography or sharing insights into your home town, maybe you'd be interested in joining us.

Panic At Union Station

I'm running through the vast rush hour crowds at Union Station in an increasing panic. On my way home from my first radiation treatment I am suddenly overcome with the urge to vomit and don't know what to do.

I look for a garbage but there are no open garbage recepticals any more, all have lids with little slit openings, not large enough for a terrorist to slip a bomb through.

There are no quiet corners in the station, every inch swarms with an impatient humanity rushing for departing suburban trains.

I push my way through the rushing throng toward the distant men's washroom. Seeing me coming and the increasing look of panic on my face, the crowds start to part to let me through.

I burst into the men's room hoping to find an empty stall, but everyone on the lower level is full. My weakened back screams with the pain of the effort, as I climb the stairs between the two sections, finally finding an empty stall. The reek that meets me helps explain why this stall is not occupied. But then I'm not there for any pretty purpose.

"You may experience some nausea," the radiation technologist had explained, two hours previously. "Where the hot spot on the bone is located will require us to shoot through part of your stomach. It could also cause diarrhea, but then the Dexamethazone you're taking is constipating and it could all balance out.

I was laid out on the Radiation machine ready for my first of five treatments and she was explaining the experience that awaited me in the calm sterility of the room, the sounds of Enya playing softly in the background.

"You'll be getting five treatments which will actually increase the swelling of the tissue surrounding the hot spot which will act to increase your pain level in the short term. Although within a few days of the final treatment you should notice a decrease to the point where you experience no pain from this whatsoever. It is very important you continue to take your Dexamthazone and your ocycocet through this time. You might even find you need to increase your dosage temporarily. Talk to your oncologist about this if you need to."

I nodded understanding. The technicians left the room and the machine whined to life. Ten minutes later I was through and ready to head for home.

"I don't like your breathing," the radiation technician said as she helped me off the table. I explained about the fluid in my lungs and she asked if it had been getting any worse, which it had. So she walked me over to the radiation nursing clinic just to get it checked out. Two hours later, after my lungs had been listened to by several nurses and a doctor and I'd been for a chest xray, they told me they were more concerned by my high blood pressure reading than my lungs.

Unexpectedly my blood pressure was 154 over 102.

"This could be a total anomaly," the nurse finally said. "But you'll need to monitor it and if it stays up, you'll need to see your family doctor."

And I was released back into the outer world and sent on my way to Union Station and, eventually, back home to Linda and Lindsay.

By bed time my blood pressure was down to 130 over 70 and I prepared to go to sleep ready to face another day tomorrow.

I'm Honored

Author Kathryn Magendie, a friend and frequent commentor on this blog, has sent me a copy of her latest book Secret Graces.

Opening it I discover that not only has she hand-written a very touching inscription, but that the book is dedicated to me, in part. Actually the dedication reads:

In Pride: To My Son & His New Family
&
In Honor: To Peggie DiBenedetto, Barry Fraser, Stephen Craig Rowe
(and there are many more....) for keeping the light of your smile even when
old bastard cancer tries to take it away

And beyond that, I discover Kat has written me into the book as a one of the characters. Or, at least, one of the characters shares my name and after interacting with the central protagonists of the story hightails it for Canada.

Thank you Kat, I'm deeply honored.

Kat and I have been corresponding since the earliest days of this blog. She is an intelligent, funny, daring, insightful woman and a brilliant writer whose first book, Tender Graces is now the number one best selling book on the Kindle Literary list.

An acclaimed short story author and co-editor/publisher of The Rose & Thorn Literary Ezine, she lives in the Smoky Mountains with her husband, two dogs and a ghost dog.

You also might want to skip over to Kat's Blog to wish her well and check out her trailer for Secret Graces below.

Many thanks Kat. You've certain brought a smile to my face with this one!

Day Of The Jays

I think it had something to do with the blue colour of my housecoat.

I know it had something to do with the new bird feeder we put up back in February.

But it still felt more than a little strange.

It was early in the morning and I had made a cup of tea for Linda and I. She was sitting in her chair searching for photos of bead boards in Country Living Magazine.

I took my tea out onto the back deck where the air was a little cooler than I expected. The tea cup was warm in my hands and steam began rising from its surface. I had just taken my first oxycocet of the day and a light, but comfortable, somnolent feeling would soon be creeping over me.

Since taking ocycocet I have no longer been able to mediate. Sit quietly for a few seconds and I immediately find myself waking up after an hour long nap, a head uncomfortably full of cotton wool. It is frustrating, but maybe the sharp coolness of the air, the warmth of the tea and relaxation of the drug would work some interesting alchemy.

With a sharp little thud, a blue jay landed on the deck railing right at my shoulder.

We looked at each other. He pruned a feather on his wing. I held my breath. I had never been so close to a jay.

Then he was gone, but back in a second with a craw filled with sunflower seeds from our feeder. He ate. I drank my tea, and wished Linda would come to the door to see this.

Two more jays landed beside him.

I stopped drinking.

"KA!" said one, with an ear splitting shreik.

"Ka! Ka! said another.

Then they started making alternate trips to the feeder and bringing back their loot to enjoy and squabble over. While I sat still and my tea became cool in my hands.

Linda appeared at the screen door transfixed by the sight of her blue housecoated husband playing at being St. Francis of Assisi

Then one by one the birds leaped into the air and headed off in a variety of directions.

Linda stepped cautiously out onto the deck.

"What was that all about?" she asked.

I shook my head. "I wanted to call you but I was afraid I'd scare them all away."

"They must have thought you were just another jay in your housecoat."

"I guess."

"I wish I'd had the camera ready."

"Don't tell Patty," I said and went back to make another cup of tea.

Incident In The Waiting Room

Stylishly dressed in black with a discreet gold earring and several gold chains, he reminded me of an old time cowboy star of my youth, Lash La Rue. Replace the cowboy hat with a stock of steely grey hair severely trimmed into a longish crew cut, replace one eye with a medical patch and the six gun with a cell phone and the image was complete.

It was Friday and Linda and I were the Radiation Clinic on floor 1B of the Princess Margaret Hospital. I'd finished my session with the Oncologist who had decided the cancerous hot spot in my right hip that was giving me so much trouble was treatable and had booked me straight into a preparatory CT Scan to have the spot be precisely tattooed on my flesh for the radiation treatment later in the week.

The waiting room is filled with soft plastic comfortable chairs set around a huge floor to ceiling fish tank through which tropical fish swam gently behind a veil of bubbles.

It wasn't crowded and he chose the seat opposite us, settling down with a slight clumsiness, unused to seeing the world through one eye, took out his cell phone and began dialing.

A family next to him were talking quietly but loud enough for us to be unable to overhear his first couple of calls. But then the driver for the cancer society came and they left.

"...Mrs. Flynn," he was saying, "I just wondered if Philip was in? No? Oh, he took that flight to Aruba did he? Then he won't be back until later this evening? Midnight? Oh that's unfortunate."

I was sipping a large Tim Horton's coffee and trying to concentrate on Peter Robertson's book "Piece Of My Heart", which was beginning to sound vaguely familiar. Could I have read it before?

"No, they didn't need to remove my eye, thank goodness. I'm saved for another day. And I do miss my little pooches, thank you for looking after them for me. No, I'm still here in Toronto and I have a slight problem...."

I took a peek over at Linda but she seemed absorbed in the Toronto Star's crossword puzzle.

"Well, you know whenever I'm here at the hospital, which seems to be every few weeks now, they give me a hard time about bringing credit cards and things like that with me. They won't let me keep anything in the room and it all has to go into an envelope and into a safe and if I need anything they have to dig it out again and It's a hassle for them. So I've taken to leaving all my stuff at home and just bringing $100 in cash with me...

"It pays for my Gray Coach ticket from London and a TV for the room and any little extra's, you know? But they held me over for a day and Gray Coach charge a fifteen dollar fee to transfer the ticket to a new date and I've run out of money. That little bit of money I brought with me? So I was just wondering if Philip was in and could run down to the station and pay it for me. But if he took the Aruba flight, I guess that's not possible...

"Yes London, Ontario's a long way from Toronto, that's true. In this age of plastic its embarrassing not to have your debt or credit card with you. I've been a flight attendant for so long, helping passengers with their troubles and now here I am? But don't you worry...."

"Mr. Fraser," the CT Technician had arrived at my chair. "We're ready for you now."

I got up, leaving my bag, coat and hat with Linda and made my way down the corridor to the scanner. Half an hour later I had been scanned, measured and tattooed. Returning to the waiting room, I noticed Linda was all alone.

"I gave him $20," she said.

"The flight attendant?"

"Poor man. He has leukemia. His mother died of it five years ago and so did his brother."

"I was wondering if it was a scam. Put a patch over one eye, tell a story over your cell just loud enough to be heard and wait for money?"

"You're a cynic."

"Well, that's true, but only when we're downtown."

"And it wasn't that much money."

"You gave him your name and address for him to return the money?"

"I told him to pay it forward. Besides he showed me the bus ticket with yesterday's date and the small print showing the $15 transfer fee."

"Well, maybe I was wrong."

"Maybe you were. Besides I'd rather think good of people and I think he was a good man."

"Lash La Rue was always the good guy." I said, but Linda is younger than me and missed out on all those old cowboy movies and just looked at me strangely.

Maybe I'm just getting too cynical. I'm still not sure I would have given him the Twenty bucks.

Sepia Saturday==Of Surgeons, Artists and Oncologists

Although not a Sepia Image, it is the oldest portrait of a family member that we possess. His name is James Fraser (1785-1841), brother to my GGGrandfather Alexander.

Alexander inherited the family farm on the Duke of Gordon's Estate outside Portgordon in Scotland, while James went on to become a surgeon, married Elizabeth Hoyle, and moved to the United States.



Surgeons were not medical doctors and were not well respected in those days, with community standings little higher than those of butchers. Indeed, the principal occupation of Surgeons in rural farming communities was the removal of fingers, toes and limbs due to dangers inherent in the rough agricultural life the people led.

Portraiture for the common people also had it's quirks. In those pre-photographic days, itinerant artists would spend the winters painting headless bodies of varying sizes, wealth and sex and then would travel the countryside stopping at various farms looking for those wishing to have a painting done.

An appropriate body type would be selected from the various canvases stored in the back of the artist's wagon and the subject's head would then be painted on the body.

We don't actually own either of these two portraits but the descendants of James (in Ohio) were kind enough to mail us copies, which we treasure.

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Oncologists are doctors and have considerable standing in today's medical profession. I met yesterday with my radiation oncologist who confirmed the cancerous hot spot on my lower spine, responsible for my recent (almost crippling) back pain, is treatable. I was immediately sent for a pre-radiation CT Scan, measured and tattooed. Treatment will require 5 sessions of radiation beginning, likely next Wednesday.

The treatment will increase the inflammation for a while and also increase the pain so a residential nurse will be sent to the home to help out for a few days while Linda is a work.

Then, maybe I can get off these pills.

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To see posts from other Sepia Saturday members (or to become one yourself) CLICK HERE

The Dark Side Of Town

Linda and I are on our way back to Princess Margaret Hospital for a meeting with the radiation oncologist to see what pain relief can be brought to my back.

In the meantime you might be interested in a dangerous stroll through the Dark Side of West Hill as captured in our My Home Town Friday Shootout this week.

Please bring a gas mask and envirosuit with you and click HERE

How I Feel

"So how do you feel about all of this?"

Lindsay and I are down at the park for her morning run. The black skies and cool temperatures of yesterday have been swept away by strong winds and white clouds now race across blue skies.

The fluid in my lungs has slowed my pace and I can hear a slight rasp to my breathing as I walk. So I adjust my gait to match the distance I want to travel.

I click off Lindsay's leash and she surges forward down the pathway with an ease and freedom I can only admire. We weren't out for long yesterday and today I want her to have a good run.

But she stops at the top of the small rise ahead of us, waiting for me to catch up, tail wagging with evident pleasure. And suddenly there is another dog beside her. It's Molly, the little Scottish Terrier with her plaid collar and little bell.

"Well, it's the Bloggerman," says the plumpish woman coming up the trail toward me. Her rangy husband walks beside her carrying a long and hefty staff. He's been reading about coyotes in the area and isn't taking chances.

We stop for a chat while our two dogs say hello.

"I've been reading your blog, bloggerman. I'm surprised to see you out after that bad news. I'd be at home whimpering under a blanket. I can't imagine how you must feel."

"I'm feeling fine," I tell her.

She looks at me suspiciously.

"Really?" she prompts.

I try to think about how I can explain it to her. "I feel fine, I do. I feel calm, I feel relaxed. I'm sleeping the night through. I'm not obsessing about this."

"Well, okay, I guess that's good then, I suppose." She puts an uncertain smile on her face.

"I suppose. Except those aren't my real feelings. Those are the drugs I'm taking. I haven't got the faintest idea how I'm really feeling."

"Ah," says her husband, suddenly smiling, with a "gottcha now" look on his face.

"I get a little anxious around dinnertime, but that's just the Dexamethasone wearing off. I take a little hexagon pill with dinner and I'm fine again. And Ocycocet just keeps me in a mild fog all day. The Oncologist has suggested I experiment with cutting back to one pill every four hours in stead of two. I'll feel the pain a little more but I'll be more clear headed."

"Ya," her husband goes on. "But maybe drive yourself crazy with fear and worry."

I shrug.

"Tough times, bloggerman." says the woman, suddenly turning away with a catch to her voice. Then she looks down at Lindsay, "You look after this guy, okay, Lins? You look after this guy."

Lindsay wags her tail.

And we head off on the rest of our morning walk, my breathing now accompanied by the slight percussion sound of a rasp.

A Meeting With The Oncologist

On the way down to Princess Margaret Hospital for a meeting with the Oncologist to discuss the results of my recent CT and Bone Scans, I joked with Linda that I wanted the Oncologist who Heads the clinic there to meet with me, not the Fellow.

"If it's bad news they always give it to the Fellow. She looks more devastated by the bad news than we are."

"No," said Linda, "If its really bad news they give it to the Intern and tell them breaking bad news it part of their training. So what you really don't want is the intern."

As it happens it was the the Oncologist.

But, there wasn't much good news that came out of my meeting with her yesterday, so what there was I may as well give you up front.

Neither the CT Scan or the Bone Scan revealed any new cancerous tumors. So that was good.

However.

Three of the pre-existing tumors in my back have begun to grow rapidly since my chemotherapy was discontinued back in February, one in my right shoulder, one in my left and one in my right hip. Their growth have been the cause of the severe pain I have been experiencing in my back.

So I have been referred to the radiation oncologist this Friday to plan for the radiation of these three areas, although it may not be possible to treat the shoulder blades because they are so close to the area radiated in my esophagus last summer.

And there is another problem. The CT Scan showed I now have water in my lungs, the likely result of the spread of the cancer to my lungs. There are no definite signs of a tumor in my lungs yet, but that is the most likely cause. Almost the certain cause.

I had begun to notice taking Lindsay for a run in the mornings left me short of breath, not panting quite, but certainly breathing harder than I ever used to. And when the oncologist listened to my chest she could detect the presence of fluid.

So it is back to chemo in June to fight off the tumor, or tumors, that is now likely in my lungs. It seems the remaining cancers in my bones were held in check by chemo the last time and, with a little luck, further chemo may keep them in check again.

For a while.

Sadly, chemotherapy will eventually loose it's effectiveness, or the accumulating side-effects may cause irreversible damage to the rest of my system and chemo will have to be discontinued. I have already lost a lot of sensation in my feet and it's affecting my balance. But if the treatment is stopped, then the cancer will be let loose to advance again. Rapidly and aggressively.

At some point, a day procedure to remove the fluid from my lungs may be necessary.

I am also being referred to a range of Community Support Services closer to my home, including palliative care. Not that I am in need of it just now, but the time frame while elusive is suddenly more definable.

Linda and I left the hospital in silence, clutching a page with a series of dates for my upcoming chemo and radiation treatments. The subway rocked and lurched its way back to Union Station and as we transitioned between the subway and the railroad station Linda suddenly said, "Come on move faster, I can't stand this any longer."

"Can't stand what," I asked?

"The music," she said.

If I listened I could just hear the sweet music of a violin playing in the distance.

"Its just too cruel," Linda yelled above the clamor of the crowd.

Then words began to form for me around the notes. "They can't be playing 'My Way'", I shouted back. "That's just not possible."

But, of course they were. It was just the way things went that day.

Some Thoughts On Kindness

I had a wonderful day yesterday at the Ontario Science Centre with my family. We had all come together to tour the Harry Potter Exhibit and to see the OmniMax presentation about the Hubble Space Telescope.

Our grandchildren were astounded by the Harry Potter artifacts from the movie and I got to spend some time resting in Hagrid's massive chair, feet dangling and feeling like a 5 year old.

Although Linda had phoned ahead to ensure wheelchairs were available, by pacing our visit with enough rest stops I was able to manage very well.

Tomorrow is my appointment with my Oncologist for feedback on both my CT and Bone Scans and to find out their recommended changes to my treatment.

Right now I'm feeling very well but I'm also just about to take my first Oxycocet for the day and know that will put me to sleep and leave me groggy for another couple of hours until it's time for my next dose.

But at least I was wide enough awake this morning to find the following short video which will bring a smile to your face, maybe brighten your day, and could even give you a new direction to your life. How cool is that?