bogeyandruby

Random stuff, reflections on the meaning of life and death, humour, self-deprecation, a bit of bad poetry.

I had a new client this morning with a history of falls. His wife’s goal was for him to participate in an exercise program facilitated by me. Unfortunately, the client had zero interest in this. He also pshawed all the fall prevention recommendations I gave him including switching out his pantoufles de grand-mère, aka an accident waiting to happen, for a closed shoe, anti-slip model. I spent about fifteen minutes at the end of the visit trying to negotiate a compromise between them as they bickered back and forth. Initially he insisted I come to see him after my work hours, when it was convenient for him. I refused. More bickering ensued and we finally settled on two to three half hour sessions during his lunch hour. This was more about appeasing his wife than helping a client who doesn’t want to be helped.

In the forty years I have worked as a physiotherapist, I have never been able to motivate someone to exercise. That isn’t to say I haven’t had clients who were motivated from the get-go, able to formulate realistic (and sometimes unrealistic) objectives, short and long term goals. I have dream clients who follow recommendations and exercise programs religiously and I have other clients who only exercise their right of refusal.

In a public system, there is a need to be efficient and productive. Access to our service is universal which means we are spread thinly with everyone getting a little piece of the pie. Turnover is essential and as such, we do not have the luxury or time to convince people to exercise.

There are numerous studies that link aging well to exercise and I tout them plenty. The problem is that many of these clients are beyond that point, grappling with comorbidities, progressive diseases and/or cognitive decline. An exercise program won’t work if the client doesn’t remember to do it. And someone who has been sedentary all their life is not likely to comply either.

There are some strategies. Group classes that incorporate socialization as well as exercise are great for people who won’t exercise on their own. Seniors residences offer these as do most municipalities at very reasonable fees. Then there is the notion of functional activities to incorporate exercise. For example, walking to the bathroom, to the kitchen for a meal, or to check your mailbox counts as exercise. Combining an activity they enjoy such as shopping or a meal out works on exercise tolerance. Some of my clients even start with a Costco trip, a shopper’s marathon (and my personal nightmare). Shopping carts can act as a walker, by the way.

If the client is already able to independently transfer out of a chair, off a toilet, in and out of bed, walk a functional distance, go up and down stairs and manage an outing, is pushing an unwanted exercise program really necessary? Probably not, especially if there is resistance to more.

Quality of life is choice and sometimes saying no is the last bit of control they have. It is important to respect that choice as a professional and as a caregiver, as frustrating as that may be.

Tai chi is fabulous for balance.

**************************************************************

Please note that the role of the community home care physiotherapist is much more than convincing people to do their exercise program. Also, a physiotherapist must be able to keep up with their clientele and as such take their own advice and exercise regularly.

My Auntie Shirley sent my mother a Christmas card the other day in which she had enclosed a couple of vintage photos of my maternal grandmother at a sanatorium, probably somewhere in North Wales, where she was recovering from TB.

My grandmother in the middle, flanked by two other patients with TB. Circa 1915-1920.

I find it strangely hilarious that having TB was an occasion for a photoshoot back then.

In this second picture, there seems to be more staff than patients.

My grandmother kneeling, bottom left.

I wonder if they had to sign consent forms to have their photos taken back then?

I was very fond of my nain (Welsh for grandmother, pronounced nine). With an ocean separating us, I only met her a handful of times in my life. My mother and I stayed with my grandparents for several months in 1964, on our way from India to Canada, while my father went ahead to look for work and a place to live.

My parents and I on the left, my grandparents on the right. Mott, the sheep dog in front. I still have the little Welsh doll my grandmother is holding. Circa 1964

My grandmother and I had a few things in common. We both had frizzy hair, we were both early risers, and we both had a sweet tooth. The one difference, according to my mother, is that my grandmother was very social. She loved company and I prefer solitude.

She came to Canada only once, during the 1976 Montreal Olympics. I remember her side-lying on the twin bed in the room we shared at the end of each day, counting her candy like loose change. If she caught me looking, she’d laugh and throw me a candy. It was the last time I would see her; she died two years later, complications from a hip fracture.

I am grateful to my Aunt for sending these photos, they are precious pieces of my grandmother’s story. She was a very special person in my life, as grandparents often are.

A close friend responded to my December 12th blog entry, the one where I fret over which floral center piece would go best with my table accessories for Christmas dinner this year.

She said the decorations were just glitter. I already had the Christmas spirit by hosting dinner for those who would otherwise be alone on Christmas Day.

The true spirit of Christmas is a simple story of two refugees who were denied entry everywhere they went except in a barn full of animals (aren’t we still seeing this in the world today?). This couple that no one wanted to welcome gave birth to a simple message – ‘love thy neighbour’. That is Christmas.”

I grew up in a secular household with mixed-race parents of different faiths. As such, we lacked the kind of structural framework that the tenets of religion provide. There was no sense of community or belonging. In truth, whenever I was exposed to it, religion made me feel uncomfortable and excluded.

That being said, my parents managed to teach us basic values: love, kindness, and generosity. My Sikh father in particular introduced us to the notion of langar, or community kitchen, and that is why I feel compelled to invite people to my table and feed them, despite the fact that I am an introvert and do not cook. It is my way of honouring his memory and making sure no one feels excluded at this time of year.

**************************************************************

I am thinking of Jewish friends, acquaintances and extended family members who are reeling from the deadly attack on a Jewish community celebrating the first day of Hanukkah at Bondi beach in Australia. I don’t know what else to say except that my heart is with you. ❤️

Sikh langar.

My husband just announced, « Dick Van Dyke turned one hundred. », and I’m like, « What, again?». It seems like I have been hearing about this milestone birthday forever. It turns out today is his actual birthday. Now that we have all arrived, can we please move on to Dick turning 101?

Photo: https://pam.wikipedia.org/wiki/Dick_Van_Dyke

I’ll be honest, his pathological positivity has been getting on my nerves lately and I really wish he’d stop smiling so much.

I think I would have more respect for him if his wife wasn’t forty-six years his junior. That means he was forty-six the day she was born and he was a senior citizen when she was still a teenager.

I know, I know, here I am being catty when Dick Van Dyke doesn’t have a mean bone in his body.

He credits his longevity to his inability to feel hate or anger (which he describes as white heat, not to be confused with white hate which has something to do with white supremacy). He’s got no aches and pains either.

Like many people of my generation, I watched The Dick Van Dyke Show on our little black and white TV growing up. Everyone watched the same shows back then as there weren’t that many to choose from. I remember the opening credits where he trips on the ottoman though there was apparently a variation of this where he steps around it. I had also seen him in Mary Poppins and Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. His various roles seem to blur together in my mind, always in character, even when interviewed.

I think I have pinpointed why he annoys me so much. He is clearly an extrovert. I can tell even though I’ve only seen him on the screen. He is the kind of person who would drain my life force from me if we were ever in the same room and I prefer my centenarians to be cranky, thank you very much.

I think I know the secret of Dick Van Dyke’s longevity. He has been draining our collective batteries over the decades, an affable, energy sucking vampire, squirrelling away our vitality to fuel his maniacal grin, and leaving us to languish in the wake of his party dregs.

Go away, Dick. Don’t die, just dial it down a bit. Please.

I find myself in a quandary the past two weeks over a minor detail of my Christmas dinner planning. I have gone through the same dilemma three years in a row and have never managed to resolve it.

I probably shouldn’t refer to it as a quandary, it certainly isn’t a matter of life or death. Rather, it is more of a home decor question, as in which holiday arrangement should I order from my local florist?

You may say, why bother, and I wouldn’t disagree, it’s just that for the umpteenth year in a row I have zero Christmas decorations up and figured a vibrant center piece on my dining room table would make up for all that is missing and fool my dinner guests into thinking I actually cooked the meal I am catering.

Now certain plants are a no-no from the get-go. Research tells me the following are toxic to birds: poinsettias, holly leaves and berries, and mistletoe leaves and berries. That eliminates many options if we are to keep our four birds safe.

My mother used to have plastic ivy and berry decorations that she would use to dress up Christmas platters. Where they once might have looked tacky, vintage is back, baby. Unfortunately, we got rid of all of them when we purged my childhood home getting it ready for sale so that isn’t an option.

My other issue is colour scheme. I still haven’t decided which table cloth I will use, my lovely gold on white block print or the Christmassy one I forgot I had, discovered in the sideboard drawer I open once a year.

These questions lead me down another rabbit hole, if I choose the green and red version, will I have to buy another gravy boat to match? At least the red and green version would go well with cranberry stains.

I have reduced the list of possibilities down to three arrangement in the same price range though all of them seem to have some pesky berries.

Maybe I can pick the berries out. It would be convenient if they were fake. Or maybe I won’t bother with the living plants at all and look on Etsy for some vintage plastic greenery. I love fresh flowers but find it utterly depressing when they are in that in-between stage of vibrant and dead head. I get the same feeling unpacking dirty laundry from my luggage after a vacation or taking down Christmas decorations on a bleak January day, or spending all day cooking a meal, at least half as long cleaning up, with a grand total of five minutes sitting down to eat it.

I am channeling Eeyore, I know. But I honestly don’t miss what isn’t there.

If I really wanted to be practical, I could dig out my vintage Spode Christmas candlestick, a gift from an elderly friend who volunteered at a thrift store years ago. But which tablecloth would it go best with?

I attended a work bookclub Christmas party yesterday evening. I refer to it as a party rather than a meeting because the vibe was too festive to be referred to as anything else, replete with beautiful Christmas decorations, fancy food to feast on, Santa-red cocktails decorated with reindeer antlers (aka sprigs of rosemary), a hot chocolate station and a fair number of ugly Christmas sweaters making the rounds. To top it all off, there had been snow falling for much of the day, the sparkly diamond kind that looks better from inside your house than falling on your windscreen driving along the highway.

I arrived home from the party around 10:45 pm, wrote a blog entry, let Jazz the chihuahua out one last time, and tidied the kitchen because I absolutely hate waking up to a messy kitchen with dishes in the sink. (This was nothing compared to the mess we left for our hostess with the mostest.)

As my head hit the pillow, I looked forward to a deep and restful sleep. An hour and a half after rolling into bed, I was wide awake, my brain on overstimulation mode. This happens a lot when I socialize in the evening, especially at a high energy event, a weird combination of feeling wired but also completely spent.

Retirement should be the cure for the morning after a party but today was a work day. Nothing compared to a party but I still have to engage with clients all day.

If I were to describe the feeling in my brain right now, I would describe it as a kind of hangover but without alcohol having been drunk, like all the liquid has been sucked from my brain and then someone is trying to squeeze it dry even further. It is not the same feeling as being tired from lack of sleep; it really feels like I have been hit by the party truck and dragged along for a few miles or a few hours.

There is only one remedy for this kind of fatigue. Near complete isolation to allow time to recharge. This season is tightly packed with holiday parties and family gatherings. A whole lot of socialization packed into a few intense weeks. Tomorrow will be a complete rest day for me and I will do my best to keep the weekend low key.

On a positive note, ten more days until winter solstice!

I rarely live in the present moment preferring instead to dwell in the past or worry about the future.

On busy or challenging days, I divide the day into increments, usually by thirds or quarters.

Today was divided into thirds with the first four hours of the day spent doing household chores and taking care of some tedious power of attorney duties I have been postponing.

The second increment involved bringing my eighty-nine year old mother to the dental hygienist for a cleaning. She didn’t want to go, probably because the last time I took her it was very painful, plus the hygienist had some very stern words about the state of her teeth. At one point today the technician came to get me because my mother had stopped opening her mouth, just like a naughty toddler who refuses to open the hatch to allow the broccoli in. I mean, can you blame her? As a result, I have to bring her back in January to have some cavities looked after as well as another cleaning in three months. That’s if I can convince her to come back. As I helped my mom to the bathroom she said in a very loud voice that she had been tortured. I believe her.

The third increment of the day was work bookclub, always a lot of fun as it is a social event involving good food and a lively discussion. It was at Mel’s house; she is a marvellous hostess and her place is simply magical at this time of year.

Photo credit: Astrid Almonacid

Now my day is done and I am wiped but I have this daily blog commitment and it is a work day tomorrow and I find myself thinking about the long winter ahead and I wonder, how will I divide this season, my least favourite, into increments? Let me tell you: never mind Christmas, I am looking forward to Winter Solstice because after December 21st, the days will start getting longer again, and just that alone, the thought of a little more light when I take my mother to her next dental appointment in January will get me through to the next increment.

I received a Christmas gift from my West Coast friends today: a set of (musical) kitchen spoons they picked up on their recent trip to Newfoundland. The card explained the spoons were sent instead of the Ugly Stick as the latter wouldn’t fit in their luggage.

Oh ho, I said, delighted. I tested them on my forearm and promptly hit myself on the forehead.

I decided to wait until my retired music teacher of a husband woke up from his nap before risking further mishap.

« Look what we got. », I said, as he came down the stairs.

I handed him the spoons and he proceeded to percuss a lively rhythm all over his body without missing a beat.

Impressed, I asked him if he’d played them before and he said he had when he worked as a music therapist for children with autism.

I told him I nearly took out an eye and he laughed.

What else to do but practice while the music teacher sang this fun little ditty. I eventually got the hang of it, kinda, sorta. The trick is to loosen up a little, actually a lot when you’re as tightly wound up as I am, especially at the wrist, and let the rhythm take over. It’s a good work-out for the forearm muscles.

Kitchen music is so much fun. Apparently Newfoundland excels at it. Makes me long for the days when we used to host music jams at our house.

And who doesn’t love when Jimmy Fallon of The Tonight Show, along with the Roots, jam with their musical guests playing Classroom instruments? Musical guests The Who join them here.

It might be a fun project to make our own Ugly Stick. There are lots of how-to videos on YouTube.

In the meantime, we can all practice clapping on beats two and four the next time we feel the urge to percuss at a concert. It’s way cooler than clapping on the one and the three.

My husband has suffered from chronic migraines all his life. It first came to his mother’s attention when she would find him, at two years old, standing against the wall with his forehead pressed against it. Without the vocabulary to describe his suffering, he sought relief from the pressure of the cool, hard plaster.

He’s tried just about every remedy in his almost seventy years on this earth, some more effective than others, but nothing brought relief in a way that was consistent, long lasting or that carried over from one day to the next.

Having suffered from migraines associated with nausea and vomiting in my 20s, I have an inkling of his suffering but not to that extent. Certainly not in terms of the raging relentlessness, intensity, frequency and duration of his. I am pretty certain mine were associated with the whiplash injury I sustained in a car accident my family was involved in while traveling through Scotland in 1980. To put it into perspective, the car was totalled and we kids weren’t wearing seatbelts in the backseat.

After many years of adjunct treatment (physiotherapy, osteopathy, rééducation posturale globale, relaxation techniques, etc), they pretty much went away.

A couple of years ago, I heard about a migraine clinic in our local city of Montreal. I encouraged my husband to get a referral from his family doctor which he did. Two years later, he has tried just about everything offered by the clinic, to no avail. That is until three months ago. The clinic has a very strict treatment protocol to follow, which in practical terms means, they try the cheapest, government funded medications first before moving onto the next. It’s taken that long to reach this penultimate trial medication (the final option being Botox), Vyepti, given by infusion. He had relief immediately the day after this IV treatment, something he described as « the fog lifting ». This relief lasted several days before a gradual return of the migraines. He has noticed, however, that his OTC consumption has decreased by sixty percent.

Today he returns for a second infusion, this time at a higher dose. We are hopeful that the effects will last longer and that will be the best Christmas present ever: a feeling of wellness, a lightness of being, over the holiday season and beyond. Quality of life thanks for modern medicine.

The migraines take up a lot of space in Ian’s life and in our couple life. In October, I participated in a student photography exhibition organized by wonderful local photographer and teacher, Linda Rutenberg, for her master class. Do check out her website here to view her beautiful work.

For my part, I chose to exhibit a series of photographs featuring my husband. I called it: Migraine Study.

I am including the blurb from the exhibit as well as some of the featured photographs.

This collection of photographs is my attempt at documenting my husband Ian’s debilitating migraines. With the camera acting as a buffer, this creative process allows for a certain detachment while bearing witness to his suffering and, alternatively, to his attempts at relief. Their almost daily presence: focal, visible, palpable as a pulse, affects every aspect of life. Chronic pain exhausts, it diminishes, it plunders. It is the utter absence of joy, wellness and quality of life. When the migraine lifts, light returns and the story is flipped: the absence of pain restores vitality and the meaningful life resumes. 

Cette collection de photographies est ma tentative de documenter les migraines débilitantes de mon mari Ian. Avec l’appareil photo comme tampon, ce processus créatif permet un certain détachement tout en témoignant de sa souffrance et, alternativement, de ses tentatives de soulagement. Leur présence quasi quotidienne, focale, visible, palpable comme un pouls, affecte tous les aspects de la vie. La douleur chronique épuise, diminue, pille. C’est l’absence totale de joie, de bien-être et de qualité de vie. Lorsque la migraine disparaît, la lumière revient et l’histoire s’inverse : l’absence de douleur redonne de la vitalité et la vie pleine de sens reprend son cours. 

Fingers crossed this works.

My philosophy is try everything if only to keep hope alive. It’s not scientific but sometimes it’s all we have.

When I was younger I was easily influenced by other people’s sense of what would suit me better than my own sense of style.

Sometime in 1994, my fashionable older friend convinced me that all I needed to do in order to generate more interest from the opposite sex was to part my hair on the side and use an eyebrow pencil.

I took her advice very seriously for a year or so.

Unfortunately, the only guy I seemed to attract with this new Eugene Levy look was a friendly waiter named Kevin at a Florida restaurant where I was vacationing with my friend and her young-at-heart mother for a week. Almost at their insistance, he handed me the restaurent business card with his phone number on it once we’d squared the bill and given him a nice tip.

My friend and her mom convinced me to call him. So I did.

He offered to give me a tour of his home town of Miami. I accepted, albeit reluctantly. I mean my friend’s mother referred to him in her thick Scottish brogue as « a wee, gassy thing ». Then again, what did I have to lose except maybe my life if he turned out to be an axe murderer.

My friend picked out my outfit and styled my hair in a side part, no easy feat with the Florida humidity.

I did my make-up. « More eyebrow! », she said and I obeyed.

Looking back at this picture, it’s a wonder he didn’t run screaming when I opened the door. Then again, he was wearing cowboy boots with shorts and a teeshirt with a bolo. I’d say we were evenly matched.

More eyebrow plus side part.

The date was okay, except for when a large palmetto bug, a Floridian cockroach, landed in my side part. While I screamed, the wee, gassy thing brushed it off.

The look lasted about a year until the side part migrated back to the middle and the eyebrow pencil was misplaced. I felt like myself again.

The side part disappears but the brows linger.

There have been other attempts at side parts and eyebrow but mostly for Halloween costumes.

My Young Frankenstein costume which used a whole can of hairspray. The moustache is fake, by the way.
My husband and I dress up as murderers.

If you were to try to give me fashion or make-up advice today, I would say, thanks but no thanks. It’s wasted on me. It never felt right, like wearing the wrong-size shoes. The advice was given out of love and I appreciated it at the time, but really, it has to be about self-love. It’s been a long road to get here and a lot of different looks. Trust me, I have the pictures to show for it.

JungleLife by Kat

Exploring the Jungles and local life of Indonesia

Alexandre Dumas, historien québécois

Historien, auteur, conférencier, enseignant, consultant

French Word-A-Day

A French word, a photo, and a slice of life in Provence

Yves Engler

Canadian Author and Activist

Mille gouttes opalines

Un senryū érotique chaque matin, pendant mille jours

The Communication of Success

Achieving Workplace Success

hannah kozak's blog

hannah kozak photography

Rinum's blog

Inside the mind of an immigrant

PhotoBook Journal

The Contemporary Photobook Magazine

Sassenach

Musique celtique • Celtic Music

Dirty Sci-Fi Buddha

Musings and books from a grunty overthinker

Noor Rathore

random universe

Alphabet Soup

Jules Torti Stirs the Pot

The Wee Writing Lassie

The Musings of a Writer / Editor in Training

Fevers of the Mind

Writing, Poetry, book reviews, interviews, music reviews, contests, art

Melanie Spencer

Watercolour Artist

pagesofjulia

Julia Kastner, Writer. my reading and reactions.