Friday Shootout: Textures

Patty and Reggie Girl have organized the Friday Photo Shoot Out asking us to post photos of our local community every Friday. From a handful of participants it has grown into a world wide phenomenon. This week's theme, chosen by my wife Linda, is TEXTURE.

There are links to many of the Friday Shoot Out participants from literally around the world at the bottom of my left panel. For a comprehensive list see Patty's blog. Maybe you'd like to join us as well and post photos of your community? Click here for everything you need to know to join the Friday Shootout Gang. Next weeks theme is LAWN ART.

I live in Toronto, in the Scarborough area of Toronto, in the West Hill area of Scarborough. So West Hill will be the focus of my photos.

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Wanting to step up my game, since my wife chose this weeks theme, I have decided to move beyond the rational boundaries of West Hill. My justification for this move is that the following pictures were taken right outside the Princess Margaret Hospital that has become almost a second home to me over the past five weeks.



The fact is that the Hospital sits on University Avenue, one of the most majestic of all streets in the City of Toronto. Of course it was designed that way as the lead up to Queen's Park the seat of the Legislature of the Province of Ontario, built in 1893 in the Romanesque style. The statue above is of Sir John A. MacDonald the first Prime Minister of Canada. (click on any picture to enlarge)






The Emperor and Empress of Japan visited Queen's Park shortly after these photos were taken yesterday and the grounds of the Legislature were filled with cheering Japanese-Canadians. Even in Japan the Royal family can only be seen on public occasions behind bullet proof glass. Here they walked through the crowd greeting people personally.






And this of course is Queen Victoria. Notice her smooth texture. Queen's Park, of course, was named after her, although it was her son Edward VII who formally opened the Legislature on her behalf. The statue of the Queen is at least three times her actual 5' height.



And speaking of smooth, this the Ontario Hydro Building.



The flowered boulevard runs the entire length of University.



Princess Margaret Hosptial sits in a block of major hospitals. The statues here are on the front lawn of the Sick Kids Hospital. Also on the same block are Mount Sinai and Toronto General Hospital



Statues can be found at every intersection along the boulevard, there black metalic surfaces a stark contrast to the numerous trees and flowers that line the way.






Texture, you want texture, just take a look at this canon. And if you don't agree we're turning this sucker around and pointing it at you.



The is the United States Consulate fitting snugly and unpretentiously into a corner of University Avenue.

Lindsay Muses

It isn't easy being a dog, but it can often be comfortable.

Dogs come to understand quite a bit about the human culture and the personalities of their owners. They can recognize human behavioral patters with great ease and make predictions about changes in those patterns based on very subtle clues.

Lindsay can tell from the type of clothing I put on whether we are going for a run in the morning. It I put on the right clothing, she dances for joy at my feet and runs to the kitchen where we keep her leach.

If I put on the wrong clothing, she heads for the side door where I exit for the car and lays in front of the door. She wouldn't want to be left behind by shear accident, so she's giving me one last chance to take her for that run.

This week I've been leaving early for the Hospital and she's been getting no morning runs at all. I'm carrying a pouch of 5FU that is being pumped into my body 22 hours of a day. Wheezing in and wheezing out every few seconds. Lindsay has learned that that fanny pack and that noise add up to no early morning run, and she has given up even asking. Even hoping.

Instead she hops up on her chair and watches me go with saddened eyes.

The sadness lasts about thirty seconds after my driver pulls his car out of my drive, then she goes and barks at the back door for Linda to let her out into our large yard, where she delight in chasing away all the birds and inspecting all the trees for squirrel (or even better raccoons).

We are haring some work done around the house this week. Work I normally would have done but am no long able. The grass is being cut by a company and student painters are repainting our kitchen cabinets and our outside decks.

There were four students here yesterday and today both the student group and the grass cutters will be here.

I kid Linda that while I'm gone to the hospital to be pumped fun of poison, she fills the house with men.

Yes, she says, but she's got to pay them.

However their various and unpredictable comings and goings make for an interesting day for Lindsay who has to stick her long black nose into everything that's going on.

Which the men thought was cute at first and then a little distracting, so Linda was forced to keep her in the living room for much of the day.

Ah well, tomorrow I come off the pump, and if I continue to survive the week as well as I am currently, by the weekend we should be able to get out for a run again.

In her chair, Lindsay wags her tail with faint hope, as if reading my thoughts.

Casual Conversation

Over the past few weeks we've become our own little group, our own "movable feast". The composition of the group changes daily, but by now we've all ridden together and know each other's story.

Today our Cancer Society Volunteer Driver is a young Russian woman with spiked red hair and a surprisingly harsh laugh. She is finding her way to our homes using a GPS Monitor, our various addresses pre-programmed and a pleasant female voice guiding her through a maze of backstreets.

On the radio, Neil Diamond is singing about his love for "Cracklin' Rosie", that store brought woman.

Robert, in the front passenger seat, is squirming and restless, glancing back at us as if to work up the courage to make a statement.

"Did you say something, Robert?" I prompt.

"No, no! Nothing," he says, turning his gaze resolutely toward the front window. For about ten seconds, and then he turns quickly back to the three of us in the back seat. "Do you mind if I ask, how do you handle casual conversations?"

"Casual conversations?"

"You know, you pass someone, they say "Hi, how are you?", you say "Fine, and you?", they say "Fine" and you both go your separate ways. Except nothing is really fine with you these days, so it feels like you're telling them a lie."

"Saying I have cancer does tend to turn casual conversation into something a lot more serious, and complicated, and maybe turn into a lot longer conversation than either of you have time for." I agree.

"And how many times do you have the energy to be up for such a conversation?" Robert shakes his head vigorously.

Cari, the accountant, on my left, is eager to join in, "Oh, I know just what you mean. I was at the hairdressers yesterday and she was making polite conversation, asking me what I was doing with my afternoon. If I tell her I'm going for radiation at Princess Margaret Hospital, that becomes a whole different kind of conversation than I had the strength for."

"For some people it brings out the need to tell you horror stories about family members or friends who've just had the worst experiences. I mean real nightmares!" Rube, the dental hygienist, on my right, agrees.

"So how do you handle those conversations, Rube?" I ask.

"I just tell them I'm fine. I mean I haven't lost my hair or anything, I don't look ill, and if I don't know them well or don't have the time, I just say I'm fine. I mean, they don't really want to know how you're doing. They're just saying hi."

"But does that feel like a lie," Robert asks.

"Never," says Cari adamantly. "Like Rube says, it's just a social convention, that kind of talk. They won't even remember passing you by five seconds later. And if you start telling everyone about your cancer you start feeling like a drama queen."

"I guess," Robert agrees reluctantly.

"I guess you have to play it by ear," I say. "If you have the time and know the person well enough, you might tell them. If not then its fine to just say you're okay."

"So how is everyone this morning?" asks the Russian driver, breaking into her odd harsh laugh.

We laugh along with her and the car winds its torturous way deeper into the city and our various treatment protocols at PMH. Our little group now lost in thought about the individual fates that await us.

The Dream

I normally don't remember my dreams, but then this was no normal dream.

For one thing, it didn't come to me in my own bed in the stillness of the night. It invaded the nightmare my life had become during my first week of combined chemo/radiation treatment. I hadn't been able to eat or drink for two days and was lying in bed in the Cancer Day Care hooked up to an IV pumping cisplatin into my veins.

When I fell asleep.

And discovered myself on the banks of the Thames River in London during the time of the Reformation. Before me, filling the entire span of the river, a giant five story stage was being pulled down the length of the Thames by teams in four row boats, thick ropes attaching them to the stage.

I was strangely aware that I was dreaming while at the same time experiencing this ancient time as all too real.

On the stage the entire pageantry of that time was being played out each on its own different level. On the ground floor of the stage, peasants were busy tilling the fields, caring for livestock and dancing to the sound of a flute.

On the next level shop keepers were hawking their wares, keeping their books, manufacturing their various products.

On the middle level the clergy were preaching and praying and shaking their incense.

Above them the nobles were feasting and jousting fighting off the enemies of the realm.

While high above them all, the King sat on his throne laughing and waving to the vast crowds who lined the river banks.

"This can't be real," I recall thinking in the midst of my dream. "A stage this size would act like a vast sail and could never be pulled down river by row boats. Even modern boats with powerful engines would never be able to keep such a thing property aligned. Not to mention upright."

And then I woke up, marveling at the capacity of the human brain to create such a vision in such detail. The dream was rich in browns and grays, I could feel the breeze, smell the pungent aroma of the river water at my feet.

Jeannette Stgermain's blog has a three part series on dreams, and it got me thinking about this one.

Does this strange dream have meaning? Is anyone out there into dream interpretation? Insights anyone? Of have you had similar dreams, or even more interesting ones you'd care to share?

Verdict on Barry

Suddenly my blog was not loading properly. Kathryn was the first to mention it. She could only get the frame to load, but none of the posts.

Then others began to have the same problem, even going to Linda's blog to let her know they were having trouble.

I was having no trouble with Firefox but when I tried accessing the page with Internet Explorer I had the same problem as everyone else. So I tried fiddling with elements within the posts, deleting some of the larger pictures but that resolved nothing. The page still wouldn't download properly.

In the end I switched to a new template and gave myself a whole new look. One that downloads fast no matter which browser I use. So I think I solved the problem, but please let me know it you're still having trouble.

And I hope you like the new look.

Meanwhile, back in the world of reality, yesterday was judgment day for me. It was the day my various oncologists put their collective heads together, reviewed the battery of tests they had ordered, in order to determine if I was fit to withstand the battering I was about to receive during the final week of treatment.

The dreaded fifth week of combined chemo and radiation. Not everyone can tolerate the fifth week, but survival rates go up significantly for those who can.

So I wanted to be in their number. No matter how ill the treatment made me.

And the first week of combined chemo/radiation had made me very ill indeed.

Fortunately all the test results came back negative. Which is a good thing. Positive means they had positively found a problem, but they hadn't

Although my white cell count was a near thing. My immune system has taken a battering by four weeks of daily radiation. A normal healthy white cell rating is 3. The lowest white cell rating they will consider for the fifth week is 1.5

Mine was 1.6.

So I have to become "bubble boy" for a couple of weeks because the fifth week is going to knock me well below 1.5 before its done. I won't have much resistance to disease by the time this is all over.

And of course my oldest daughter has a cold, so I'll only be talking to her by phone.

In the meantime, I have recovered from Thursdays downturn and am eating and feeling quite well again and have the weekend to get myself as strong as I can before Monday when I strap on the dread 5FU pack for 24 hour chemo.

This time next week, of course, it will all be over but for the surgery. And I get a month or two off to rebuild before that happens.

Friday Shoot Out

Sorry, no Friday Shoot Out today. I had a bad day yesterday and have an early morning appointment at the hospital today.

I did receive a beautiful flower basket from the staff at my work yesterday along with a card signed by everyone on staff.

I'll try to get something up tomorrow.

Lindsay And The Earth Box Caper: A Verdict

Once Upon A Time, Barry brought an Earth Box. It was a pretty little contraption that would give him something other than his illness to think about. And it would eventually feed him wholesome organic vegetables, with minimal effort required.

And it was good.




But it was not to be.

An evil witch (as opposed to the good witches who visit this blog and leave kindly comments), cast a spell upon his efforts and within days his Earth Box was in tatters and his plants ripped asunder (Barry has always wanted to use the word "asunder")




Suspicion fell upon many a likely culprit including a squirrel, a cat, a raccoon and Lindsay Magoo. A feral black cat has been visiting the neighbourhood recently, yowling in the night and driving housebound Lindsay to distraction.

Raccoons have been attempting to raid Barry's compose bin and driving housebound Barry to distraction.

Squirrels have not been seen regularly.




In the end, after much pondering and soul searching (and administering a lie detector test to Lindsay) she was exonerated. She is far too pretty to have committed such a dastardly act.



Neighbours have righteously pointed the finger at the masked raccoons who have committed similar acts of wanton destruction upon their own gardens.

And so Lindsay is free at last to roam the vast spaces of Barry and Linda's back yard, free from suspicion.

And Barry rescued two of the plants and placed the Earth Box up on a table beside his deck where they have thrived and promise still to bear him the fruits of his labours.



And they all lived happily ever after.

Barry, Linda and Lindsay also want to wish all our Canadian Friends a Happy Canada Day 2009. I hope you enjoy this incredible version of our National Anthem from the CBC: