Author: mckillop_vfr@yahoo.ca

April 17: I’ve spent a significant part of the last week at the Shouldice Hospital having a hernia repaired. A hernia occurs when tissue (often intestines) protrude through a tear in the abdominal muscles. This usually happens in or near the groin area. Aside from the fun of giving your internal organs a brief bay-window view of the world, hernias can become dangerous if the protruding organs become twisted and starved of blood. Since the thought of that happening somewhere high in the French Alps was too horrible to contemplate, I knew my hernia had to be fixed.

The Shouldice Hospital is the world leader in hernia repair. Says so right in their promotional material. I show up at their clinic, and after a lengthy questionnaire on my health history, and blood and cardio tests, I find a strange man fondling my bollocks and asking me to cough. Hernia confirmed – you did see that egg-shaped lump in my groin didn’t you ? – I’m offered an operation date 2 weeks later. (This is due to a cancellation and a huge bonus as the usual wait is 6 to 8 weeks.)

At this point, possible complications are explained. My personal favourite is the 1% chance that your testicle will become extremely enlarged and very painful. This may last for more than a month when it will diminish to its’ normal size, or it may disappear entirely. I’m left wondering whether it’s better to have a nut resembling a pomegranate, or no nut at all.

On arrival, there is the same questionnaire, more tests, and a different man fondling my wedding vegetables before I’m assigned a bed. While the Eeyore in me had expected a farting, snoring, lice-infested axe-murderer as a roomy, my bunk-mate was none of those things. We got along well and shared much gallows humour over our on-going treatment and recovery.

On the morning of the operation, a briskly efficient nurse arrives to shave my nether regions – try having a friendly non-committal chat while that’s going on – and then I’m walked down to the pre-op area. I’m then given a sedative that apparently does nothing at all.  In time, the surgeon appears and I’m frog-marched into the OR. I remember a brief chat with the anaesthesiologist about the freezing temperature of the room  – bacteria don’t thrive in cooler temperatures – as she fitted the IV to my arm.

“When I woke up” I was back in the room. Standard procedure is to get off the operating table and into a wheelchair for the return journey, yet I (and most of the other patients) remember none of it. After a 4 hour nap and a further fondling of your googlies, the process of getting out of bed and recovery begins.

You might be tempted to think that the rippling six-pack you call your abdominal muscles are simply there to enclose your stomach. You would be wrong. The slightest movement like rolling over or sitting up triggers a searing pain that extends from pubic bone to rib cage. It feels very much like all of the sutures are being ripped out every time you move. In itself, this is hard to imagine since the sutures are stainless steel “staples” (for lack of a better word). There are about 15 of them holding the 12 cm incision together in a raised ridge down the left side of my body. As well, there’s a massive area of bruising that extends from my hip bone right through to Stevie and the twins. They must have been using tire irons during surgery to do that amount of damage…

After 3 days of recovery, getting slightly less tender and more mobile each day, we are allowed to escape. I’m still doing the Shouldice Shuffle, and getting out of chairs and rolling over in bed is still a bit of a production. I’m told that, in a month, everything will be back to normal. I’m looking forward to that time and hope that this whole experience will truly be one of “short-term pain for long-term gain”.

April 11: Not to jump the gun here, but it is starting to look like Spring is showing its’ face. It may not be a happy face all the time, but there are signs that she’s at least making the effort. The weather continues to be changeable; yesterday’s early sunshine and warmth gave way to a brief and fierce thunderstorm. Unfortunately, I was enjoying the first “serious” ride on my brand new and freshly-waxed motorcycle at that precise time and I was thoroughly drenched. At least I confirmed that my new riding jacket is waterproof…

The crack-heads are back in the courtyard grinding mortar and working on tuck-pointing the bricks. They’ve been at it a couple of days now. A generator has fired up again at the house they are building across the street. It only seems to run from 8 AM to 5 PM on sunny days, so it’s not like it’s bothersome all the time. And yesterday the City announced its’ Summer road construction schedule. Cue jokes about the two seasons of “Winter” and “Construction”. Terribly droll.

But there are other signs which are more positive. A robin has been singing every morning for the last week or so, frequently joined by the cardinals and the hawks nesting at the end of the street. And the blossoms are starting to emerge from hiding. This place is in south Rosedale. The whole front lawn is covered from one end to the other with blue scillas.  It’s pretty impressive now, and will be more so in a week or two when the Saucer Magnolia and Forsythia join the display.

Finally, I would just mention in passing that the LCBO is now stocking some of its’ allocation of rose wine. In my local store there is now a heart-warming section fully devoted to lovely pink wine. Patio days can’t be that far off. It’s enough to make you want to come out of your Winter hiding place and join the fun ….

April 7: Yesterday afternoon I began organizing travel arrangements for my trip to Europe this summer. I’m going back to revisit some of the highlights I saw in 2015, and to explore new adventures.

The trip in 2015 seemed like the realization of aspirations I had held for a very long time. My previous trip to France was in 2003 – 12 years earlier – and it seemed aeons in the past. I characterized the 2015 trip as a “reward” for reaching the ripe old age of 65 and beginning my retirement years.  I had thought about it for so long, and imagined how spectacular it might be, that I felt entitled to go. Somehow I had waited long enough and “deserved” it.

This year the trip feels a little self-absorbed. I’m very aware of the issues I’m leaving behind. My Mum has early Alzheimer’s and her condition can only get worse. At 94 years of age, any number of medical issues could arise without warning and I’m effectively leaving my sister Nancy to sort it all out. She is a Nurse and a real rock in my life, so I have absolute confidence in her ability to deal with whatever might happen, but it feels like I am abdicating my responsibility to her and my Mother for an extended time.

My daughter Marisa is expecting a son in early August, just before my intended return date. I was away in 2015 until just before she had the girls. My feeling is that there is not much I can do to help her, beyond figurative hand-holding and being present (which, of course, I won’t be…). She is practical and strong-willed and confident, so she too will deal with whatever happens, but I feel that it is somehow inappropriate for me to be away as this wonderful event in her life unfolds.

I’m also aware of the potential of messing up in Europe and becoming a problem for others to solve, and given that I am spending almost 2 months on a motorcycle, some would assert that the likelihood of that happening is higher than average. Still, I feel confident in my ability to ride safely, and I’m comfortable with the risks that the trip involves. As Tazio Nuvolari is reputed to have said: “Thousands of people die in their sleep, but it doesn’t stop me from going to bed.”

Ultimately I suppose this is nothing more than a self-absorbed rationalization for doing something that I want to do, at a time when I want to do it. If not now, when?  I’m not getting any younger, and given my family history with Alzheimer’s, I may not have long. Whatever the case, it’s absolutely a “first world problem” of the highest order.  A problem that I am fortunate to confront.

March 20: For the last 16 years I have been riding a Honda VFR Interceptor. From the moment I saw it in a magazine those many years ago I knew I wanted one, and I did finally buy her from the late, not-lamented Cycle World on Dundas Street West. On my very first ride home I thought I had made a mistake because she felt tall and top-heavy, but in time I adapted and we had many happy years together.

In a little more than 103,000 km we have been on any road worth riding in southern Ontario; we have been to Maine at least 3 times; we have ridden the Cabot Trail after visiting Halifax; and we have been to Pennsylvania, New York and Ohio several times. About the only “bucket list” item remaining for her would be the Tail of the Dragon in North Carolina. I have many happy memories of our adventures together.

But now there is this: a 2014 Honda VFR Interceptor. Although there have been several model changes at Honda over the intervening 17 years, it’s very close to being the same bike. I’ve not ridden her yet – when will the snow stop ? – but an initial impression is that she’s lower and carries weight lower in the frame. Time will tell.

My plan (for now at least) is to ship her to Frankfurt and then to spend 2 months travelling Europe. If I can, I would like to leave her there for the following year. Options for the trip are just starting to take shape, and I am beyond excited about the prospects for this summer. I found so many places in 2015 I want to explore this time around. It will be a huge bonus to travel with a new bike and have her along for all those new adventures. Yet it is a bit disappointing not to be taking the old bike because we have done so much, and have gone so many miles together, that this trip would be like the “last hurrah” for us both. Still, I’ll keep her for another couple of years, and she will be patiently waiting when I come home. We are not done yet and perhaps we will even make it to the Dragon one day.

www.tailofthedragon.com

March 8: Today is my Mother’s birthday. Born in 1923, she turns 94 today. She has outlived all of her siblings and all of her High School friends save one. She is literally the “last one standing”.

She was the eldest daughter in a family with 5 kids. They were raised on Roxborough Street East and must have enjoyed a life with a certain amount of privilege. Unlike her younger sisters, she finished High School and had no inclination to go further with her education. Instead, as mentioned in the previous post, she opted for enlisting in the RCAF as a way to assert her independence. After training she was assigned to a unit that tracked aircraft off the east coast and served some time in Newfoundland. At that point, it had not yet joined Canada, so she was awarded the “Foreign Service Medal”. She is very proud of that, if slightly amused.

After the war she returned home and was married in 1946. She told me once that she knew she was going to marry Dad  when he turned around and winked at her in Grade 9. They spent 66 years together.

She was a stay-at-home wife and mother. She was very proud to call herself a “housewife”, especially in later years when that was not fashionable. But there were years when it could not have been easy. When Dad was drinking, she struggled to get him sober and to shield Nancy and I from his behaviour. Whether that was the right thing to do can be debated; she did what she thought was the right thing at the time. Ultimately, Dad did get sober and they enjoyed more than 30 years of apparent happiness before the sad betrayal of his Alzheimer’s diagnosis.

She struggled mightily with that for more than 4 years before he moved to Sunnybrook. The fact that she did so – in her late 80’s – is a sign of a central characteristic of her personality. She can be incredibly determined. Put less charitably: she can be irrationally stubborn. While it’s very possible that we need to be stubborn to survive as long as she has, there were times when Nancy and I were young when her insistence that something happen in a certain way clearly made no sense. Circumstances had changed and I was often unsure of why she was insisting, yet arguing would not change her mind.

Sadly, she now has early stage Alzheimer’s disease. She has become unfamiliar with the building where she has lived for almost 10 years and continues to go for walks on Mt. Pleasant “to explore the neighbourhood”. While I admire her determination / stubbornness to continue to be active, she has physical limitations and her wandering has become unsafe. Polite suggestions that she stop, or at least use a walker have yielded outright refusal.

Reflecting on what is to come brings very mixed emotions. We have seen the progression of the disease before and it is a slow-motion agony for everyone involved. She remains very determined to continue living her own life and I truly admire her for that. Ultimately, of course, Nancy and I will have to make decisions to force her to do things she does not wish to do. And perhaps this is a lesson we learned from her: you make the best decision that you can make in the circumstances, and then you follow through. Something she has been doing since 1923….

March 6: On Remembrance Day I attended the Air Force ceremony in Mt. Pleasant Cemetery. I then visited the Kent family plot to say hello to my Dad and aunts and uncles, all of whom were in the RCAF or RAF during the Second World War. My Mother says she joined the RCAF as an act of rebellion – to assert independence from her parents – and to be different from her younger sisters whom she perceived to be following her in everything she did. Although she was sure her Father would never stand for it, her sisters ultimately also followed her into the service and they all played a role in supporting those who flew.

Her brother – my uncle Martin (who was called Bussie for no reason that anyone could remember) – was a Mosquito pilot. He was credited with downing two aircraft and two flying bombs, and damaging another aircraft. As I have written elsewhere, my Dad was a navigator on a Halifax bomber. He flew 33 missions during late 1944 and early 1945. My uncle Doug was in the RAF, and uncle James was in the Navy, although I don’t know much of their stories. Remarkably, everyone escaped unscathed.

All of this got me thinking about my Grandfather who I had been told was a pilot in World War One. For some reason, that seemed unlikely to me and I never followed up on that story until after my visit to his grave on Remembrance Day. A Google search yielded a link to an entry at the Canadian Great War Project, which showed that he enlisted in September, 1916 at 19 years of age and, as Flight Lieutenant Harry Gowans Kent, was assigned to 11 Squadron of the Royal Flying Corps.

Wikipedia – a paragon of truth – says: “No. 11 Squadron of the Royal Flying Corps was formed at Netheravon in Wiltshire on 14 February 1915 for “fighting duties” … Since all previous squadrons (Royal Flying Corps or other nations) were reconnaissance or army co-operation units, 11 can make a claim to be the oldest dedicated fighter squadron in the world.” It goes on to say that the squadron flew Bristol Fighters and was deployed to the Western Front (1915–1918), Loos in the  Somme (1916), Arras and Cambrai (1917), and the Somme (1918). Since the Squadron was based at Fienvillers, France, he likely saw action over the Somme.

All of this history makes me wonder about the mind-set of these men (for it was only men in combat). My Dad said that he had finished high school and thought that the Air Force might be a good experience going forward. He seemed to think that he had few other options at the time. Many of his friends had also enlisted but surely all of them must have thought of the consequences at some point. It was well known that men – thousands of men – were getting killed, and to willingly accept that prospect takes tremendous courage.

It’s a shame that we didn’t hear more of this history when these brave men and women were alive. For whatever reason, they spoke little about their experiences and, perhaps more accurately, we were not overly inquisitive or actively listening. As a child, both wars seemed like ancient history to me, although my Father’s experience in the Second World War was barely 20 years past when I was in my teens.  I now wish that I had been more interested in, and receptive to my family history. The remarkable stories these men carried are now lost forever.

http://canadiangreatwarproject.com

February 27:  I like to think that I am fundamentally an optimistic   person. Left to their own devices, I believe people will usually do the right thing. Glass half-full. That sort of thing.

This is the most optimistic time of the year. Although it’s not quite Spring, the days are longer, the sun is stronger, and there are signs of the change in season everywhere. (These little shoots are right outside my back door in a  west-facing garden.) I was a “Summer baby” and I love warmer weather. I find that there are more things to do and it’s easier to be active when the weather is mild.

Yet I know that we are more than a month away from a time when we can reliably say that there will be no more snow. I know for a fact that it always snows in April – usually just after I have my motorcycle taken out of storage – and this year will be no exception. This doesn’t dull my enthusiasm for warmer weather, it just adds a note of realism to my optimism.

One of my running friends has taken to calling me Eeyore after the gloomy, pessimistic donkey in Winnie-the-Pooh. Very cute, but I think it’s unfair to equate a healthy dose of skepticism with being permanently down-in-the-dumps. A recent article in the Globe and Mail said that skeptical people are more inclined to be content with their life since they are less likely to be disappointed when things suddenly or unaccountably don’t work out in their favour.

And so I remain optimistic and hopeful, while also knowing that there are no guarantees of permanently sunny days ahead. Without the ups and downs life would really be pretty boring. Awareness brings me contentment, even if some people see only long grey ears and a tail.

January 28: I have never understood people who say that beer is an acquired taste. I remember my very first beer – which was, in fact, my very first alcoholic drink – and I loved it. I had gone to La Rotonde, a bar in Lausanne, with fellow student and room-mate Paul Dubois. It was a warm and sunny September afternoon and the beer was a Swiss brand called Cardinal. In a year of big changes in my life, having the ability to drink was foundational, and that first drink started a life-long relationship with alcohol.

While I certainly enjoyed the taste of beer, I was seduced by the way that alcohol changed me. I became more self-assured and out-going. I was less fearful of appearing to be “less than” and more willing to take chances. I was more sociable and able to interact with people – especially women – much more easily. I broke out of my shell a bit during that year in Lausanne and a lot of the credit goes to alcohol.

Several years later I was gainfully employed and began passing time with one of my work mates at Joe Bird’s, a bar on Yonge Street. I was young and single and had enough money to enjoy some nightlife. Roger was my mentor and we spent many nights hoisting beer, trading stories and killing brain cells. It was a gathering spot for many people from our workplace and we were ring-leaders of a sort. Alcohol facilitated many adventures and encounters that would have otherwise been unlikely or perhaps impossible. Alcohol made it easier to socialize, to be outgoing and funny. Sadly, it also made it easier to engage in self-centred and hurtful relationships with women, some of whom may have been genuinely fond of me. While I now think I understand why I was behaving in that way, I still deeply regret the effects my behaviours undoubtedly had on others during that time.

My marriage to Melinda was in many ways fueled by alcohol. We met in Joe Bird’s over beers. Our entertainment was to enjoy a good meal and have a bottle (or two) of wine and some liqueurs. During the last few years we were together, I enabled her drinking partly because I wanted to have company when I was drinking. My behaviour was often structured around my relationship to alcohol rather than a more constructive and mature approach focussed on saving our marriage. She deserved better.

Recently, I have been drinking most days. I do enjoy a glass of wine, but there is always the temptation to extend that into another glass, and another glass…. I often drink because I am lonely, or I drink because I am bored, or I drink because I am unhappy. None of these is a good reason to drink, and with that in mind, I decided to have a sober January. While I did not notice a significant change in my health, I did feel “sharper” and more able to focus on things that were important to me. I became very aware of the amount of time and money I spend drinking.

When I had the first drink after about 3 weeks of abstinence, I immediately noticed the effects of alcohol: my balance was slightly off; my attitude, which was at first more relaxed and happier became sadder and more introspective. Old habits returned. I began day-dreaming and making grandiose plans for the future. It was all very familiar and very comfortable because I have become so used to having alcohol in my life.

Alcohol is literally a poison. It is carcinogenic and highly addictive. It damages our liver, our brain and nervous system, our pancreas. Yet we welcome it into our lives. We use it to socialize and enjoy it as part of our daily life. I am coming to believe that I need to treat alcohol with much more respect, not because I feel that I am at risk of becoming an alcoholic, but because I would rather not have my perceptions and abilities constantly altered by its effects. Like any relationship, this one needs to be re-evaluated. I need to be sure that my use of alcohol is consistent with the other things I want to do in my life: to be present, to be creative and to be healthy.

January 16: Last week, the US Justice Department released a report on the use of excessive force by the Chicago Police Department (CPD), the third largest force in the United States. The report was initiated in December 2015 following the shooting of Laquan McDonald which was captured on the dash-cam of a CPD patrol car. He was shot 16 times while walking away from a patrol car with a small folded knife.

The Justice Department investigation found “that CPD officers have engaged in a pattern or practice of using force, including deadly force, that is unreasonable… This pattern or practice includes shooting at fleeing suspects who presented no immediate threat; shooting at vehicles without justification; using less-lethal force, including Tasers, against people who pose no threat; using force to retaliate against and punish individuals; and, using excessive force against juveniles.”

In addition, the report concluded that “the following practices contribute to the pattern or practice of excessive force: failing to effectively de-escalate situations or to use crisis intervention techniques to reduce the need for force; employing tactics that unnecessarily endanger officers and result in avoidable shootings and other uses of force; and failing to accurately document and meaningfully review officers’ use of force.” All of this got me wondering whether CPD is just a “bad actor”, or whether the issue is more widespread.

As context, in October 2015 the U.S. Department of Justice, Office of Justice Programs, Bureau of Justice Statistics (BJS) reported that “from 2003 through 2009, BJS obtained reports on 4,813 such deaths through its Arrest-Related Deaths (ARD) program. About 3 in 5 of these deaths (2,931) were classified as homicides by law enforcement personnel. The remaining 2 in 5 deaths were attributed to other manners, including suicide (11%), intoxication deaths (11%), accidental injury (6%), and natural causes (5%). In three-quarters (75%) of homicides by law enforcement personnel, the underlying offense of arrest was a violent offense.” Shockingly, the report points out that these numbers represent about half the number of incidents (deaths) that were anticipated. The report identifies 689 citizens that were killed by police in 2011 (last year of data), while the Washington Post reports 963 in 2016 – almost 3 people each and every day.

According to a report in the Chicago Guardian, data compiled by the Chicago Tribune indicate that “there were 435 police shootings in Chicago from 2010 through 2015, in which officers killed 92 people and wounded 170. In all, officers fired 2,623 bullets…. “While a few of those incidents captured widespread attention,” the Tribune wrote, “they occurred with such brutal regularity – and with scant information provided by police – that most have escaped public scrutiny.”

I am not a statistician, but it seems that data on killings by police across the US are inconsistent and some sources may compile data based on their particular mandate or ideology so what follows may need to be treated with some caution. mappingpoliceviolence.org concluded that 59 of 60 of the nation’s largest city police departments killed civilians in 2015. The national rate was 3.6 killings per million citizens; Chicago ranked 47th on the list, below the national average at 2.9 killings per million. The top 3 were Bakersfield (13.6) Oklahoma City (12.9) and Oakland (12.1). Disturbingly, in some large cities 100% of victims were African American including St. Louis (9.5), Atlanta (6.6), Kansas City (6.4), Cleveland (5.1) and Baltimore (4.8). So, far from being an isolated example, CPD seems to be typical of  US-style policing.

How does Canada compare ? In 2015, the London Guardian compiled a data base tracking police shootings globally. As part of that effort, it reported that Canadian police shoot an average of 25 people per year; California (with a comparable population) had 78 police killings in 2015 alone. We are fortunate that, at least for now, the context for police shootings in Canada is very different. Strict gun control laws and less focus on the “right of the individual to bear arms”, combined with a more multi-cultural society reduce some of the tensions so evident in US policing. But, as we saw with the shooting of Sammy Yatim, Toronto police are not immune to acts of violence. We should not be complacent about how we are policed.

The police are the point at which the institutions of society (the law-makers, the judiciary) interact with citizens. As citizens we entrust the police with the right to act on our behalf to ensure the “peace, order and good government” that we cherish. We surrender certain rights to them with the belief that they will act lawfully and reasonably on our behalf. I am astounded at the rate of shootings in the US, and the attitude of many police services that they “had to shoot” to protect themselves when actual threats may have been minimal or non-existent.

It concerns me that police forces in Canada see US-style policing as “the benchmark” and seek to emulate those practices here. Police are trained to “force compliance” as opposed to seeking to defuse volatile situations. As a result, it appears that more weaponry is often the answer when more open, community-focussed policing might be more appropriate. Rather than Balkanizing society – us against them – now is the time for the police to be more inclusive.

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https://www.justice.gov/opa/pr/justice-department-announces-findings-investigation-chicago-police-department

https://www.bjs.gov/content/pub/pdf/acardp.pdf

https://mappingpoliceviolence.org/2015/

https://www.theguardian.com/us-news/2015/jun/09/the-counted-police-killings-us-vs-other-countries

 

January 13: I was out with my running buddies on Wednesday night when I heard a sound that I recognized immediately even though it was completely incongruous. It was the sound of a large-displacement motorcycle with an after-market pipe.

Granted, it was +2C and the roads were clear and mostly dry. Although it was a bit cool, it was a great night for a run.  With a couple of layers under my jacket I had a sweat going by the time we reached Church Street and the bike turned up. I know from personal experience on a motorcycle that anything below about +5C gets pretty cold pretty fast, since you are essentially sitting motionless in a blast of cold air – they don’t call it “wind chill” for nothing. So riding around at +2C seemed to be pushing things a bit.

Then again, people often do things – like running in the snow and ice – because it’s fun and, I suspect, to prove the point that they can do it. Winter is not my favourite season, so going for a run is a way to get out, get some exercise, and prove (at least to myself) that I can overcome winter for a short while. Riding a bike at +2C is a way of proving the same point, while keeping alive the fervent hope that spring is not too far off.

* * * * *

This being Friday January 13th, about 3,000 people proved the point and journeyed to Port Dover for the Friday the 13TH Ride. While not all of them rode motorcycles, many did including one guy who brought his dog in a sidecar. Maybe the guy on Church Street was just doing a shake-down run getting ready for the run to Port Dover ….