An Explorer's View of Life

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

2010-08-01T06:38:00.003-04:00

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

2010-07-31T11:06:00.004-04:00

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

2010-07-20T22:28:00.002-04:00

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?

2010-07-16T14:35:00.002-04:00

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.

2010-06-23T23:31:00.002-04:00

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

2010-06-20T05:38:00.002-04:00

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

2010-06-19T05:55:00.005-04:00

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

2010-06-18T07:24:00.003-04:00

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

Linda's Retirement Party

2010-06-17T06:24:00.006-04:00

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

2010-06-15T05:07:00.002-04:00

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

2010-06-12T07:16:00.003-04:00

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

2010-06-11T05:37:00.006-04:00

"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

2010-06-09T06:01:00.006-04:00

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

2010-06-08T05:48:00.005-04:00

"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

2010-06-07T05:27:00.004-04:00

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

2010-06-04T05:25:00.009-04:00

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

2010-06-02T06:58:00.006-04:00

"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

2010-06-01T06:09:00.005-04:00

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

2010-05-31T05:46:00.005-04:00

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

2010-05-30T05:05:00.005-04:00

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

2010-05-29T06:30:00.005-04:00

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

2010-05-28T06:12:00.004-04:00

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

2010-05-27T05:46:00.006-04:00

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

2010-05-26T05:37:00.007-04:00

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

2010-05-25T05:58:00.005-04:00

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

2010-05-23T06:36:00.008-04:00

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

2010-05-22T06:25:00.015-04:00

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

2010-05-21T06:36:00.003-04:00

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

2010-05-20T06:12:00.002-04:00

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

2010-05-19T06:23:00.006-04:00

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

2010-05-18T05:32:00.004-04:00

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

2010-05-16T06:01:00.006-04:00

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

2010-05-15T06:55:00.006-04:00

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

2010-05-14T06:14:00.005-04:00

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

2010-05-13T05:34:00.004-04:00

"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

2010-05-12T05:00:00.003-04:00

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

2010-05-10T07:14:00.008-04:00

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?

Enough

2010-05-09T06:16:00.005-04:00

It wasn't as if I hadn't been warned. I've had nothing but dire warnings for the past two months. It wasn't as though I hadn't sought out help. It was a month ago I went to my family doctor and was put on Tylenol with codeine and referred to my oncologist who ordered a series of tests.

But, despite the Tylenol and despite the jacuzzi and despite the use of cold compresses and the meditating and the elixirs from the Naturopath and the extra vitamin D, by Friday morning the pain had become intolerable.

The day had started out well and Linda had left happily for work. I completed the last in my 40th Anniversary Fiasco series and Lindsay started to remind me that it was time for her morning walk.

That's when I first noticed an escalation in the pain in my lower back. It was agony getting to my feet. I discovered I couldn't put on my socks. Usually I just stand and put them on, a thoughtless act repeated thousands of times. But when that proved too painful, I tried sitting on the end of the bed but couldn't cope with that either.

I decided I'd better ice my back, but our freezer compartment is at the bottom of our Fridge and I couldn't bend down low enough to reach it.

So I apologized to Lindsay and let her out for a run in the backyard, there was no way we were going for a run that day.

Instead I sat down in my Laz-Z-Boy and phoned my oncologist's office and explained my situation to her nurse. Who promised to relay my message and get back to me.

An hour later she called back. The oncologist was tied up with patients but had had a look at the results of my recent CT Scan and it showed growth in the cancer in my right hip. Sufficient growth for me to be feeling severe pain.

"What are you taking for pain?"

"Right now? Tylenol with codeine."

"What strength?"

I checked the bottle and told her.

"That's only Tylenol 2," she said. "Why would your doctor give a cancer patient with severe pain Tylenol 2?" I could visualize her shaking her head. "Listen, we're going to put you on Oxycocet for the pain. It will take away the pain but the price will be that it also will make you very fatigued and drowsy. To fight the drowsiness we're giving you Dexamethasone, which is a steroid. However, the price of taking the steroid is that it will make you constipated, so you'll need to drink plenty of water and take some over the counter stool softeners."

"Anything to get rid of this pain." I told her.

"So we'll fax these through to your local Drug Store but I want you to promise you will take them on exactly the schedule we've laid out and don't get into thinking you can tolerate the pain and delay a dose. Do you hear me?"

"Loud and clear. I promise."

"They will likely decide to give you an emergency radiation procedure on that hip when you're in for your scheduled visit on Tuesday, after they've reviewed the results on your Bone Scan, so come prepared for a longer stay."

Two hours later the drugs had been faxed through to my local Shoppers Drug Mart and I went through the agony of driving up to the drug store to get them. ("Don't you EVER do that again," Linda later told me. "You call me at work and I'll go and get them! Don't you ever do that again.")

After I returned home I took two pain killers and within 15 minutes the room had started to spin. Now I wasn't able to get out of my chair not only because of the pain but because the room wouldn't stand still. 15 minutes after that, I was asleep.

And that's how Linda found me.

It has been two days now and my body is adjusting to the medications. The Oxycocet still puts me to sleep but only for half an hour and then I'm relatively pain free and have enough energy until it's time for the next dose.

The family are getting together for Mother's Day at the Ontario Science Centre to see the Harry Potter Exhibit today and I'm determined to go with them. Although I have heard mutterings of "wheelchair" as Linda has talked with various family members on the phone.

Well, if that's what it takes, that's what it takes. The pain is bad enough, I'm not missing out on life too.

Sepia Saturday--Captain George Shepherd

2010-05-08T06:34:00.009-04:00

.

Having spent months looking at my father's side of the family, I thought it would be only fair to spend some time looking at my mother's side this week.

My mother adored her father, Captain George Shepherd, a World War One hero and blacksmith in the Town of Mitcham, England.

Fred and George Shepherd in their blacksmith shop

2nd Lt. (A/Capt) George Shepherd (1892-1953) originally served in the West Surrey Regiment as a Sergeant before taking a commission in the 2/10th Middlesex, as a 2nd Lieut and later Acting Captain.

My Grandfather walking my mother to church on the day of her wedding

He was awarded the 1914-15 Star (Mons Star) and the British and Victory medals together with the Military Cross. He was commissioned on 28.9.1915 serving in the Gallipoli Campaign.

Captain Shepherd was wounded in the legs in Gaza in 1917 where he won the Military Cross. His citation reads:

"For conspicuous gallantry and devotion to duty. When the left flank of his battalion was exposed, he pushed forward with three men and covered it for half an hour without assistance, under a cross fire from machine guns, setting a very fine example to his company. Dated, near Gaza, 26th and 27th March 1917."

My Grandfather's Wedding photo

After the war he worked with his father, George Sr., in his Cart, Caravan and General Smith business, taking the business over when George Sr. retired. Captain Shepherd, as he continued to be known, then employed his younger brother Fred to help with the business.

He married Rosanna Staines and raised three children, Rosanna, Eileen and Edward (Ted) Shepherd.

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

40th Anniversary Fiasco (Part 4 of 4)-- Remembering To Breathe

2010-05-07T05:10:00.006-04:00

When they called my name I had a sudden sense of panic and didn't want to go. We were back in Toronto after an all too brief stay at the Bonnie View Inn in Haliburton, our final planned day at the Inn cut short by the scheduling of a Bone Scan for me at the Toronto General Hospital.

I'd had bone scans before and the actual procedure held no terror for me, but laying on my back on the hard bed that is inserted into the machine for half an hour, frightened me considerably.

The previous week's CT Scan, which only lasted 15 minutes, caused so much pain to my back it took two technicians to lift me into a seating position before I could exit the machine. And my back was in agony for days.

A couple of dips into the jacuzzi at the Inn had done wonders for my back, and I didn't want to return to my previous agony.

But I had to know what was causing my back pains, so I went like a good patient. I explain to them my experience with the CT Scan the previous week and they did their best to make me more comfortable and they assured me they had lots of help if I was unable to sit up on my own.

Then they strapped my arms to my side, taped my feet together and slid the table and I deep into the machine.

There is no noise with a bone scan and no sense of motion as the table slowly slides back out of the machine across half an hours time.

And in the end, predictably, my back was returned to agony and I needed the help of the technician to sit up and step down from the machine.

Linda was sitting anxiously in the waiting room as I returned and I think the look on my face was enough to tell her how I felt. We stopped at the hospital pharmacy to pick up some Advil because even the Tylenol with codeine I was on was not doing its job.

And then we went home where the last surprise of our 40th Anniversary weekend was waiting for us.

I had received a letter from Revenue Canada informing me that because the amount of my retirement pension was based on my previous year's income, when I had been receiving a full salary from my work, my Retirement Pension was being cut by $250 a month.

I laughed. I laughed until I hurt (which didn't take much). And eventually Linda started to laugh as well. It was just too absurd. An absurd ending to an absurd weekend.

"Happy Anniversary," she said.

And we kissed.

Later, on my daughter Heather's blog, I found a very short little song that I don't think she posted with me in mind, but it was the perfect theme music for my anniversary. It healed my soul and gave me back the hope the weekend had almost stolen from me. Here it is---

<a href="http://zefrank.bandcamp.com/track/chillout">chillout by zefrank</a>

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For my Friday Shoot Out on "Things I love to touch" click HERE

40th Anniversary Fiasco (Part 3 of 4)-- Reflection

2010-05-06T05:57:00.007-04:00

The pulsating jets of the jacuzzi gently pummeled my aching back relieving pains that had been deep and pervasive for weeks. I felt buoyant in the warm swirling waters as taunt muscles relaxed for the first time in weeks.

Linda and I had finally made it to the Bonnie View Lodge in Haliburton, about a two hour drive north of Toronto. We had left Linda's car at the dealer to repair her radiator, my computer at Staples and Lindsay with Steven.

The drive had taken a little longer than expected due to the incessant rain but the world was parched and the rain was sorely needed. The Bonnie View was not our first choice for accommodation, nor our second. It had actually been our sixth. We had originally booked for three nights, but had had to cancel Sunday evening due to my oncologist booking a bone scan for me on Monday morning and then had had to cancel Friday night due to Lindsay's discovery of a hole in our fence.

But now we were here and the warm waters of the jacuzzi were easing my soul.

Linda was off at a shower for one of the women at her work. We had chosen the Haliburton area for our 40th Wedding Anniversary, in part, because all of the women on her staff were gathering at a cottage nearby for the shower.

So I was alone and almost floating in the jacuzzi, watching the rain fall on the vast waters of the northern lake through the secluded cabin's large picture window. It was unfortunate I couldn't rebook my massage but the spa at the Bonnie View was fully booked and I was out of luck. Then again, I'd been feeling out of luck for several days now, so that was nothing new.

The warning buzzer went on the jacuzzi, alerting me my time was up. Reluctantly I crawled out of the tub and put on the robe the Lodge supplied, lay down on the soft leather couch, picked up a book and started to read.

Above me I could hear the sound of the rain gently pattering on the roof.

And immediately fell asleep.

I woke up two hours later as Linda arrived back from the shower animated with stores of the huge cottage she had been to with three stories, five bedrooms, three baths and a great room large enough to seat all 20 members of her staff around one massive table.

And as I saw her smiling and laughing it was as if I had managed to leave all my misfortunes, and my pains, all my worries and illnesses two hundred kilometres to the south.

It was a shame we would be leaving tomorrow but inconceivable that life could hold any further troubles for us. We had had more than our share this weekend already.

But of course life is great at pulling the inconceivable out of its sleeve. Ta Da!

And it still held two major surprises for me. One medical and one involving the Federal Government.

To Be Continued.

40th Anniversary Fiasco (Part 2 of 4)--The Finding Of Lindsay

2010-05-05T05:29:00.007-04:00

Linda, Steve and I arrived at the Scarborough Humane Society Pound on Progress Avenue at 4:50 on Friday evening. Instead of calling the general Toronto Humane Society number I had decided to phone the pound nearest to us and sure enough a black and white waggy tailed Spaniel had been picked up in our neighbourhood at 12:15 that afternoon. We were on our way to identify her and spring her from the hoosegow.

"She doesn't have a license," the uniformed officer at the front desk observed.

"No, she has an implant. We were told by the vet that if she had an implant she didn't need a license."

"How old is she?"

"Eleven."

"So that means she would have been born in 1999? That was the year the law changed. If she was implanted before July, she didn't need a license. After July she did."

"Well, she couldn't have received the implant before July because she wasn't born until September." Linda confessed.

"We couldn't find the implant, It must have migrated over the years," the guard said. "Then she'll need a license. Plus pound fee. That I'll be $80. Julie do you want to go fetch that new dog?"

One of the four women working at desks behind her finished her keyboarding, stretched and headed off down the hall.

Five minutes later the elevator door at the end of the hall opened and Lindsay came scampering out pulling the small woman behind her. Lindsay's nails were sliding and clicking on the hard marble floors as she raced toward us, tail wagging with glee.

I bent down to embrace her as she raced down the long corridor with the young woman skidding along in her wake but an instant before she got to us she passed a box on the floor with an interesting scent, screeched to a halt and immediately turned to explore it.

"So much for joyful reunions," I said. "Well, what can I expect Lins, now that you're a criminal. A convicted felon! Found wandering the streets in a complete state of unleash."

Lindsay finally decided to acknowledge our existence and turning her nose from the box started wiggling at our feet.

We paid her bail, sprung the waggy tail con from the joint, and headed for home.

"I'm exhausted." Linda confessed. "This has been so emotional, I don't think I could face a two hour drive up north tonight."

"I'm with you on that," I agreed. "We better cancel the room for tonight and head up first thing in the morning. Besides we have that fence to mend."

And so we called the resort and explained what happened and canceled our room. And canceled the massage I had booked, while Steven went out and repaired the fence.

Then I sat down and started up my laptop and opened Firefox which immediately crashed. Taking the entire computer down with in. Cautiously I restarted it. It crashed again. I tried again. It froze. I swore.

"Something has it in for us." I said.

And it had.

To be Continued.

40th Anniversary Fiasco (Part 1 of 4)--The Losing Of Lindsay

2010-05-04T14:47:00.008-04:00

There was a moment when everything was perfect. Linda and I were going away on a weekend's vacation to celebrate our 40th Wedding Anniversary. Her boss had given her Friday afternoon off so we could beat the weekend traffic out of town. Linda's brother Steve was coming over to look after Lindsay for us and at 12:14 that moment of perfection arrived as I saw Linda car pull into the driveway just as Steven knocked at the door.

12:14 the moment of perfection.

But time doesn't stand still.

"Hi," said Steve coming in the side door and looking all around him. "What no Lindsay to greet me?"

"She's in the backyard sleeping under her tree, Steve." I told him.

"Well, I'm going to head out to let her know I'm here." And Steve headed for the backyard just as Linda came through the door behind him.

"The warning light's come on in my car," she told me. "And there's some fluid running out underneath it."

"That doesn't sound good," I said. "Let me have a look."

I went out to find a growing puddle of green fluid forming under the extreme front end of Linda's car.

"It's your radiator," I told her.

"Oh great, what a lousy time for that to happen," said Linda. Linda had planned to drive us up North to save me the stress on my back, but she is only comfortable driving her own car and is positively nervous behind the wheel of mine.

Steve came to the side door. "Are you sure Lindsay's in the backyard? I can't see any sign of her."

"I let her out about half an hour ago," I said heading for the backyard.

Where there was no sign of Lindsay.

Linda called, I whistled, but no Lindsay appeared. Steve started an inspection of the fence around the yard, checking for escape routes behind every bush. Eventually he found one.

"Here," he called. "One of the boards got loose in the winter. You can see where she dug the earth away just a little deeper to let her get through."

"We better start looking for her," said Linda.

We live in the middle of a suburb, a maze of streets in the far East end of the City and each of us headed out in different directions, calling Lindsay's name, stopping passers by, stopping people out working in their gardens, even stopping garbage collectors. Lindsay is a VERY social dog and it is inconceivable that she wouldn't have gone up to say "Hello" to everyone she passed.

Although many of the people in the neighbourhood know her, none remembered seeing her out on her own.

An hour later, Linda, Steve and I all arrived back at our house, more worried than ever but none the wiser.

"At least we found no injured animals laying by the side of the road," said Linda, voicing what all of us feared. Although we're in a fairly quiet subdivision, there are still a few idiots who speed recklessly along the winding streets and we live only a Kilometer from one of Toronto's major thoroughfares, the Kingston Road.

While we rested up I phoned the Animal Clinics in the neighbourhood but no one had brought Lindsay in to them. Lindsay has a chip implant so it should be easy for any of them to get her contact information and call us. But there were no messages waiting. I called the Toronto Humane Society but no dog matching Lindsay's description had been turned in.

After a brief rest Linda and I went out driving in my car where we could search more territory and further afield, while Steven headed off to explore some of the nearby parks, thinking she might have headed for some of the areas where she and I frequently go for runs.

Two hours later, puzzled and saddened, we all gathered back at the house and began to discuss printing up posters.

"And if that doesn't work," asked Linda. "What will we do then?"

But I had no answer for her.

To Be Continued Tomorrow.....

Happy 40th Anniversary To Us

2010-04-30T05:37:00.005-04:00

And so our heroes, a little battered but still undefeated, stage a strategic retreat and turn their little Honda Civic to the North for a weekend away in the Haliburton area of Ontario.

Yes there will be blackflies and the trees will not be fully out in leaf, but there will also be gourmet dining, a full spa service, luxury accommodations and the little town of Haliburton with its boutique stores located in one of the largest art communities in Northern Ontario.

There is an on-suite jacuzzi and massage service for Barry's ailing back and lots of time for Linda to take photographs and visit with friends in the area.

So no Friday Shoot Outs, no Sepia Saturdays, no posts of any kind from us until Monday at the earliest.

Have a great weekend.

Spiritual Partnership

2010-04-29T03:59:00.012-04:00

For the first time in months I'm joining the crowds of suburban commuters on their way to the downtown core of the city. They are heading for another day of work, I'm on my way for a CT Scan to see if the back pains I've been experiencing are a re-metastasizing of the cancer in my bones.

As the GO train pulls out of Guildwood Station, the commuters sleep, or read papers, type furiously on their laptops or talk quietly in small groups. I am reading a pre-publication copy of Spiritual Partnership by Gary Zukav that was sent to me by Trish Collins at TLC Book Tours.

I last read Zukav back in the 70's when he wrote The Dancing Wu Li Masters, a brilliant and riveting introduction to Quantum Physics and the way it is changing, or confirming, our view of the world.

While I'm deeply involved with his new book by now and finding Zukav as engaging a writer as always, I originally had trouble getting into it, trouble getting past the first paragraph of the preface, in fact, where he claims he is about to reveal a change he has discovered that will have a greater impact on the human race than the discovery of fire, or the wheel or religion or science.

And I'm thinking, oh come on! Get for real.

The train trudges on into the city, all of the seats beginning to fill as we stop at the Eglinton, Scarborough and Danforth Stations. The woman across from me is knitting and I realize it has been a long time since I saw anyone doing that. Behind me a man is talking loudly into his cell phone, his voice filling the carriage as he relays instructions for people at his work to follow before his arrival this morning.

Zukav's discovery is that millions of people around the world are evolving an additional sense, that allows them to know more about people than is offered by the traditional five senses, a form of multisensory perception. I'm reminded of Jeremy Rifkin's work on the way civilization is evolving into a more empathic place, our ability to empathize extending beyond our family and friends, beyond our country, indeed beyond humanity to embrace the biosphere itself, just as climate change begins to demand we be able to see ourselves from a wider perspective if we have any hope of surviving as a specie.

The train pulls into Union Station and begins to unload its vast hoard of workers into the huge office towers of the city. I join those heading down into the subway, the long platforms filled with impatient humanity, the increasing rumble of distant trains whispering to us from darkened tunnels.

Unlike Rifkin, Zukav is more interested in how our expanding multisensory perception will allow us to evolve spiritually, to grow into more authentic human beings. To a large extent we do it through our newly expanded ability to relate to others. Zukav defines a spiritual partnership as a partnership between equals for the purpose of spiritual growth. Those limited to the five senses work to change the external world in order to quell fears like hunger, pain, or loneliness, while those with a multisensory perspective are motivated by love instead of fear and work to bring their potential into line with their soul, not by seeking to control others or the world outside themselves.

At Dundas I transfer to the streetcar for the additional trip to Bathurst and the Toronto Western Hospital on the outer edge of Toronto's China Town. At the hospital I'm taken to a waiting room and given a barium drink and an hour alone to consume it.

The bulk of Zukav's work is filled with personal examples of spiritual growth from his own life and from his relationship with his spiritual partner Linda Francis. The second half of the book focuses on how exploring commitment, courage, compassion, communication and action can be combined to create spiritual growth in our self, in our relationships and in our world. He is a poignant and engaging writer and my time passes quickly.

But finally the technician arrives and I am escorted, in my hospital gown, down the lengthy corridor to the waiting CT Scanner. I am injected with a substance to heighten the contrast for the imaging and am also given a paste to swallow to highlight the image of my throat. Then I lay with my sore back on the hard surface of the table, stretch my arms behind my head and am inserted into the machine.

After the scanning the technician lowers the table back to normal, removes the needle from my arm and tells me I am free to go.

But I discover I am unable to move. No longer have the strength in my back to lift myself from the table. And despite the Tylenol with codeine I took this morning, my lower back is in severe pain.

"Are you alright," the technician asks.

"I can't move," I tell him. "My back really hurts."

He goes to the next room to get help and together with the assistance of the second technician we push me through the pain into a seating position. The waves of pain in my back begin to lessen and after a while I am able to stand, retrieve my clothes and carefully walk the corridor back to the change room.

I've brought some additional medication with me, and take it with water from the fountain. I'm shaken by discovering my inability to rise from the table. I can face pain, but the thought of immobilization is frightening. I have a long way to go before I get home.

And the chance to talk this through with my own Linda, my own spiritual partner, who has put aside so much of her own life to care for me through the past year. She deserves roses, not an escalations of my own troubles.

I put Zukav aside for now and hobble back out into the rush of the city and my journey home.

Wake

2010-04-27T06:47:00.005-04:00

I don't like living on pain killers. I'm no fan of drugs of any kind and for most of my life seldom even took an aspirin. Although, during the height of my combined radiation and chemotherapy treatments last summer I was taking over ten pills a day, at different times and under different conditions.

It had to be done, but I didn't like it.

And I don't like taking Tylenol with codeine now. The pain has migrated to my lower back and makes bending or turning difficult. So when I get fed up with the pain, I take the Tylenol and it either goes away completely or becomes muted enough to live with.

I am resting and trying to concentrate on the last few chapters of Robert J. Sawyer's novel Wake. Trying not to let the pain distract me.

Lindsay wants in from the backyard and putting down my book and getting up to let her in is agony. When I'm able to sit back down and find a pain free position, I tell myself I should have taken the medication while I was up. But I have no desire to put myself through that again just for the sake of future pain relief.

So I pick up Sawyer's book again and loose my self in the world of Caitlin Decter the feisty, blind math prodigy who is undergoing an experimental procedure to help restore her sight.

It has been a long time since I read classic Science Fiction. I didn't know anyone was still writing it. I thought fantasy had taken over the entire genre. Yet here is Sawyer typing away just the other side of Toronto from me. One of his books, Flashforward, has been made into a TV series in the States.

Caitlin, the central character, is a blogger who spends four to five hours a day on the internet. And Sawyer, one of the world's first bloggers, presents blogging in a positive light, unlike the way it's presented in most current fiction.

Being Science Fiction, the operation to implant a mechanical device behind Caitlin's eye leads to be being able to perceive the internet at work when the device is online transmitting data to its inventor, and to becoming aware that the internet has achieved a level of complexity that has permitted it to become aware. That the internet, as an entity, is on the verge of becoming awake.

But it's Sawyer's description of Caitlin's discovery of a fifth sense, one that is for most of us our most dominant sense, that is the most compelling. The difference between how objects look and how they are perceived by the other senses, is exciting and page turning stuff. To help her handle this, Caitlin does what too few fictional characters do these days, she reads. She reads the autobiographies of Helen Keller and Julian Jaynes' The Origin of Consciousness in the Breakdown of the Bicameral Mind.

And as I become engrossed in her struggle to understand the commonplace world of sight that we take for granted, and watch as sight begins to dominate all the other senses she has relied on for so long, I forget my pain, put it aside the way I put aside the fragrance of fresh cut flowers in the room until I'm reminded of them by someone else coming into the room and commenting on them.

And I think, to myself, maybe there is a world beyond our senses. The fabled sixth sense. Maybe it's been hiding right there in front of us all this time?

The world of imagination.

Sensation

2010-04-26T06:56:00.005-04:00

The small rabbit sits on the path about 15 meters ahead of us, its tiny nose twitching furiously.

Lindsay hasn't noticed it yet. She's too busy attending to some interesting scent just to the right of me, black and white tail at the alert, her own nose twitching with excitement.

The rabbit hasn't moved. It sits in profile, tall ears erect, its dark left eye watching Lindsay's every move.

And then its gone. One single bound into the tall grasses by the side of the pathway and its as if the rabbit had never been. Lindsay has finished her investigation of the interesting scent, her tail is back to wagging with excitement, she looks up at me to ask why I'm standing still. She prances through the puddle in front of us, runs down the pathway a few feet, and then looks back as if to say, "Come on, lets get going!"

So I start walking and Lindsay bounds on ahead, past the spot where the rabbit had been sitting.

Catching the recent scent in passing, she backtracks, nose to the ground and is off on the trail. But the rabbit is now long gone.

I walk on, thinking about our senses. Lindsay has missed the rabbit right in front of her because she was turned into the sense of smell not sight. I'd been reading, a few days ago, that scientists had discovered that our brains tune out unnecessary sensation, to prevent distraction from our primary sense of sight. Put on clothes in the morning and we can feel the fabric against our skin. But, however rough or comfortable, however sensual our clothing feels, within minutes of dressing, our brains tune out that awareness.

For a moment I focus on the weight of the coat on my back, the slight itch of my scarf, the tightness of the hat on my head, the feel of the day's cool air against my hands, the constriction of my feet in my boots, the light breeze rustling the hair that is beginning to grow back on my head.

But when I begin to listen to the distant grumbling of the city in the background, the crash of the waves at the bottom of the bluffs, the clicking of the branches in the tall trees, the crunch of my feet on the gravel pathway, I realize my brain has already tuned out the feel of my clothing.

I struggle to both feel and listen at the same time. I can do it, kind of. But not well.

I'm a very visual and auditory person. My wife has a much greater awareness of aromas and tactile sensation. She will track me down in Sears to have me come over to feel an interesting fabric on a dress that has delighted her.

I remember our dinner at the restaurant last night, the air alive with wonderful aromas. The delicious warm taste of the food, the coolness of the wine glass. Linda momentarily reaching across the table to squeeze my hand as she tells a funny story about her day at work.

Suddenly I was no longer aware of the pains in my back.

Then Lindsay comes crashing her way through the brush and tall grasses, interrupting my revere, returning from the rabbit hunt. She pushes her way back onto the path, twigs stuck in her tail and long ears. She shakes herself vigorously, loosening a few of the twigs, the rest she just ignores.

Interesting.

Sepia Saturday-- Johanna Fraser

2010-04-24T06:49:00.009-04:00

Each week we are following the lives of members of my Great Grandfather William's family as they appear in this 1890 family portrait. Last time we focused on my Grandfather Charles Fraser (front second from the right) and this week we focus on the last person in the photograph (front row far right), my great grandmother Johanna Chisholm Fraser.

Joanna Chisholm was the daughter of Isabella Rhind and John Chisholm who were married on November 11, 1834 in Inverness. She had several maternal aunts and one uncle: Ann, Jannet, Catherine and James.

Johanna Fraser ca 1919, originally uploaded by Anexplorer.

Joanna was living on Park Lane Inverness at the time of her marriage to William Fraser, a carpenter newly arrived from the little east coast fishing village of Portgordon. The ceremony was performed by Rev. John Thompson, Clergyman, in Elgin. Witnesses to the marriage were Edward McGhie and Alexander Gibb.

After several years living in Inverness, Joanna followed William on the long trek to the distant Isle of Lewis where he worked for a year, building the County Courthouse, and where she gave birth to her little son James, who died after only 11 days.

The little family then followed the scarce work back south to the Isle of Skye where William worked for three years as a carpenter and a cattle trader, saving up enough money to bring his family to Canada. They were well enough off during this period for Johanna to afford a servant to assist her with the care of her four children.

Johanna in yard, originally uploaded by Anexplorer.

In 1873 the family moved to Glasgow from where they set sail for Canada on one of the new steam ships. The family settled in Toronto where William became a very successful builder, lecturer at the Toronto School of Architecture and School Trustee.

Johanna and her oldest daughter Mary Anne raised the 8 children in the family (3 had died in infancy), kept them fed with the produce they grew in their large vegetable garden, made all of their clothing by hand and saw they were well educated.

They also cared for their son Alexander's children for a while after his wife died and the children of their daughter Isobella when she and her husband passed away.

Joanna died in Toronto on February 15, 1920, only a few months before her husband. The newspapers lamented the passing of this prominent Toronto family as true pioneers of the City.

Johanna Fraser in her garden, originally uploaded by Anexplorer.

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

FSO--Honouring The Trees

2010-04-23T03:35:00.005-04:00

The Earth Day theme behind this week's Friday Shoot Out is Honouring The Trees.

I took my camera when Lindsay and I went for our morning run, yesterday, and shot photos of trees along the North Shore of Lake Ontario. The results of our efforts can be found on my Friday Shoot Out blog, along with links to other FSO members around the world.

But it was the presence of this large hawk that really caught my attention as he rode the thermals rising up the 90 metre bluffs from the Lake far below.

Late in the afternoon, I heard back from my Oncologist. My CT scan has been moved forward to next Wednesday and a bone scan has been booked for Monday May 3rd. I then have an appointment with the Oncologist to review the results on May 11th.

Now, almost getting lost among these dates, is my 40th Wedding Anniversary on May 2nd. Linda and I have booked a weekend away, that will now have to be cut short in order for me to be back in the City for the 3rd.

Health has to have priority but sometimes it acts like a bully.

Update

2010-04-22T06:37:00.002-04:00

o

I spoke to my oncologist who agreed with my doctor.

The cluster of symptoms sounds like bone to her, not muscular pain.

But there is room for error. So tests must be done.

She has ordered a bone scan and is moving the date of my CT scan forward. Once she has the results of those, then she will know. And once she knows, she can plan what to do.

In the meantime I am to try not to worry.

Which I discover is easier to do when taking Tylenol with codeine because my pains go completely away.

And I feel perfectly healthy again. And mobile.

I did the dishes, washed the kitchen floor, vacuumed the rugs, polished the tables. Do you need any housework done?

And I slept, because the pills also make me sleepy.

Then I took Lindsay down to the Lake for an unexpected extra run, a special treat she could hardly believe.

And I deeply enjoyed.

Retake

2010-04-21T06:47:00.009-04:00

The doctor smiled. Beamed, in fact.

"Well look at you," he said. "I haven't seen you looking this good in a long, long time. What brings you in today?"

It had taken me a while to get here. In the past week I had even held out the hope I could avoid this meeting altogether. The back pains I'd been experiencing had reduced to a mild tenderness and I was confident a little caution and relaxation would see the end of them, without the need to involve the doctor. This was, after all, the middle of my three month break away from all things medical.

But the pain had returned with some severity and I had promised Linda I wouldn't put off a visit with the doctor any longer.

"I've been having back pains," I told him. "They began in my lower back about about a month ago. Lasted about a week then went away only to be replaced by a sharp pain in my left shoulder blade. That lasted about two weeks. But now I'm having severe pain in my right shoulder and down my side under my right arm."

The doctor stopped smiling.

"Stand up," he told me and started poking around my back. "Does this hurt?"

"No. Not at all."

He began to pound. "How about this?"

"Nope."

"Alright, you can sit down. What are you taking for pain?"

"Nothing. Well, some Advil."

"Advil? Nothing stronger?"

"No."

"The pain is severe?

"Sometimes it takes my breath away."

"Severe pain, moving to different centers in your back and you feel nothing when I apply pressure?"

"Yes."

"It is only when you move that you feel it?"

"That's right."

"Well, it is almost certainly bone, not muscular. Likely your cancer metastasizing; but we can't be certain. We need to get you back to Princess Margaret Hospital. Have them do a bone scan. In the meantime I'll give you Tylenol with codeine for the pain."

"I was hoping it was stress."

He held my gaze for a moment. "Anything is possible at this point. But I've known you for about 20 years now Barry. No one handles stress better than you. You could teach a master class in stress management, and for all I know maybe you have. I wish it were stress, but that wouldn't be my medical opinion. You told me at the beginning of this that you wanted me to be frank with you and to hold nothing back and I think we need more tests. But I think they are going to tell us its the cancer back again."

"Shit."

"Exactly." He pulled a pad of paper across his desk. "So let me write you a prescription and we'll get those tests ordered and see where we go from there."

I emerged from his suburban office into the warm sunshine of early spring, the leaves just starting to come out on the trees and the flowers beginning to bloom in the well tended gardens of the homes across the street.

And started to think about how to break the news to Linda.

Spring, At Last

2010-04-20T06:45:00.005-04:00

"Given how mild our winter was," Linda said.

"And how soon the warm weather arrived in March...."

"....I thought Spring would be further along by now."

"The important thing is," I suggested. "It's finally here. The crocus are in flower, the trees and bushes are in bud, the lawns are green, the grass is growing like wildfire."

"And the black flies are out in full force."

"Ah Spring!"

The Descent

2010-04-19T07:31:00.006-04:00

I've only been down to the beach at the bottom of the bluffs once this year.

Through the winter I walk Lindsay along the pathway through the meadow at the top of the bluffs but in the spring and summer we walk the beach. It is usually deserted and strewn with tree trunks and other flotsam Lake Ontario wants to send our way.

But getting to the beach requires walking down a steep pathway and then climbing down fifteen feet of large boulders that form a rough stairway. This year that has created an obstacle for me, not certain I had the strength, or the balance for the task.

Instead, my dog and I continued our daily walks through the meadow where I stood on the 90 metre top of the bluffs and watched the blue waters of the Lake lap against the small beach far below me.

But not today.

My back pains had reduced to mere feelings of tenderness and much of the strength in my legs had returned. Of course the nerve damage to the bottoms of my feet made them feel as if I were wearing three pairs of socks, but I did still have feeling. It was just very muffled.

The pathway to the beach is cut through a hill side and it wasn't until I reached the final 15' rock fall that I felt the winds off the Lake hit me with force.

Lindsay had already scampered down the rough staircase and had already plunged into the Lake in pursuit of four ducks, which had given her a look of disdain and were paddling away with dignity while she churned, frantically, along behind them.

The first step down was the easiest, a drop of only six inches or so onto the surface of a fairly large boulder. I could feel my shirt rippling against my chest with the strong breeze. The next step was a considerable drop of about two feet and had to be done in two stages. First stepping onto a smaller rock to the side and then down onto the large surface of a massive boulder. It would be the first test of my uncertain balance.

But I did it with ease, if not with grace, and gained considerable confidence. I could do this. I could get down to the beach!

Lindsay had finally given up on the ducks and was swimming back toward me, her head plowing through the water like that of a beaver. Behind her, the ducks were leisurely returning to where they had been before she so rudely interrupted them.

The final rock requires a jump down to the sand and I paused with some misgiving. It was either jump or climb back up. Before me the beach and the water beckoned, stretching off ten kilometers in either direction.

So I jumped. Not a great distance but the sand was hard packed and I landed on weakened legs with a jarring thud.

But I didn't fall.

Lindsay ran up, shaking water from her fur and danced around my feet.

Come on, she was saying. We have the whole beach to ourselves.

And so we did.

Sepia Saturday--Charles Fraser

2010-04-17T06:27:00.007-04:00

Each week we are following the lives of members of my Great Grandfather William's family as they appear in this 1890 family portrait. Last time we focused on Isobella Fraser (front row third from the right) and this week we focus on the little boy beside her, Charles Fraser, my grandfather.

Charles was the youngest son born into a large and very dynamic family. His older brothers and sisters went on to become artists and poets and playwrights, founders of Mission societies, mothers of Bishops, teachers and contractors and builders, priests and nuns. His father was the architect behind some of Toronto's more prominent buildings.

He had a lot to live up to.

Charles, Kate and their son William

Born in Toronto in 1878 Charles did not follow his siblings into the religious life but instead became a conductor with the Toronto Suburban Railway. He met and later married Catherine (Kate) O'Connor at St. Helen's Church in 1900. Catherine was a recent immigrant to Canada from Ireland arriving via New York City in 1882. While there is some confusion about their ages, Kate would appear to have been at least 4 years older than Charles. After their marriage the couple moved into Kate's parent's home where her brother Dan and sister Mary still resided. Her brother Jeremiah appears to have recently moved out on his own.

Charles and Kate's first daughter Geraldine died in infancy. They moved into Kate's brother Dan's home on Davenport Road for a year where their oldest son, my father, William (Bill) was born in 1902, before moving to Mill Street in Brampton where they lived for several years. Why they moved from the city of Toronto to the small village of Brampton is a mystery, whether this entailed a change of jobs for Charles is also unknown, but it is here that Theresa was born in 1905. In any event the moved did not appear to be successful because they soon moved back to Toronto, where Katherine Veronica was born in 1909.

Around 1912 there was trouble in the family. My father can recall bitter arguments taking place between his parents, while he and his sisters huddled in the upstairs bedrooms. One morning he awoke to find his father gone. My grandmother told my father that he was now the "man" in the family and he was taken out of school and sent to work at Langmuir Trunk Factory on King St. West full time and part time at Len Collins Butcher Shop in the evening.

Charles with his brothers John and Alexander in Chicago

After leaving his family, Charles had moved to Niagara Falls where he worked in heavy industry until he lost a finger in an industrial accident. He may also have worked up north as a lumberjack for a time. However, unable to work at his old job, Charles moved to Chicago where he moved in with his brother Alexander and family for a month but ended up staying in the Chicago area until his death on February 19, 1953 (exactly 20 years to the day before his granddaughter Katherine was born on February 19, 1973). During his time in Chicago he worked as a laborer, often helping his older brother on building projects.

After his son Bill returned to Canada following World War Two, Charles and his son corresponded through Bill's new wife Rosanna--but never saw each other. When Charles, in his letters, started asking for money, Bill cut all correspondence off.

Charles never remarried after Kate's death in 1923 and seems to have led a very solitary and unambitious life, comfortable in his role as Uncle to Alexander's children.

Although our lives crossed for a ten year period, I never met my grandfather and many of Alexander's children were unaware Charles had ever been married or had family in Toronto. Charles actions remain a considerable mystery.

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

My Daughter's New Blog

2010-04-16T07:33:00.003-04:00

More comfortable behind the camera than in front of it, my youngest daughter Heather has been blogging for a long while.

Because her blog is intended for members of her home school association, access to it has been restricted. However she has recently decided to create a second blog where she can feel free to share her impressions more freely.

I think she's done a beautiful job. If you are interested in visiting her, CLICK HERE

If you are interested in my Friday Shoot Out (to find out what makes me chuckle) CLICK HERE

Informing My Mother That She Is Dead

2010-04-15T07:33:00.007-04:00

And therefore owes them money.

Trust the tax man to be simultaneously insensitive, bureaucratic, and confusing. And wrong.

My mother, who passed away at the end of February, received a tax notice yesterday informing her that she is not eligible for the GST/HST tax credit because she is dead. Furthermore, because she was dead when they sent her a credit, she owes them their money back.

At least that is how I interpret their letter, because that isn't what they actually say. Oh, they tell her she is dead plainly enough, but they get kind of cute when it comes to asking a dead woman for their money back.

Nowhere in the letter do they actually say, "give us back our money." They merely inform her that she is "not eligible for the GST/HSTC for April..(because) legislation allows us to issue credits to an individual only for periods before the date of death."

Then they attach a remittance voucher in the amount of $94.06 and provide us with an addressed envelope. Not a stamped and addressed envelope, mind you. Just the envelope.

Hint, hint.

The trouble is, my mother's account was closed back in February and when they attempted to direct deposit their $94.06 on April 1, the bank immediately bounced their cheque back to them.

So now I have to phone the tax office, listen to all the options, press button number three, key in my mother's Social Insurance Number, and wait an hour for the next available service representative.

Who will probably not be able to straighten this out any better than the department can write a clear letter.

Not nearly as much fun as dousing myself with gasoline.

But it raises a similar stink.

Why I Love Canada's "No Smoking At The Pump" Laws

2010-04-13T21:42:00.007-04:00

Lindsay, when she isn't sleeping through the day, sits watching the world go by through our front windows. So she was the first to see my car pull into the driveway and went scampering to the side door to greet me.

However, as I entered, she came to a skidding, sliding halt about 15 feet away from me. Her eyes started to water and she gave me a look that said, "Now just what on earth have you been rolling in, Mister! You totally reek."

From her chair in the livingroom, I heard Linda yell, "What the heck is that smell?"

"That," I told them both, "Would be gasoline."

"Gasoline? What did you buy that smells so much of gasoline?"

Lindsay turned and scurried away, her tail between her legs as if she was the one who had misbehaved, giving me only one baleful over the shoulder glance as she left for the furthest corner of the house.

"Well, that would be me." I confessed. "I've splashed gasoline all over myself."

Linda came through the doorway and nearly gagged. Her eyes started to water. She backed up a step.

"I was downtown having lunch with Carol-Anne and on the way back..." I tried to explain.

"No, no, no!"Linda gasped, "Tell me later. Right now you have to get those clothes off and get them out of the house."

So, while Linda ran to fetch a housecoat, I took off my saturated clothing and hung them on the rail of our back deck.

"So, as I was saying," I began again, "I was downtown having lunch with Carol-Anne..."

"No," said Linda, "First have a shower while I open some windows. Then, believe me, this is a story I've just got to hear."

And so I had a long and refreshing shower, while Linda aired out the house and put on some coffee. She had a hunch something stronger than coffee would have been more appropriate for what was to come, but she was trying to stay away from alcohol, although this time I likely had a tale that would end her drought.

"Is it safe to start telling you my story?" I asked, all scrubbed clean and now smelling of Axe body lotion.

Linda nodded warily.

"On the way back from downtown, I noticed I was low on gas and stopped at the service station at the top of the street. You know, the one that gives Air Miles?"

Linda sipped her coffee and agreed she knew the station in question.

"Now, you know how, when you fill up your gas tank, there is a latch cover over the gas tank, and then a screw off cap? And then there is a final cover that flips open and closed at the entry to the gas tank itself?

"Well, I'm busy filling up my tank with the hose pushed through that flip up cover when the guy in the car next to me suddenly beeps his horn and starts yelling loud. I mean at the top of his lungs! He's yelling, 'Hey!' as loud as he can.

"So I turn to see what he's yelling at and it turns out he's spotted one of his buddies driving past and he wants to attract his attention. But as I turn to see what the commotion is all about I pull the gas hose back out past the swinging cover. It closes. The gas coming out of the hose hits the now closed cover and bounces back spraying me with gasoline from shoulder to shoes. And suddenly I'm saturated with gasoline."

"Good Lord," Linda said. "If someone had lit a match....."

"Poof! Barbecued husband." I said.

"That must have been terrifying," Linda gasped.

"Well, it was more just uncomfortable and smelly."

"You really do have the darnedest things happen to you."

"I don't try..."

"Thank Heaven, I'd hate to think what life would be like if you were trying to make this stuff happen." Linda shook her head, laughing. "I'd fear for the safety of the planet. Forget terrorists."

I laughed too. Lindsay emerged from the nether regions of the house, examining me with great suspicion.

"By the way what did the doctor have to say about your back?"

"Oh, I canceled that appointment. My back's feeling better."

"Because you almost turned yourself into a human torch?"

"No, it's just been getting better over the past couple of days. All I feel now are very faint twinges." I said. "I'm fine. Really, I'll be fine."

Linda shook her head. Many, many times.

And Lindsay went across the room to where Linda was sitting and laid down at her feet. Then the two females looked back at me in despair.

And I drank my coffee before it got cold. That was only polite.

While outside on our back deck, the light breeze was picking up the scent of gasoline from my saturated clothing and distributing it far and wide throughout the neighbourhood.

What I Can Do But You Cannot

2010-04-11T08:19:00.002-04:00

Sadly, there is something I can do that is forbidden to you. A boundary I can cross, but you cannot.

Although I'm going to give you a peek beyond that boundary today. Because I like you.

My youngest daughter has a blog that is closed to all except her family and the members of her Home Schooling Group. Here she can post photos of her children without fear of them ending up in unusual places throughout the internet, or being used for unusual purposes.

Within the closed blog she has a freedom she wouldn't have otherwise.

The "sadness" I mentioned in the opening to this post comes from the fact that her posting are often both brilliant and delightful (I am only marginally being prejudiced here) and it feels a shame they cannot be more widely shared and enjoyed.

However, she occasionally posts content she finds on the internet that intrigues or informs or amuses her (and sometimes all three). Content that is free for us all to enjoy.

An example of this is what I wanted to share with you today. Since I can't send you to her site to see it, I can, at least, bring it here for you.

It is a brief introduction to the pentatonic scale and while that may not seem like the kind of thing that would simultaneously intrigue, inform and amuse you, chances are that it will.

Anyway you can let me know if it does.

On a more somber note, the pains in my back are continuing and have now spread to my sides making it difficult for me to do a lot. They have persisted for three weeks now and I have agreed, with Linda's encouragement, to see the doctor tomorrow.

Hopefully it is only the fall I had that has pulled a few muscles, but with cancer you can never know. And you can never be too careful.

Sepia Saturday-- Isobella Fraser

2010-04-10T06:24:00.013-04:00

Each week we are following the lives of members of my Great Grandfather William's family as they appear in this 1890 family portrait. Last time we focused on Mary Ann Fraser (front row second from left) and this week we focus on the most tragic member of the family, Isobella (front row seated between her older sister and the young boy, my grandfather, to the right).

Isobella was born in Inverness Scotland in 1869, married Joseph Carroll after the family immigrated to Canada and together they had 3 children. Her son, Francis Patrick Carroll, became the Bishop of Calgary. She also had a daughter Teresa Ralston and another son William, one of Canada's first seismologists, who is buried with his aunt Mary Ann.

Isobella Fraser Carroll, originally uploaded by Anexplorer.

Returning from a journey to Winnipeg, early in the last century, the stove heating their railway carriage went out and couldn't be restarted. Isobella and her husband Joseph were forced to huddle under blankets for several days in the freezing cold as the train made its way across the harsh Prairies and the desolate landscape of Northern Ontario. Joseph caught pneumonia and died shortly after their arrival in Toronto. He was 30 years old. Isobella passed away 14 years later at 37 years of age.

Frank (Bishop Carroll), his sister Teresa & brother William Carroll, originally uploaded by Anexplorer

.

Their three children were raised by her parents and her sister Mary Ann. In fact, Mary Ann continued to live with William Carroll until her death and is buried with him. William Carroll was one of Canada's first seismologists, although crippled and suffering from a humped back. When Toronto was shaken by an unusual 5.3 earth quake, William was featured on the front page of the Toronto Telegram explaining how earth quakes occurred.

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

Country Roads

2010-04-09T07:10:00.003-04:00

Country roads lead many places. Today they lead to my Friday Shoot Out on the blog I share with my wife Linda.

To see our take on this weeks theme, to consider joining the FSO gang and/or to find a link to all the other FSO contributors from around the world, just CLICK HERE

Lindsay In The Rain

2010-04-07T07:14:00.006-04:00

Linda and I are huddled together under an umbrella while Lindsay runs joyfully ahead of us, splashing through puddles and barking at seagulls.

"I wish it would rain," Linda says.

I stick my hand out from under the umbrella and bring it back soaking wet, holding it up for her to see. "What do you call this?"

"That's drizzle," she explains. "I mean rain. A good soaking rain."

"The long range forecast is for a hot dry summer."

"I know. That's why we need as much rain as we can get in the spring. The plants need it."

We splash on through the short wet grasses of spring lamenting the lack of rain.

"How's your back today?" Linda asks.

"Not bad. Much better than the weekend. I only get twinges now if I turn the wrong way or lift something heavy. I really regret missing my Tai Chi class yesterday, but I just couldn't risk it."

"Well you have the tape and there's always next week. You've been very good about going."

"It's interesting."

Lindsay spots a squirrel on the other side of the park and takes off after it, nose plowing through the wet grass like the prow of a ship. A destroyer, at least in her mind. But the squirrel spots her coming a mile away and scurries up the first available tree.

"Have you ever wanted to do the Gene Kelly thing," Linda wonders.

"What Gene Kelly thing?"

"You know, where you throw away the umbrella and start dancing and singing in the rain?"

"Have you ever heard me sing?"

"Well..."

"Or dance?"

"Point taken. Forget I mentioned it. The world isn't quite ready for that yet."

Lindsay gives up on the squirrel and comes running back to us, eyes sparkling.

"I know a secret about you," Linda teases me.

"A secret about me?"

"You don't know it because you lack a vanity gene."

"You have to have something to be vain about to have vanity." I point out.

"When's the last time you looked in the mirror?"

"I don't know. When I cleaned my teeth this morning?"

"And did you notice anything?"

"That whitening ingredients in toothpaste don't do a darned thing?"

"Your hair is growing."

"My hair? It is?" I take off my hat and run my fingers across my scalp and feel a certain fuzziness.

And the first thing I do when we get home, is go look in a mirror.

And discover Linda was wrong. I do have a vanity gene after all.

Saving The World

2010-04-06T07:34:00.011-04:00

While the children were playing and the meal was cooking, the adults sat around the fireplace in the livingroom, eating crackers and dip, drinking coffee and saving the world.

"How did John Edwards think he could get away with it," my sister-in-law was saying. "I mean this was a man who was running for President of the United States, surrounded by security guards 24 hours a day and in the midst of a firestorm of media attention?"

"These men all have a sense of entitlement, don't they. And a huge ego that says they can do whatever they want." My other sister-in-law observed.

"And what about poor Sandra Bullock. She was completely blindsided by her husband's infidelity. Completely blindsided. And at the moment of her greatest triumph. And after she said such nice things about him at the Academy Awards"

"She married a motorcylist, named after one of the worlds most notorious outlaws, he's covered in tattoos and was formerly married to a porn star. How could she ever have seen the possibility of infidelity?" I ask. Innocently.

"Well, it's okay. He's sorry and he's in rehab." my brother suggests.

My sister-in-law is outraged, "Yes! Yes!" she exclaims, "Whats going on with all these cheating men going to rehab!"

"What I don't understand," Linda leans forward, "Is how Tiger Woods comes to be the top news story of the day. They devote the first five minutes of the News broadcast to Tiger Woods cheating on his wife. Since when is that more important than the earthquake in Haiti, the flooding in the American North East, Ontario canceling its plans for the new transportation system in Toronto..."

"And speaking of the Toronto Transportation Commission, what do you think of Adam Giambrone."

"The good looking councillor responsible for the TTC, who announced he was running for Mayor one day and then had an undergraduate student tell the press all about her sexual escapades with him on his office couch at City Hall, the next day? That Adam Giambrone?"

"Well I guess it just proves men are the same everywhere not just in the United States."

Our wives look across the room at their husbands suspiciously.

My brother puts his coffee cup down. "So Barry," he says, "When did you first notice you had a sore back...."

And, unfortunately, once again, the World's problems had to wait for another family gathering before being resolved.

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Photo Credit John Fraser

My Mistake

2010-04-05T06:41:00.011-04:00

In my defense, it was easily done.

And I was in pain, which can be distracting.

As a special treat for my Birthday, my daughter Heather had arranged for us to have the use of the Ashlar House. It was a beautiful country estate that a friend of hers lends out for events and retreats and movie shoots.

It is located in the small (very small) Town of Erin, which, as it turns out, I had never been to before. Which, as it turns out, no one in our family (except for Heather) had ever been to before.

Which, as it turns out, was going to be a problem.

I had an inkling of the problem to come when Linda asked, around the half way point into our journey, "Barry, where did you put the map?"

"The map?"

"The map you googled? With the directions? The map you printed off last night?"

"Did I tell you I have a pain in my back today? That I pulled a muscle or something?"

"You forgot the map, didn't you?"

"It was easily done," I explained.

However, we are intelligent, resourceful people, confident in our ability to remember directions.

"Well, it's alright," said Linda. "I'm pretty sure I remember how to get there."

"Take exit 320, go north through Acton and keep on until morning."

"Exactly," said Linda. "Its easy."

An hour later I realized we were lost. I realized that when house number 5405 turned out to be an empty field instead of a luxurious country estate.

"I don't think this is it," I said to Linda.

"Well, it looked different from this in the photos," Linda agreed. "In the photos there was an actual house on the grounds."

Fortunately for us, I am not the type of male who insists in driving around until he stumbles on his location. I am the type of man to will use any and every resource available to get to where he is going as expeditiously as possible.

So I stopped and asked a kindly lady who was walking down the country road ahead of us.

"Ashlar House," she said. "Can't say's I've ever heard tell of it. Ain't you got a map? Ain't you ever heard of google?"

We left the old bat muttering her quaint and rustic nonsense, and drove on a few more kilometers until Linda suggested we call my brother for help. I pulled over and called him on his cell phone. They were still on the way but his wife Rita had printed off several maps and it turned out we were on Country Line 2 when we were supposed to be on Line 9.

This made a considerable difference.

"See," said Linda, as wives will. "Rita remembered to bring her maps."

"She doesn't have a sore back." I pointed out. As if that explained anything.

And so we made it to my birthday party (as if they could have started without me). Ashlar proved to be as beautiful as its website. The grandchildren were thrilled to find there was a little room under the stairs which they immediately named the Harry Potter room, and which kept them amused for hours.

My sister in law, Lynda, fell in love with the House and was last seen planning how she would decorate it for Christmas.

And I still have a bad back but it is getting better, thank you.

And I hope you all had a wonderful Easter?

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Photo credit John Fraser.

Happy Birthday To Me

2010-04-03T07:12:00.004-04:00

I haven't celebrated Birthdays much in recent years. You get to an age when only the milestone birthdays are worth celebrating.

Sixty-seven isn't one of those numbers that screams "Milestone!". Although, given the year I've just had, in an important way it is.

Or, at least my family thinks so. A friend of my daughter's owns an estate in Erin Ontario that she rents out for special occasions. But being a friend, she's letting us have it for the day: Ashlar House

So my family are gathering there to celebrate the passing of the last year and the fact that I have another year to look forward to.

Hopefully a year with less drama attached to it.

So I won't have time to post a Sepia Saturday feature this week, which is a shame because this is the week we finally get to my grandfather, the black sheep in the family.

But I'll get to him next week.

Today I party. In Erin.

Farside Of The Moon

2010-04-02T07:04:00.002-04:00

Beaux at the It Isn't Happening Blog was asking in the comments section yesterday when we would ever get to see the back of the Moon?

Well, how about today! That's the Moon mooning us in the photo above.

The first photos of the backside of the Moon were taken by the then Soviet Union in 1959. We don't see too many photos of the back of the Moon because it just isn't as photogenic as the side we normally see.

Ann at the My Thoughts Stories and Articles Blog was asking if we would be getting together with family over Easter? Well, not for Easter per se, but everyone is getting together tomorrow to celebrate my birthday.

I will be 67.

And very glad to have made it to that age.

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For those interested in the My Home Town Friday Shoot Out, you can see Linda and my contribution for this week BY CLICKING HERE

What Would You Ask A Space Scientist?

2010-04-01T07:56:00.011-04:00

Sorry, no more Lindsay pictures. Today I can only bring you the moon!

Linda invited me to her school yesterday to meet a scientist from the Canadian Space Agency, the husband of one of the teachers, who had agreed to come in and talk with the grade six classes.

The children all sat on the floor of the school library while the astronomer sat beside a flip chart, which he used to diagram some of his responses. What he basically did was answer questions from 60 or so hyper-excited students, and one hyper-excited teacher's husband.

Can you grow plants on the moon? No its alternately too hot and too cold and the moon has no atmosphere and no soil, only rocks.

Can you land on Jupiter? No, Jupiter is a gas giant and, if you had some way to withstand its terrible gravitational forces, and you tried to land there you would just sail right on through and out the other side.

The questions were coming faster and faster. Nearly the entire 60 hands were raised.

Are there secrets on other planets? Science isn't about secrets, its about finding things out and then telling everyone what you found. Are there surprises still waiting for us to discover on other planets? You bet there are!

How fast is the Earth moving? Well, that depends on moving relative to what? Relative to its own axis, the Earth is rotating once a day. Relative to the sun, the Earth is moving in its orbit once a year. Relative to the Centre of its Galaxy, the Earth is located in a spiral arm that rotates about the Galactic core in Millions of light years.

Are there other Universes? That's a question for physicists or philosophers. Astronomers can only deal with the one Universe we see before us. Unlocking the secrets of one Universe is a big enough job.

The kids were literally bouncing with excitement and desperate to get their questions answered. The hour passed quickly with many questions left unanswered, including my own. (What did he think of Wallace Thornhill theory of electricity playing a greater role in the Universe than gravity? And, if I got two questions, what would he think was the most likely cause for the monolith on Phobos?)

If you were talking with a space scientist, what question would you ask?

Lindsay's "After" Pictures.

2010-03-31T06:19:00.007-04:00

Lindsay celebrating her freedom!

Her day at the groomer is over.

Her long hair is gone, her teeth are cleaner, her nails are clipped and her bum is sanitized.

But more important than all that: she is home, in her own backyard, with her family.

Until later in the summer when they decided its time to do this all over again.

Lindsay's "Before" Photos

2010-03-30T06:57:00.007-04:00

It is not an observation that is unique to me.

Perhaps this is a weight you carry too?

It is hard work being beautiful.

Especially if you've let yourself go over winter.

For the sake of warmth and comfort.

But tomorrow it's back to the Beauty Parlour to be groomed and fussed over.

Beauty is such a demanding goddess!

addendum

2010-03-29T06:37:00.004-04:00

It was Saturday morning and my brother and I had stopped for breakfast at a small restaurant on the edge of an industrial estate. It was a clean and efficient place, open only for breakfast and lunch. The waitress was good humoured and the food was fresh and well prepared.

"Did I tell you what happened to those friends of ours from the west end, the day of mom's funeral?" Keith asked me, as the waitress poured our coffee.

We had just cleaned out the last of the furniture in mom's apartment and with her belongings sitting in the U Haul in the parking lot outside the restaurant, she was fresh on our minds.

"His mother lives here in the east end of the City. They usually visit her every two weeks and decided to drop in since they were already out here for our mom's funeral. But the door was locked when they got to his mom's place. They waited for a bit and then drove over to the nearby plaza where she shops. But there was no sign of her. They asked some of the neighbours but no one had seen her for a couple of days.

"By this time they were getting worried. So he drove back home and picked up a spare set of keys to his mom's place. It must have taken two hours to get to the west end and back. They had thought of calling the police but there were a hundred other places she could be and they weren't that worried cause his mom was in pretty good health.

"Anyway, they get inside and there's no sign of her down stairs. But when they go up to the bedroom, there she is. She's had a stroke and is barely responsive."

"But she was alive?" I asked.

"Oh yeh, she was alive. They called 911, got her to the hospital and she's doing okay physically. They're not sure how much damage may have been done cognitively.

"But the thing is, if our mom hadn't died, they wouldn't have been out here in the east end and they wouldn't have gone to visit his mother that day and she would have died. So, even though our mom was dead, she saved a woman's life."

I took a bite of the cantaloupe on my plate.

And thought about what a truly strange world this is.

Sepia Saturday Mary Ann Fraser

2010-03-27T07:13:00.007-04:00

Each week we are following the lives of members of my Great Grandfather William's family as they appear in this 1890 family portrait. Last time we focused on John Fraser (front row second from left) and this week we focus on the back bone of the family, Mary Ann (to his right).

Mary Ann Aunt Mae Fraser, originally uploaded by Anexplorer.

Mary Ann was the oldest girl in the family and was born in Inverness Scotland in 1866. As was the case for many of the oldest females in families, Mary became her mothers assistant in caring for the many children in this family and taking responsibility for much of the house hold chores.

Known as "Miss Mae" she never married but devoted her life to helping raise her parent's other children and the children of her siblings.

No sooner were her siblings raised than her brother Alex wife died leaving eleven children. Mary Ann and her parents immediately stepped in to care for them until Alex remarried and moved his family to Chicago.

Then her younger sister Isobella and Isobella's husband passed away (see next weeks post for details) and "Aunt Mae" moved on to caring for Isobella's three children.

Mary Ann passed away in 1935. Although a strict disciplinarian, she was greatly loved and her death brought together this enormous family in shared grief.

Mary Ann late in life, originally uploaded by Anexplorer.

However, perhaps significantly, we have no photo's of her smiling.

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

Friday Shoot Out Prequel

2010-03-26T05:00:00.004-04:00

Take my hand,
I have something to show you.

Yes I know
you can manage on your own
and don't need me for support.

It's me who needs to hold onto you.

The theme for the Friday Shoot Out this week
is Bridges
and that is what we first have to cross,
because it was on the way to photograph bridges
that I made the discovery.

Right after I found
this little stream
that you cross by this single board.

Hold tight now,
my balance
isn't what it was
even a couple of months ago.

What I want to show you
is just on the other side.

See,
a huge beaver dam.
It must be 50' to 60' long
and it has to have been there all winter,
just off the left bank of the Highland Creek.

I can't imaging
the number of hours of beaver labour
that must have gone into creating this.

And just look at the pond they've created.
Isn't it just breath taking?
Well worth a few minutes of your time.

When you step off the beaten path,
not knowing what you'll find.

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To see our actual Friday Shoot Out (and to find links to the all the FSO contributors from around the world) CLICK HERE

And The Answer Is....

2010-03-25T07:38:00.003-04:00

".....yes, but".

First of all, I need to thank everyone for your support and advice. It was a great help in my coming to this decision. I read and thought about each of your comments and then I went back and thought more deeply about my future and where it is I now want to go with my life.

As Nolly Posh said, in her Australian way, "It's time to stop being a great patient and start being a great all round bloke." And, as so many of you pointed out, if I need a cane, or a chair, or a wheel chair to do it, well, so what? Use whatever you need to get back to living again.

A lot of my time recently has been taken up with getting my affairs in order, after some advice I got from my surgeon back in September. Last night Linda and I finalized our Wills and Powers of Attorney and had them signed at the lawyers.

So that is out of the way. I signed up for the second round of Tai Chi, but that will only take a couple of hours of my time each week. The garden will soon need some effort, but we always used to do that and work full time.

However, I do still have a few things to get sorted out and can do with a little more time to recover (to the extent that I ever will) from the side effects of Taxol, so I wrote back about the work offer, explaining my situation and letting them know I would be happy to accept their offer to do some occasional workshops in a month's time.

And if I need a cane, my father's old cane is still in the basement and if I need a wheelchair, my mother-in-law's is also packed away downstairs.

And, outside the front door, there's a life waiting for me.

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Photo of Gregory House courtesy of Photobucket.

Foretelling The Future

2010-03-23T07:36:00.002-04:00

I've had an offer of some work and I'm not certain what to do about it, since I can't predict the future.

My doctors have looked into the future but their forecasts have been decidedly vague and unhelpful, although they have placed some upper limits on my survival. But the issue isn't whether I'll be around in five years time, it's will I be available in two weeks or a month.

The work involves joining a speakers bureau and being available to lead occasional workshops, something I did routinely when I worked for a living. Leading a workshop, however, means not loosing ones balance and falling down in front of groups of people. It means having the strength to stand for hours at a time. It means not having CT Scans suddenly getting booked at the last minute at a time that conflicts with the workshop and leaving groups of people with no one to lead them.

Darn.

I would really enjoy presenting the occasional workshop. I'm good at it. I enjoy talking with people. I have a knowledge base that would be a shame not to pass on. It would give me something to do.

It would mean some extra money.

But given my uncertainties, would it be fair to accept this offer?

I think I need a crystal ball.

Two For One

2010-03-21T07:38:00.008-04:00

I'm lying naked on the kitchen table covered by a thin sheet while the large man walks slowly around me shaking his head.

The vividness of the memory is jolting, even after all these years.

Last Thursday I was having lunch with a couple of friends from work, who were not able to make my recent retirement celebration when I was given the large bell in remembrance of my 30 years at Family Service EAP. The conversation, as most of my recent conversations tend to do, had turned to medical matters and the image of me on the kitchen table had come reaching up out of the long forgotten past with considerable power.

"When I was four," I told my friends, "I had my tonsils out, at home, on the kitchen table."

"You're kidding," said Robin.

The waitress at the Marriott was busy efficiently refilling my coffee cup and checking to see if the two women are in need of anything else.

"Where was this?" Linda asked, "Did you live out in the country?" Linda is my work colleague, not yo be confused with Linda my wife. I have a lot of Lindas in my life.

"No, we lived right here in the city. In East York." I said. "I guess, for low risk surgeries, it was cheaper than doing it in the hospital."

"Good Lord," said Robin.

"I can clearly remember him checking me over before the operation, turning to my mother and saying, 'Why this boy hasn't been circumcised! That just isn't clean. He'll have terrible problems as he grows up. We'll have to do that as well.'"

"So you were circumcised and had your tonsils out on the same day, on the kitchen table?" asked Linda in astonishment.

"Well it was a near thing. There was no medical insurance in those days and my parents had to pay cash. They weren't wealthy and I think the surgery was costing them a fair bit. Come to think of it, maybe it was because of the cost that it was being done on the kitchen table instead of in the hospital. In any event, I remember quite the negotiation going on about the price."

"While you're laying there on the kitchen table?" asked Robin.

The image is alive now in my mind. I've been sick for weeks, my throat in terrible pain. I'm four years old with little understanding of everything that is taking place. Finally the doctor and my parents reach an agreement and the doctor returns to me.

"Okay, little feller," he says. "We'll soon have you fixed up. Have you ever been to the dentist?"

I shake my head.

"Well we're just going to put you out the way the dentist does when he pulls teeth. Don't worry you won't feel a thing."

And I don't.

Linda and Robin shook their heads. All around us the diners at the Marriott were chatting quietly and laughing with delight at the various amusing stories that were being told.

"Thank God for modern medicine," said Robin.

"You got that right," said Linda.

Our conversation turned to other things and sixty-three year old memories returned to the vault where they belong.

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The photograph of me at the top is courtesy of Cameron MacMaster, another colleague at work as well as a professional photographer, published author and former professional dancer. Here is a LINK to some of his amazing photographs.

Sepia Saturday--John Fraser

2010-03-19T21:24:00.010-04:00

Each week we are following the lives of members of my Great Grandfather William's family as they appear in this 1890 family portrait. Last time we focused on the man himself (front row far left) and this week we move to the little boy (to his right), who would prove to be the true superstar of the family, John Fraser.

He was one of only two members of this family that I actually got to meet in person. But he wasn't an easy man to like.

John Andrew Fraser was born in Toronto in 1887 where he attended St.Michael's college. At 19 he left to study for the priesthood in Genoa Italy and was ordained on July 14,1901, the third member of his family to enter a religious vocation. Fr. Fraser worked in several Toronto parishes before sailing to Shanghai in 1902 as the first English speaking priest from North America in China as a missionary. In 1910 he left on a world tour promoting the cause of China missions through the U.S.A., Rome, Italy, Ireland, England and across Canada.

In 1918 Fr. Fraser founded English Canada's only society of Roman Catholic priests exclusively engaged in foreign mission work. It came to have 133 priests working in seven countries.

My Grandfather Charles, Msgr. John and Alexander

The mission was first named the St. Francis Xavier China Mission Seminary in Almonte. In 1921, following the death of his parents, the society moved to it's present location in Scarborough, changing its name to the Scarboro Foreign Mission Society. Its first priests left for China in 1925. Fr. Fraser stayed in China until 1949, hiding from the Communists for several years following the revolution.

He was made a Monsignor in 1932. When the communists prevented him from returning to China in 1950, Msgr. Fraser went to Japan at the age of 73 and started working there. In Nagasaki he rebuilt Our Lady Queen of Martyrs Church, destroyed by the Atomic Bomb.

Msgr John Fraser in China

About the Monsignor, Father Gerald Kelly writes, "...assessed from a purely natural point of view Msgr. Fraser left much to be desired. Respect and admiration he had aplenty, but of easy going, warm intimate friendship with others, none. Let us hasten to add that age, and a natural temperament conditioned by over a half a century of lonely and solitary work in foreign lands is hardly conducive to the characteristics we arbitrarily deny him....during his long years as founder and missionary he came into possession of hundreds and thousands of dollars, both for personal and mission work, he turned every cent over to the work, scrupulously recording every penny. Holidays, clothes, food, ordinary comforts, literally everything considered pleasurable beyond vital necessities of life were utterly foreign to him. A radio, the gift of priests some years ago, was found unpacked among his effects. Blessed with good health, Monsignor never missed saying mass in his life."

Father Roland Roberts writes, "When Father Fraser heard that I was thinking of buying a new suit one summer he did everything to talk me out of it. His final argument for saving the price of a suit was to take me to his room and offer me one of his old ones. Now Father Fraser was a very tall man with long legs and I am not. He thought that if I rolled up the cuffs...I suspect a short pair of stilts would have been better. I told Father Fraser I would think it over and then I ran all the way to the clothing store."

Roger Relow, SFM recalls, "Monsignor Fraser was in a very good mood and was talking animatedly when suddenly a big brown rat ran through his legs into the house....Monsignor took off after that rat at full gallop. He was well over eighty but he was running like a track star.....the rat ran out of the kitchen with Monsignor hot on his heels waving a frying pan over his head. Another dash through the house and then a noisy duel in the kitchen. From the racket that emanated from that off-stage confrontation the rat paid the price in full for his 'gate crashing'. Monsignor emerged from the kitchen a little flushed but seemingly none the worse for wear...It was just part of the daily routine."

Monsignor John Fraser, Formal Portrait

Father Hugh F. X. Sharkey also recalls an incident. In 1924 in Ching-Dee he was visiting Father Fraser in a house with no floors and the window open to the elements: "I was rooming, if you could call it that, with Father Des Stringer and we had collected some straw and had just bedded ourselves down for the night when literally hundreds of bats began to swoop and dive at us. Father stringer and I were on our feet swinging sticks and coats and whatever we could get our hands on in an effort to drive the pesky bats from the room when Father Fraser appeared in the doorway.

" 'Oh my, a few bats will never hurt you! Go to sleep and ignore them. This is all part of missionary adaptation. And what's more you're keeping me awake.'

"Well I must confess that we ignored his advise and after a time succeeded in driving the bats out of our room. Just as we were beginning to drop off we heard a great thrashing noise in the next room. When we went next door there was Father Fraser swinging frantically at the bats with a short plank. Apparently when the bat colony vacated our room they emigrated to his. I can still see Father Stringer leaning up against the wall and trying to keep a straight face as he offered some words of comfort, 'This is all part of our missionary adaptation, Father. Just go to sleep and ignore them!.'"

Msgr. Fraser died September 3, 1962. His Seminary and several Adult Education colleges around Toronto are named in his honour. His life story has been the subject of a book, a magazine series, a comic book and a television documentary.

Scarboro Missions continues to flourish and has recently received the Racial Harmony Award from the Scarborough Committee on Race Relations, special praise from Pope John Paul II for its Ecumenical work and interfaith dialogue and Swami Veda Bharati, an internationally renowned Hindu teacher from India, honoured Scarboro Missions for their interfaith initiatives.

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

The Fall Of Barry

2010-03-18T07:32:00.006-04:00

Linda: (sitting in her chair in the livingroom) What was that noise?
Barry: (in the kitchen) Nothing.
Linda: (alarmed) Did you fall?
Barry: (embarrassed and annoyed) It was my toes.
Linda: (coming into the kitchen) You did fall!
Barry: Yes, but I'm alright. I lost my balance.
Linda: Your balance?
Barry: I saw a spoon on the floor and was reaching for it and lost my balance.
Linda: Because of your toes?
Barry: Because I don't have a lot of feeling left in my toes.
Linda: I thought you said your toes were getting better now you're not on chemo?
Barry: Sometimes I think they are.
Linda: But they're not.
Barry: I think it's too early to tell.
Linda: But you're not hurt?
Barry: No, I'm fine.
Linda: This time. But what about next time.
Barry: I'll just have to be more careful.
Linda: You know I worry about you?
Barry: I know. I'll be more careful. I promise.
Linda: (after a moment's pause) Did you manage to get the spoon?
Barry: (laughs) Yes I got the spoon.

The Swan In Irish Mythology

2010-03-17T08:19:00.007-04:00

I heard the honking first and saw Lindsay come to a halt, tail up, ears cocked, legs rooted to the ground.

The honking sound came again.

Then a massive white bird, its long neck stretched before it, came swooping overhead. The pure sunlight of early morning played tenderly among its feathers as its great wings beat with an audible woosh. Three beats of its wings and it had crossed the small expanse of open sky above the tree tops. And was gone.

Before Lindsay even had a chance to bark.

She looked back at me as if to say, "Did you see that? Have you ever seen anything like that before?"

"Not in flight, Lins," I would have told her. "Swimming in ponds or on the lake, but never in flight like that."

It was like the soul of a Canada Goose in flight, or its ghost.

Then I thought, and where is my camera? My beautiful new camera?

Answer, safely back at home. (Don't tell Patty.)

It seemed a very appropriate day to see a swan in flight. Along with the shamrock, the leprechaun and the harp, the swan is a symbol of Ireland. In the legend The Wooing of Etain, the king of the Sidhe (subterranean-dwelling, supernatural beings) transforms himself and the most beautiful woman in Ireland, Etain, into swans to escape from the king of Ireland and Ireland's armies. The swan has recently been depicted on an Irish commemorative coin.

On behalf of my Paternal Grandmother, Katie O'Connor, let me wish you all a Happy St. Patrick's Day.

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Photo courtesy of Photobucket.

Dreams

2010-03-16T08:54:00.004-04:00

Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens--Carl Jung

I seldom remember my dreams; but awoke from a strange dream (are there any other kinds?)this morning. In it I was reading a newspaper story about the Titanic and in the story the Titanic had drawings of various tall ships surrounding it, barques, schooners, brigs etc.

Apparently I was reading the story in a class of some kind and the instructor announced there was some controversy in the article regarding me and would I bring a copy of the paper to the front of the class.

And that, of course, is when I awoke.

I don't know about you, but I don't think stories that connect me to the sinking of the Titanic are, necessarily, good omens. Then again, what were all those tall ships about?

And where is Freud when you need him?

Judge of your natural character by what you do in your dreams--Ralph Waldo Emerson

Slap, Slap, Slap

2010-03-15T07:53:00.008-04:00

Slap, slap, slap
See him walkin’ down the street

Slap, slap, slap,
Oh hear that clowny beat.

Slap, slap, slap,
Now pavement has no feeling

Slap, slap, slap,
He can’t control the reeling

Slap, slap, slap,
Chemo did it to his feet.

Slap, slap, slap,
Sidewalk and meat do meet

Slap, slap, slap,
And Lindsay thinks it’s funny

Slap, slap, slap,
He’s not fleet as any bunny

Slap, slap, slap,
Hear him walkin’ down the street

Slap, slap, slap,
Oh see those clowny feet.

The effect is moderating with time. Six months of Taxol treatments have caused a loss of feeling in the bottoms of my feet (and in my finger tips). Not a complete loss, but enough to have changed the way I walk. I noticed it most the past few days when rain forced me to take Lindsay for walks around the block instead of across the rough terrain of the meadow at the top of the bluffs. I could hear the slapping sound my feet were making against the cement and realized I was walking very flat footed.

It will be interesting to see the extent to which my gait recovers with time.

But in the meantime, this jaunty beat keep running through my head-- Slap, Slap, Slap Hear Him Walkin' Down The Street..

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Image courtesy of Photobucket

Sepia Saturday--William Fraser Sr.

2010-03-12T22:14:00.008-05:00

Each week we are following the lives of members of my Great Grandfather's family as they appear in this 1890 family portrait. Last time we focused on Johanna (back row far right) and this week we start on the front row (far left) with my great grandfather William.

This photograph of William was found in my father's wallet after his death

My Great-Grandfather, William Fraser, was born in Enzie parish, Banff, Scotland, in 1839, the son of James Fraser and Ann Green. A carpenter by trade, he appears to have travelled extensively around Scotland, perhaps in search of work that was becoming increasingly scarce, the entire country in turmoil following the Highland Clearances.

He married Joanna Chisholm and his oldest children, Mary Ann, Isobella and William, were born in Inverness where he and his wife lived on Haugh Street. In 1869 he moved his family to the Isle of Lewis where he had the contract for masonry work on the new Sheriff's Court House.

Here the family lived in Stewart-Field and had another child, James Green Fraser. Sadly James died after eleven days and was buried by Fr. John Fraser (no relation), the Catholic Priest on Stornoway.

A far cry from his appearance in the family portrait, this was William in 1920

The next year William and Joanna moved to the Isle of Sky where their next two children, Johanna and Alexander, were born. William worked as a contractor on County buildings in Portree and as a cattle dealer.

After several years on Skye he and his family immigrated to Canada in 1873 settling in Toronto.

In his 47 years in that city he worked his way up from carpenter to surveyor, builder, lecturer at the Toronto Technical School and finally, as an architect of some note, he superintended the construction of many of the city's prominent buildings including the Old City Hall, University of Toronto's Convocation Hall, many of the cities bank buildings, Harbord Collegiate and Union Station (just completed at the time of his death).

There are no photos of my great-grandparents together, so I commissioned this portrait. It hangs in my office.

He was the first vice-president of the St. Vincent de Paul Society and one of the first members of St. Francis Roman Catholic Church (later St. Agnes), where his oldest son would one day be parish priest. Indeed he seems to have been a very religious man with two sons becoming priests and two daughters becoming nuns. Altogether William and Joanna had eleven children, three dying in infancy.

He was also for many years trustee for St. Stephan's Ward on the Metropolitan Separate School Board. Joanna predeceased him by six months and he was in failing health from the time of her death. He was acclaimed in the Toronto papers as a genuine pioneer of the City of Toronto.

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

Renee Has Found Her Wings

2010-03-12T08:28:00.004-05:00

I am deeply saddened to learn of the passing of fellow blogger Renee of the Circling My Head Blog, after a long and heroic battle with cancer. She was indeed a very special lady who touched the lives of hundreds of us. And made us better people.

My thoughts are with her wonderful family who have suffered so much recently. It was an honor to know Renee and, through her, to have come to such a deep admiration for her family as well.

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Linda and I are continuing to combine our efforts and jointly host a single page for our Home Town Friday Shoot Outs (FSO). And that's where you'll have to go to find our post featuring a Wrought Iron.

So come on over to see our contribution (and to find links to the all the FSO contributors from around the world)just by CLICKING HERE

See you there! And after your visit maybe you'll be tempted to join us?

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Photo courtesy of Photobuscket

The Flying Bartender

2010-03-11T06:59:00.006-05:00

The Suzuki Spring Concert at the River Run Centre in Guelph ends the Winter season for us as surely as the sighting of the first robin is the harbinger of spring.

My nine year old granddaughter is studying Violin at the Suzuki school, and Linda and I attend her concert every year. But thoughts of the concert always remind me of the flying bartender back in 2009.

I treat my daughter and her family to dinner the evening before the concert, and that year we went to the 50 West Restaurant in our hotel.

Unfortunately, a party of 40 had turned up just before us and the maitre d' had warned us that service would be a little slower than usual.

We hadn't counted on dinner taking 3 hours, mind you, or that the harried staff would put on such an amazing show of slap stick.

First our waiter, a good humoured man who took the time to tease our two grandchildren, couldn't get the cork out of the wine bottle. He huffed and he puffed and he grimaced and he groaned and he darn near caused himself a hernia, but still the cork wouldn't budge.

So he apologized and hurried off saying he needed the help of someone bigger and stronger.

From my vantage point I could see that that "someone" turned out to be the 20 year old bartender who couldn't have weighed more than 100 lbs if she'd been soaking wet. But she got the cork out in 2 seconds flat.

The waiter returned to our table with a face saving story of having had the cork removed by Bruno a 300 lb weight lifter they kept on staff for just such emergencies.

Meanwhile behind him, two other waiters rushing to serve the large party, collided, with drinks and food and waiters flying everywhere.

The little, but efficient, cork popping, bartender came hurrying over to help them, but hit a patch of slippery food and she went flying too.

No one was hurt, but it set the tone for the evening.

Eventually, the chief came out of the kitchen to apologize for the delay and sent a second bottle of wine to our table. He also sent over a peanut butter and jam sandwich to my, then, five year old grandson who was getting a little restless, two hours into the delay.

As the Chef was exiting stage right, the maitre d' entered to our left. He also apologized for the delay and he also sent over a bottle of wine. On the House.

Later, the waiter told us he had deducted our desserts from the bill to make up for the delay. I began day dreaming that if we were there any longer, the entire meal might end up free.

And maybe our room at the hotel as well.

But, alas, they were not that sorry.

However, it made for a memorable evening, rescued by the good humour of our waiter and our own delight in the absurd.

And the desserts and the two bottles of wine also helped.

What America Needs Most

2010-03-10T10:55:00.005-05:00

Americans don't know it, but they are a country in need. Oh, of course they are the most powerful and affluent country in the world, but that doesn't mean they have everything, or enough of everything.

Sadly America is lacking.

Specifically, and unfortunately, they are in dire need of more coffee shops. Yes coffee shops. It is just not enough that they already have one on each corner (and some times two or more). How do you expect a country to survive when faced with such deprivation?

Besides, how many of those coffee shops are Canadian? Why hardly any!

But never fear, my American friends, Tim Hortons is coming to your rescue (no need to thank us).

Tim Hortons is preparing to test drive a new upscale restaurant format in the United States and broaden its North American product line as part of a three-year expansion plan that will include the opening of about 900 new stores.

Yes, we are about to share our Tims with you. Just mention the sacred name and Canadian eyes light up. How generous can a nation be?

I have to admit, we Canadians are not known for romance. If someone were to ask you to name the most romantic people on earth, Canadians would not immediately come to mind. Might not even make it onto your list as a postscript.

"Nice people" yes we would be near the top of your list. "Polite", "clean", "nice neighbours", okay you got us.

If you're ever in a fight, a couple of our hockey players would be handy to have around. But women seldom dream of toothless lovers.

If you need comedians for the Hollywood grist mill, Jim Carey, Martin Short or Mike Myers will do just fine. They'd be fun to have at a party, but they're not romantic. Oh Hollywood did its best to make us romantic, with those singing Mounty/beautiful Indian maiden movies back in the thirties. But the Canadian Mounted Police don't dress in those red surge jackets any more, they don't ride horses and they sure don't sing. If you get stopped for a ticket in Alberta, they'll look like any other cop in North America. And the same old, same old isn't romantic.

That's what makes it so strange that the entire population of Canada should have fallen in love, deeply passionately in love. We stand in the freezing cold just for a glimpse, a taste, of the ardour of our affection. This is more than love. This is romance on a grand scale.

With a chain of donut restaurants.

Cue Enya, dim the lights, we are about to name the object of our affection: Tim Hortons

Just listen to what Wikipeadia has to say:

"Tim Hortons Inc. is a coffee-and-doughnut fast food restaurant chain. Founded in Hamilton, Ontario, in 1964, the store rapidly expanded across Canada to become the country's largest quick-service food chain.

"Tim Hortons franchise stores are plentiful in Canadian cities and towns. As of July 1, 2007, there were 2,733 outlets in Canada, 345 outlets in the United States and one outlet just outside Kandahar, Afghanistan. Tim Hortons has supplanted McDonald's as Canada's largest food service operator; it has nearly twice as many Canadian outlets as McDonald's, and its system-wide sales surpassed those of McDonald's Canadian operations in 2002. The chain accounted for 22.6% of all fast food industry revenues in Canada in 2005. Tim Hortons commands 76% of the Canadian market for baked goods (based on the number of customers served) and holds 62% of the Canadian coffee market (compared to Starbucks, in the number two position, at 7%)."

Have sweeter words ever been spoken? Can you not feel our hearts beating. Our soldiers in Afghanistan could not exist without Tim Hortons and our troops wrote enough pleading letters to the restaurant chain that they opened a store on our military base in Kandahar province.

And Tim Horton, the man for whom the entire chain is named, was a hockey player.

If you want to find romance in Canada, just go to any Tims and look for the line-up that stretches from the counter out the door into the cold frigid morning.

We are not afraid to suffer for our love. And, it seems, we are also not afraid to share it with our friends. You've outgrown us Tim, and now we must share you with the world (sob).

Have pity on us, we're Canadians.

And enjoy your Tim Hortons coffee when a store opens next to you.

The Bells Rang But A Question Remained

2010-03-09T15:00:00.006-05:00

The question that remained was, can we confirm that it is safe to discontinue chemo at this point.

My previous two CT Scans suggested no further spread of the disease, would last week's scan show the same result?

Despite a "code red" at the hospital, I had made certain that that confirming scan had taken place.

And today I waited at the hospital for the results. And waited.

I arrived at the hospital at 9:00 for blood work and then was in the oncologists waiting room at 10:45 for my 11:00 appointment.

As usual she was extremely busy but today particularly so, and it wasn't until 1:15 in the afternoon that I finally got in to see her.

As usual the news she had for me was mixed.

So first the two pieces of good news. There has been no sign of any progression of the cancer in either my bones or esophagus. No sign anywhere of enlargement in my lymph glands, so it is finally confirmed, I will be having NO CHEMOTHERAPY FOR AT LEAST THE NEXT 3 MONTHS.

The second piece of good news, the general weariness and lack of strength I've been experiencing in my legs, is not due to either the cancer or the Taxol. It is a side effect of the steroids they have been pumping into me prior to administering the Taxol. Taking a break from chemo will dramatically help with this as well.

The bad news is that last week's scan detected something in my lungs. Most likely it is a radiation burn from the five continuous weeks of daily radiation I received last summer. If so, it is very small, not interfering with my breathing in any way and will not get worse. May even repair itself to some degree.

However, it could also be the first signs of a spread of the cancer to one of my organs. At this point it is impossible to tell which it is. All that can be done is to keep an eye on it and if it seems to be spreading, do a biopsy.

And if it seems to be receding, order a magnum of champagne!

But there is nothing that can be done or will be done for the next three months, except for me to take a complete break from all things medical and try to figure out what to do with a life that doesn't involve any hospital tests or hospital treatments or irritating rashes or crushing weariness or the loss of feeling in my fingers and feet. Maybe even see how much of that lost feeling I can regain.

Perhaps now I can get back to doing the things I used to enjoy.

So let me think, what was it I was doing a year ago before I was so rudely interrupted?

The One Eyed, One Kneed, Left Handed Vegetarian

2010-03-08T07:00:00.009-05:00

We came in stately procession but left as individuals, no longer united in our grief.

Over 100 people attended my mother's funeral but only immediate family accompanied her to the graveside on the still snow covered, and dangerously slippery, cemetery hill.

Here, final prayers were said as we clung to each other to maintain our footing.

We each left a rose with Rosanna and stood, for a moment, alone with our memories, before the Minister thanked us all for coming and announced the conclusion of the formal service. Then she and the funeral director gingerly descended the hill to the black limousine that had led us here.

While we were at the graveside, the limo driver, who waited for them, had removed the funeral signs from all of our cars. On the way back to the funeral home the director would stop and leave the huge family bouquets in the lobby of the Retirement Home where mom had lived for the past several years.

"Well," my oldest daughter said to me, approvingly, "She's with Poppa again."

Soon only one person is left beside the grave, alone with tears she had held back for so long, refusing to leave her Nana until the grave had been properly filled in.

For a while my brothers and I stand vigil with her, standing beside our cars at the bottom of the hill. We discuss many things, including meeting for coffee at a nearby restaurant.

And then, as the maintenance truck from the cemetery arrives to begin filling in the grave, I get behind the wheel of our car and pull away from the snow covered hill into the spring like weather and greening grassy plains of the vast cemetery.

Leaving behind the "one eyed, one kneed, left handed vegetarian", as my mother had recently taken to calling herself, together again with her husband Bill.

My father.

Sepia Saturday--In Remembrance (part 2)

2010-03-05T22:29:00.009-05:00

I'm taking a step back from my normal Sepia Saturday focus on the Fraser's this week to remember my mother whose funeral is today, Saturday March 6th. I can't think of a more fitting time for reflecting on her life. What follows is the second part of a very abbreviated version of an autobiography she wrote for me back in 1989. Please see The FSO post for part one.

Rosanna the Nanny

After graduating, I worked as a Nanny for a family in Carshalton. And then for the wife of an English Major. Their house in Hindhead was on the grounds of Amesbury Boys Private School. Peter, the son of Field Marshall "Monty" Montgomery attended Amesbury School and on one "Field Day" Monty visited and I was introduced to him.

The wife of the Gym Instructor at the school had opened her home to some Canadian Soldiers and five of them roomed there. That was where I met Bill. I had the mistaken impression that he was married. But Pat the 12 year old daughter soon put me straight and our first date was at a wedding reception for a comrade of his who was marrying an English girl in Hazelmore.
On my next day off, he said he couldn't take me out as he was to be Best Man at the wedding of a friend. That turned out to be Al and Phyllis!!

Rosanna's Wedding Photo

We went to St. Albans on our Honeymoon and when I came out of the bathroom, that evening, I found Bill on his knees saying the "rosary". He was Catholic and I was Protestant, so I had no idea what he was doing. When I asked him he said he was doing his penance for having married me! So I threw my slipper at him!

Despite that, Barry was born just over a year later.

Rosanna and Bill On Their Honeymoon

After the war, we resided in East York where John, Malcolm, and Keith, were born. We then moved to West Hill where we were blessed with a grandson, Mark (who carries on the family name) and three granddaughters, Katherine, Heather, and Sherrie (all of whom have also become vegetarians).

Rosanna and Family Visit Sr. St. John

After Bill’s death I met Al again and learned that his wife Phyl had passed on. Eventually Al and I married and that is how Norm entered the family as one of my son’s as well.

Fate has a strange way of working, hasn't it!

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

Friday Shootout--In Remembrance

2010-03-05T06:35:00.002-05:00

The Friday My Home Town Shoot Out theme this week is "In Remembrance", a topic chosen by ChefE. Saturday being my mother's funeral I can't think of a more fitting time for reflecting on her life. What follows is part one of a very abbreviated version of an autobiography she wrote for me back in 1989. Tomorrow Sepia Saturday will feature part 2

My name is Rosanna and I was born in Mitcham, England to Captain George Shepherd and Rosanna Staines. I have a sister, Eileen and a brother, Ted. We first lived in rooms over the Star Pub which was owned by my grandfather then later moved to London Road.

Back in those days there was no electricity and I loved to sit in the window in the front room and watch for the lamp lighter to come along to light the street lamp opposite, and beside the Pawn Shop, with it's three brass balls hanging beside the door. When my brother Ted was born and Eileen and I were a little older, my dad divided our bedroom into two rooms so that Ted had a little room of his own.

Our first home was in rooms over the Star Pub

We grew up next to a butcher shop which had all these the poor animals outside waiting for slaughter and was such a sad experience that I have been a vegetarian all my life.

Rosanna age 20

My parents first home was heated with a Valour Perfection lamp and our bed was heated with a brick that had been heated in the oven and wrapped in a towel. There was no bathroom but we did have a flush toilet only it was downstairs and outside. On one fine day my mother restained the toilet seat but forgot to tell dad who sat on it while it was still wet and ended up stuck to it. Mom had to use turpentine to separate the toilet from his bottom.

"Up The Yard" The Shepherd Smithy

Eileen, Ted and I use to play "up the yard" where dad, Grandfather Shepherd, and uncle Fred worked. The forge in the blacksmith shop was lovely on a cold winter’s day, especially when we were old enough to jump up and reach the bellow's handle.

Eileen, Rosanna and Mary

On one occasion, we three children played "wedding". Lana wore a white lace curtain, Ted was the groom and I played the horse who pulled them in a wooden wagon that dad had made for us. Incidentally, many, many years later, when I "developed my female anatomy" my siblings called me "three brass balls". Another nickname I had in school was "steamroller".

However I was a pretty good student and became head prefect for a couple of years. Being England it was, of course, an all girl's school and I once played the lead in our school's production of Hiawatha.

Rosanna (center stage) as Hiawatha in her School's Production

I was reading a novel recently in which the characters move to Bundaberg, Australia. One character asks another what there is in Bundaberg, and is told that it was the home of the famous aviator Bert Hinkler. The name leaped off the page at me, because I had met Bert. Twice a year my family would go to visit cousins Henry and Maggie Staines in Lympne. They lived in a bungalow named "Ingleside" next to the airport and Bert Hinkler use to room with them.

When he wanted to go flying, he would just jump over their backyard fence and walk across the field to his plane. I was about 5 years old at the time and Bert had the first radio I had ever heard. You had to wear ear phones to hear anything and he would let the children listen. Bert was famous as the first man to fly from England to Australia. He died a few years later, in the mountains around Florence Italy, attempting to recreate the trip.

Continued tomorrow......

Code Red

2010-03-03T06:17:00.006-05:00

They weren't making it easy, those minor gods or daemons whose sacred duty it is to put everyday frustrations in our path.

I was on my way to Princess Margaret Hospital for the CT Scan that would verify all that recent bell ringing and celebration had been appropriate. That I was healing and there would be no need for further chemo treatments in the near future.

But getting there was not half the fun, it was none of the fun.

One of the lingering side effects of this round of Taxol is a general feeling of fatigue and, specifically, an aching weariness in my legs. It's an annoyance I cope with by resting a lot. And waiting for it to pass.

But when I caught the GO train for my appointment at the hospital, the lower level of the carriage was filled and I was forced to climb to the upper level. But that was alright, because I'd be sitting for half and hour and my legs would recover.

When I got to Union Station, in the midst of the evening rush hour I discovered all the escalators were working to take the caribou herd of migrating commuters out of the city I was trying to get into. All the escalators were running down and I had to climb up the stairs.

When I finally got to the hospital, my legs were more than a little wobblier than when I'd started. However, as I entered the front door I could hear an announcement over the PA, "Code Red. Code Red. Ninth floor. Code Red."

Interesting, I thought. I knew what a Code Blue was, but had never heard of a Code Red before. I was sucking on the last of the barium liquid I'd been given to drink on my way down to the hospital, and looked around for a garbage. Found one but it was full. And had to cross to the other side of the vast lobby to find another. I dropped my cup in. Shoved my cup in. Rammed my cup in.

Then headed over to the bank of elevators. Where a considerable crowd had gathered.

"Code Red. I repeat, Code Red," the woman on the PA was still saying.

All of the elevators sat there on the ground floor, their doors open. Waiting. Going no where. And my appointment was in fifteen minutes on the third floor.

Through the windows outside I could see a fire truck pull up and teams of fire fighters began ambling into the hospital, one with a very large axe.

The meaning of Code Red began to dawn on me.

A weary stream of people were climbing the stairs beside the elevators. I checked that my appointment was actually on the third floor, sighed, and joined them, pulling myself up the vast stair case as much by the railing as by my feet.

It went up forever. I was slow and young doctors and nurses went bounding around me with the agility of gazelles. As would I have only a few months ago. My legs were threatening to give out with every step.

But I made it. And ambled along the long corridor, around the corner and down the next long corridor to the Medical Imaging Department, where I found the doors closed and locked.

I double checked my appointment time. I was five minutes early but they were locked. I knocked on the door but the nurse at the desk ignored me. I knocked again. Was ignored again.

What the heck? Come on, don't do this to me!

Then the door opened as a patient left the department. I desperately grabbed the door and entered.

"We're not allowed to open the doors during a Code Red," the nurse at the desk explained. "But now you're here, lets get you started."

She smiled.

And so I had my CT Scan, the results of which I will not know until my meeting with the oncologist next Tuesday.

On the way home I thought I would stop at Harvey's for a quick bite to eat before my train, but the Leafs were in town and a line up of Leaf fans ran out the door of Harvey's and deep into the bowels of the station.

I sighed again.

But my train was on time and I got home without further incident. Much tireder and no more the wiser. Lindsay was a dancing bundle of joyful energy and as happy to have me home as I was to be there. I took off my coat and boots and bent over to pet her, caught my hand on the mug we keep full of pens and pencils and knocked it all over the floor.

With a crash that startled Linda. And Lindsay.

I slammed my hand down on the counter, hurting it, swore loudly and kicked the pencils with my foot sending them flying across the room.

"That's it! I've had it! Its not fair.I can't take any more!" I roared, stomping across the living room to my chair with all the grace of a demented seven year old.

Linda looked at me with amazement.

"Well its about time," she said softly. "Of course you can't take it. You've had way too much to cope with. Its about time you let it go."

She got up and gave me a long hug and then went into hall where she picked up the pens and pencils, found where Lindsay had gone to hide, comforted the poor dog and put on water for a cup of tea.

And by the time she got back, I was feeling much better, if a little embarrassed.

I was home.

Safely.

What's That She Asked

2010-03-01T18:11:00.010-05:00

"Excuse me," the woman across from me on the GO train asked. "Would you mind telling me what that is poking out the top of your bag?"

I looked down at the bag at my feet and smiled.

I was on my way home from a farewell lunch at my former place of work on Friday and the object poking out of the top of my bag was a gift I'd been given.

"It looks a little like a pepper mill," she said. "But it's too thin for that."

It had been a tough week with the death of my mother on Sunday, the onslaught of taxol side effects taking their toll and all the multiple tasks that had to be done to wrap up my mother's estate and prepare for her internment. Of course a great deal of those tasks had been handled by my brothers and their wives, but still it had been a stressful week.

Getting out to my work for a party was a hugely welcomed change of pace. Especially since it was a party for me. A second and much more personal retirement party.

"Then I thought it might be the handle of a paint brush, but that would be the largest paint brush I'd ever seen."

It had been wonderful to see all my work colleagues again. We'd hugged and laughed and got caught up on our lives. Did I mention laughing? And did I mention lunch. And a huge retirement cake? And laughing?

"And now I'm stuck," the woman said. "I hope you don't mind my asking."

"Not at all," I said. "But there's a story behind it that you have to understand first."

So I told her about my finishing my last chemo treatment and ringing the bell at the hospital. How hundreds of people around the world had joined in ringing bells of their own. And how my colleagues at work read my blog. Quietly in the background.

And then I showed her the gift I'd received from them that was sticking up out of my bag.

The biggest, noisiest freaking hand held bell I'd ever seen!

Oh, and they also gave me a Best Buys gift certificate for enough to purchase a really neat telephoto lens for our new camera.

Congratulations Canada On A Great Olympics!

2010-02-28T18:37:00.002-05:00

Congratulations to the organizers, volunteers, supporters and athletes on a magnificent Olympic Games. With the win by the men's hockey team, Canada has now won more gold medals than any Nation in Winter Olympic history.

The weather gods may not have been kind,but they gave the games their grudging support.

The critics of the games in other countries may have been harsh, but now its their turn and we'll be watching.

But, for tonight, we'll be celebrating.

As we should.

Sepia Saturday--Johanna

2010-02-27T06:15:00.011-05:00

Each week we are following the lives of members of my Great Grandfather Fraser's family as they appear in this 1890 family portrait. Last week we focused on Alexander (back row second from the right) and this week we look at his sister Johanna (far right).

Like her brother Alexander, I also did not know his older sister Johanna existed, although she was a widely acclaimed public figure in Toronto during the 1920-1930's whose passing made front page news in the local papers.

But then, I wasn't around in the 1920's. So, when I first caught of glimpse of her existence in 1990 it took me a full ten years to research her background. But what I found nearly took my breath away.

Poet, playwright, artist, composer, lyricist, teacher, when I contacted the archivist at the Sister's of St. Joseph to inquire about her, I was told, "Oh that one, if you're related to her you're related to a whirlwind."

Not exactly the kind of comment you'd expect to hear about a nun.

Johanna, known as Annie, was born in Scotland in the village of Portree on the Isle of Skye in 1871. Her family appears to have been frequently on the move with her parents born in Enzie, her brother William and his sister Mary Anne born in Inverness and the family immigrating to Toronto, Canada in 1872 (immediately after the birth of her brother Alexander on the Isle of Skye).

Although she was the fourth child born in the family, Johanna may have been the first of her remarkable siblings to have entered religious life. She entered the Community of the Sisters of St. Joseph, in Toronto, at 20 years of age.

Sr Geraldine visits her mother, originally uploaded by Anexplorer.

Most of her religious life was spent teaching in the Separate school system in various locations around the Province of Ontario. In this apostalate her dramatic and musical talents blossomed and she produced songs, plays, poems and operettas for the pupils. Most of these plays were of a religious nature and brought her to the attention of the wider community.

One of Joanna's paintings, originally uploaded by Anexplorer.

Larger productions for the whole community followed: "The Poserello" on the life of St. Francis of Assissi (coincidentally the name of her parent's church where her brother William was associate pastor), "Christ the King", "A Salute to Canada 1867-1927" performed at Toronto's presdigious Massey Hall, and "The Lone Company" about the Jesuit Martyrs commissioned by Archbishop Neil McNeil.

All of these plays were produced anonymously and she was scandalized when the Toronto Star revealed her as the author, writing a scathing letter to the paper and creating more than a little controversy.

I have a copy of "The Poserello" which has a very dated feel to it. The convention at the time was to litter historical plays with as many "thees" and "thous" as possible but today it gives them an artificial and dated feel. Although there are moments when the dialogue just sings and its possible to get a sense of what audiences at the time must have experienced.

She died at a relatively young age for this family, at 61, on July 26, 1932, her obituary making front page news in the Toronto Telegram.

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

My Town Friday Shoot Out--Replay

2010-02-26T07:07:00.005-05:00

It's the first Anniversary of the My Town Friday Shoot Out!

Linda and I are continuing to combine our efforts and jointly host a single page for our Home Town Friday Shoot Outs (FSO). And that's where you'll have to go to find our post featuring a replay of our favorite shoot from the past year.

So come on over to see our contribution (and to find links to the all the FSO contributors from around the world)just by CLICKING HERE

See you there! And after your visit maybe you'll be tempted to join us?

Lindsay Helps Out

2010-02-25T05:35:00.006-05:00

My car glides through the light covering of fresh snow on the surface of the parking lot and comes to a halt at the entrance to the park.

It is early in the morning and normally it would be quiet here, but Lindsay, on the back seat, hasn't been for a run in several days and is beside her self with delight. Alternately whining and barking, she is prancing back and forth on the seat waiting to be let out.

Taxol hasn't run through its kit bag of chemo side effects yet. Two days ago I was shivering, couldn't get warm no matter how many blankets I huddled under, and my joints felt like knives were being pushed into them. Yesterday those same joints were stiff and I was flattened by an enormous sense of fatigue. Today the tips of my fingers and the bottoms of my feet are aching.

But I have much of my strength back. And I'm as desperate to get out for a run in the woods as Lindsay is.

I open my door and crawl out of the car. Then open the back door. Lindsay waits with wiggling impatience for permission to jump out.

"Okay, Lins, lets go," I say and she leaps out into the snow covered parking lot. Then comes to a halt. Tail raised and stiff legged, she surveys the area for danger before I tug on her leash and we head off down the forest pathway.

After a while the pain in my feet feels no worse than walking barefooted on gravel. My body adjusts its tolerance level and we begin to make time.

There isn't a lot of snow and the forecast for today is for a light rain that might wash it all away. But Toronto has had so little snow this winter that even this mean whiteness is transformative.

Lindsay is beside herself, her nose to the ground, tail wagging, her feet a blur of motion. She runs off down the trail, then turns and runs back circling my legs in a kind of thank-you before heading off down the trail again.

She has a lot of energy to burn off and so do I. But it takes me a while to begin to realize just how much energy I have to burn. How necessary this walk was for me.

I had looked at this as a treat for her and a sacrifice for me. But I was wrong. Despite the pain in my feet, I can feel tight muscles beginning to loosen, tensions beginning to let go. It is an agony of relief.

And then we come to edge of the Scarborough Bluffs and suddenly the vast blue expanse of Lake Ontario stretches out to the horizon and beyond and the absolute beauty of the day is like a body blow that nearly knocks me off my feet. I grasp the trunk of a nearby tree for support as Lindsay and I look out across the lake and breath in the cool winter air.

I'm not sure how long we stood there before I turned and headed back to my world, its troubles and demands no longer seeming as forbidding.

Lindsay dancing with delight as she runs on ahead of me.

The Complexities Of Death

2010-02-24T06:44:00.002-05:00

Death isn't a simple matter. It's a highly complex business.

Especially when you're in the midst of your week of chemo side-effects. Hopefully your last week of chemo side-effects, but that knowledge doesn't lessen the pain any.

In the blink of an eye I've gone from a strong man to one crippled with arthritis. I'm stiff and all my joints ache as if sharp pins are being inserted in my knees and elbows and fingers. I have a bone deep chill and cannot get warm. And a headache.

By the weekend it will all start to pass and by the middle of next week it will all be gone.

But it's this week that funeral arrangements need to be made for my mother. Her retirement home needs to be given 30 days notice of vacating her room, her phone needs to be disconnected, dental and optometrist appointments need canceled, an estate account needs to be opened at the bank, letters need to be written to distant relatives and friends, a notice needs to be prepared for the newspaper.

And decisions need made about her funeral service.

My brothers and their wives along with Linda and I spent four hours again yesterday at the funeral home, making decisions about flowers and urns and stationary. And signing papers.

This afternoon I will have to go back to make a formal identification of my mother before her cremation. You don't want to be cremating the wrong person.

Then I go back again on Thursday to sign more documents canceling her various pensions and health insurance cards and social insurance number.

Then it will be done. And I can rest. The chemo side effects will start to taper off over the weekend. The phone will stop ringing.

And on Saturday March 6th my mother can be laid to rest.

And my life can go on.

Peacefully In Her Sleep.....

2010-02-22T06:44:00.004-05:00

Rosanna 2/27/1919---2/21/2010

Peacefully in her sleep, her family by her bedside, my mother, Rosanna, passed away early Sunday afternoon within minutes of receiving the Last Rights from the Hospital Chaplain.

She lived a long and vibrant life, faced adversity with intelligence and compassion and maintained until the end a delightful sense of humour and an enormous capacity to love.

As she, in turn, was always loved.

Sepia Saturday--Alexander

2010-02-20T06:50:00.006-05:00

Each week we are following the lives of members of my Great Grandfather Fraser's family as they appear in this 1890 family portrait. Last week we focused on Theresa (back row second left) and this week we look at her brother Alexander, standing to her right.

Alexander

It all looks so easy now, and logical.

But when I first began researching this family I didn't know Alexander existed.

I certainly didn't know he lived in Chicago and had founded a very large branch of the family in the United States.

Alexander, the fifth child of William and Johanna Fraser, was rumoured to have been born on board the ship that brought the family from Scotland to Canada in 1873, at least there is a family story to that effect. However, newly discovered documents firmly place his birth in Portree, on the Isle of Skye, in 1872, the year before the family immigrated to Canada.

In any case, no matter where he was born, once launched, Alexander was a man on the move. After finishing his schooling in Toronto Canada, he became a stone mason who traveled extensively, following job opportunities around Canada and the northern United States. The smoke stacks that once graced the plant on the front of the Shredded Wheat box, were built by him.

Alexander married Ellen Hallett in Toronto and together they had eleven children.

My Grandfather Charles, Msgr John and Alexander at Alexander's home in Chicago

Ellen died at 33 years of age. Alexander's sister Mary Ann (who was already caring for his older sister Isobella's three children after her death just 4 years previous) stepped in to assist with the children.

With work scarce, and having many mouths to feed, Alex followed the job market to Chicago where he eventually met and married Mary Fitzgerald. Alex had not told Mary that he had been married previously and was father of nine living children. Wracked with guilt, when he found work away in Winnipeg he took the opportunity of distance to write to her fully disclosing his past. Mary had him immediately come home and together they caught the first train to Toronto where they gathered all the children and took them back to Chicago with them.

When I eventually connected with this family I discovered, counting in-laws, that Alexander had over 500 descendants throughout the United States from Circus performers to Army Generals.

Mary eventually added Francis (a Catholic Priest) and Gerald (a Catholic Priest) to the family.

Francis and Gerald were to play a key role in my unraveling the mystery that was my grandfather Charles, the black sheep of this family. But we will get to Charles story eventually and the key role Alexander played in his life.

Alexander died April 5, 1953 and Mary in 1965.

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

After The Bells Have Rung

2010-02-19T06:50:00.006-05:00

Before the Bells have rung, I'm sitting on the bed in the Chemo Day Care Centre, my vital signs being taken by my Nurse for the day.

"Your blood pressure's elevated." She looks back through my chart. "You've usually been between around 130 over 65 and today you're 156 over 80. Do you have any unusual stresses in your life?"

"Beyond spending my day being poisoned in Chemo Day Care," I ask.

She laughs, looking back through my chart, "Oh that! That you seem to handle with a breeze."

"I have a mother in Emerge at Centenary Hospital."

"You still have a mother?"

"Don't get smart!" I smile. "Yes, I still have a mother. She'll be 91 in 9 days time, if she makes it that long. They've done all they can medically and are arranging to have her moved to Palliative care."

"Well that would explain your blood pressure," says the Nurse. "You need to find some ways to relax and take care of your self through these stressful times."

"Like coming here for the day," I suggest.

"Don't get smart," the nurse laughs. "Besides this is your final visit with us. Relax and enjoy it and maybe we'll let you ring the bell at the end. Do you know about the bell?"

Yes, I know about the bell.

And speaking of bells I know one reason why my blood pressure has been elevated. I haven't been sleeping well these past few days, expecting a phone call in the middle of the night to tell me my mother has passed away. This has been her 5th day in the ER and every day she has declined further. I'm as prepared as I can be for her passing, she is nearly 91, but but worrying about that possible phone call in the night is disturbing me.

Another reason is that my brothers and I are meeting with the funeral director, after I get to ring that bell today, to discuss funeral arrangements. I am not especially fond of funeral homes. Or making funeral arrangement.

Its not something that's wise to leave to the last minute, and this is about as last minute as we can get without it being the actual last minute.

The funeral director turns out to be a bouncy smiley woman in her late twenties who guides us to a table in the basement filled with urns and coffins. She looks at us in wonderment.

"Three men making funeral arrangements!" she sighs, "The world really has changed."

"Well we're not here to make decisions about flowers or urns," my brother Keith tells her, "Anything we decided about those would be wrong."

"Ya," my brother John agrees, "If you only had two choices, we'd make the wrong one."

"If you only had one choice,we'd make the wrong one." I laugh.

"So its just all the other stuff then," the funeral director says, sitting down and opening a large file at the end of the table.

And so we make decisions about the coming day and finances and costs and we get a discount because this qualifies as pre-planing even through we are approaching this so late.

And my blood pressure stays up.

And then John drives me home and I do a little tai chi and mediate for a few minutes and then turn on the computer and discover the world has been ringing bells for me.

And as I read comments after comments I can feel my blood pressure coming down.

I visit blog after blog in a state of wonderment.

And last night, again, the phone doesn't ring. And I do get to sleep, eventually

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For today's Friday My Home Town Shoot Out on Town Plazas, visit my shoot out page HERE

The Bells Are Ringing!

2010-02-18T19:06:00.007-05:00

"No, you can't go yet," said my nurse as I finished my final chemotherapy treatment and said a (not so fond) farewell to Taxol.

"There's something else?" I asked.

"Of course," she replied. "You can't ring the bell without me! Just give me a minute to finish up with this other patient."

So I waited and as I did I thought I could begin to hear other bells ringing in the far distance. No, I thought. It couldn't be. Not really.

The nurse finished plugging the codes into the new patient's intravenous drip and then took me by the arm and led me to the exit. On the way she gathered all the other nurses and volunteers in the chemo day care who were free. By the time we got to the bell over ten nurses were there waiting.

The bell is a good size, made of brass and is attached to the left of the exit door. To accommodate shorter patients, it has a long cord attached to the clapper. It is there for patients to ring as they complete their final chemotherapy.

I took hold of the cord and took a moment to think of all those who posted such touching comments about their own battle with cancer, or the battles family members have fought. And I thought of the hundreds of bloggers who where joining in this bell ringing.

Then I pulled the cord on the bell back as far as I could and RANG THAT SUCKER. LOUD AND LONG!

While the nurses and volunteers cheered and laughted with delight.

So I rang it again and they cheered some more.

The door exits into the Chemo waiting room where thirty other patients and their supporters waited their turn for treatment. And, to my shock, they were also all yelling and cheering and clapping as well.

Bringing me to a complete halt Stunned with surprise.

While, in the distance I was now certain I was hearing Hindi temple bells, ranchhand triangles, dog collar bells, cow bells, artistic Manor Iron Bells, jingle bells, Tibetan singing bowls, elephant bells, china dinner bells, Alaskan bear bells, cat toy bells, Andre Rieu playing hava nagla (honestly see Skip Simpson's blog for details)and hundreds of others more.

Eventually my brother-in-law Steven, who had spent the day with me, had to physically take my arm and move me out of the waiting room, cheers and applause following us down the long hallway. The sound only fading as the elevator door closed behind us and we descended to the lobby to find my brother John waiting to drive us home.

Home to my blog and all of these comments!

I am beyond moved.

Thank you all.

Bells For Thursday

2010-02-17T15:10:00.003-05:00

I am overwhelmed.

When Anvil first suggested others might want to join in and celebrate my final chemotherapy by joining with me in ringing bells, I expected maybe ten people. Twenty at most.

Not hundreds.

But hundreds it is and from all around the world: Canada, the United States, Australia, New Zealand, Germany, France, Spain, Britain, Brazil, India, Indonesia, Asia, South Africa, the Caribbean and undoubtedly many other places as well. Just look at some of their names listed on the sidebar to the right. Or better yet, go visit their blogs where many of them are also celebrating.

People are ringing cow bells, school bells, door bells, church bells, temple bells, bike bells, cell phone bells and even playing YouTube videos of bells ringing.

I'm thrilled to have you all with me and truly humbled by the response and the support. I know many of you are also ringing for family and friends who have also been touched by cancer and I salute you and I will be ringing for them as well.

On Saturday Linda and I took my family out to celebrate my oldest daughter's and her husband's Birthday (their birthday's are only 3 day apart) and at dinner my wife Linda gave each of our grandchildren presents as well. When they opened their presents they discovered they had each been given a bell to ring, along with all the rest of us Thursday at 2 pm (those are their bells in the photo above).

As many of you know my 90 yer old mother was rushed to hospital on Valentine's day after a series of falls at her Retirement Home. Her condition has continued to decline and she was moved to Palliative care this afternoon. So my own bell ringing, while joyful, and loud, will be tempered by an awareness of the fragility and preciousness of life.

Please listen for me ringing that bell at 2 pm and I promise to listen for you as well!

With deep appreciation,

Barry

The Calm Centre

2010-02-16T16:52:00.011-05:00

We are at the calm centre of a nightmare of activity in the Observation Room of Centenary Hospital's Emergency Department. Around us swirl and moan the sick and injured, their families and doctors and nurses.

My mother is mumbling quietly, her hands occasionally reaching out for things only she can see. Rarely the mumbles become words, "shoes and boots" she'll suddenly say, or "I could tell she was angry with me". My mother's voice, its timber and pitch unfamiliar to me.

We are sealed off from the turmoil around us by a thin curtain and more than enough worries of our own.

Tired from an hour of tai chi this morning, I am trying to concentrate on Eliot Pattison's book, Prayer Of The Dragon, when my mother's mumblings suddenly become coherent as she starts to whisper a song in her new but tiny voice.

"O're land or sea or foam,
You can always hear me singing this song,
Show me the way...show me the way...show me..."

Her voice trails off into confusion.

"...the way to go home." I finish for her and she suddenly smiles with contentment. "Oh, hello son," she says.

"Hi mom" I say, taking her cold hand. "How are you doing?"

"Is it time for breakfast?" she asks.

"No mom, it's 2 o'clock in the afternoon."

"Oh is it? I don't feel like having an egg today."

"You're in hospital, mom."

"Am I? (Show me the way to go home, I'm tired and I want to go to bed....)Did you say we were having breakfast?"

"No mom. Are you hungry? Thirsty?"

"She didn't want me to wear shoes. Boots....She was angry with me..." her eyes close and she drifts back to muttering.

I continue to hold her cold hand for a while longer, looking at her tired face, her hair unkempt, her eyes fluttering, her breath laboured. In my mind I'm picturing the photo we have of her in our family album, in her bridal gown, her face nervous but radiant, being escorted to the church by her father, an amazingly long life time ahead of her. Two husbands, four sons, a stepson, four daughters-in-law, five grand children, four great grand children.

And for the longest while I just stand there, holding her hand and stroking her hair.

She is eleven days away from her 91st birthday.