bogeyandruby

It was a good day to see patients today, three of my favourites plus a new one who surprised us all. Sometimes it feels as though I’m the one getting the therapy.

Patient #1 : The sweetest man ever. Says I am like his daughter. He and his equally lovely wife are always worried that I may be starving/thirsty/tired. Each visit, they enquire if my son is better. This is because two months ago, I had to cut short our session when my son’s school called me to tell me he was sick and could I pick him up ASAP. Last week, my patient tried to slip me a twenty … “Pour votre fils.”, he insisted. I declined, politely and firmly but ended up insulting him anyway. My son probably has more birthday and Christmas money languishing away in his savings account than my client has in his. We spent most of today’s visit trying to sort out why he was having more pain in his leg. We started off by blaming the weather, always a convenient scapegoat in this climate, then I suggested it might be because he often forgets his walker when he’s up and about, a sure sign that things are improving. After going through his exercises, we scheduled the next appointment and as I was heading to the door, I turned to find him right behind me, without the walker.

Patient #2 : A young man recovering from two devastating strokes, not a candidate for a rehab centre at the moment. It was a joint visit with the occupational therapist and her stagiaire. How I love team work! The client was asked what his goals were and he was adamant : “I want to walk.” For more on walking, click here. We began our assessment with him in bed, and finished off in the kitchen as he took a few steps using the counter for support. Hurrah! Success from the start! Believe me, motivation doesn’t always translate into goals met.

Patient #3 : A beautiful soul who turned 90 this past Saturday. During my lunch hour, I bought her a card with decoupage flowers on it because she loves flowers and her daughter keeps her supplied with fresh ones all year long so that her apartment is like a perpetual garden. She cried when she read the card and hugged me tight. For some reason she thinks I’m an angel and everytime I protest, she shushes me and half closing one eye, shakes a finger at me and tells me she knows these things. She goes to mass every opportunity and when she can’t, someone brings mass to her. She’s seen Jesus three times and was pushed once from behind by the devil while on vacation in the Caribbean. She prays for everyone she knows every single day, takes requests, and has been known to stir up a miracle or two. She says she’s ready to die but Jesus won’t have it so she’s going to try a little reverse psychology by not asking him for a while. Her daughter left me a piece of birthday cake and I left her apartment balancing an enormous slice on a paper plate that she covered with a cocktail napkin. I drove around all afternoon with it on my passenger seat.

Patient #4: One of my absolute favourite clients ever. I have treated her on and off over the years following all sorts of joint replacements, flare ups of her rheumatoid arthritis and post hospitalizations. Each time the goal is the same : to access the 14 steps that hold her hostage on the second floor of the house she shares with her elderly mother. A lot has gone wrong since the last time I saw her and I honestly don’t know if I’ll be able to help her this time but I don’t tell her this yet. As we stood side by side in front of the mirror in her room today, I noticed that for the first time since I’ve known her that she is shorter than me. She shook her head in disbelief. “I can’t believe I’m 4’11!” I didn’t correct her even though it’s obvious that she’s much less than 4’11”. I know this because I’m 4’11” and the top of her reflection came up to my earlobe. “What does it matter anyway?”, I asked. “Because tall people get more respect!” And we both burst out laughing.

“We may never be strong enough to be entirely nonviolent in thought, word and deed. But we must keep nonviolence as our goal and make strong progress towards it.” — Mahatma Gandhi

J’ai mal au coeur. There is no better expression to describe how I feel, not even the direct English translation of “feeling nauseous”. The last time I felt this way was a year ago, on Christmas Eve. Luckily I was on holiday at the time, though I did miss Christmas dinner at my parents’.

This year, not so lucky, my malaise falls on my first day back to work after a week off.

My sweetheart was kind enough to drive me to work so that I could collect my agenda book to cancel my patients for the day. Once there, I bumped into my office mate who suggested that two years in a row indicates a pattern. “It’s when you stop that you get sick.”

Which reminds me of my treadmill analogy. Sometimes it’s easier to keep running fast than stop: ’cause stopping abruptly is when you realize how tired you are, and the wall that’s been creeping up behind you for months and months hits you full force from behind. And you have no option but to stop, completely.

I’ve got a year to figure this out.

Suggestions are more than welcome.

Peace, love and santé, dear readers.

❤

A couple of weeks ago, one of my clients asked me when she would be getting her cheque from the Gazette Christmas Fund. It would go towards buying Christmas gifts for her grandchildren, she explained.

I took a vacation day today and spent it at the elementary school where my sweetheart teaches music. It was a special occasion as the students performed their annual concert, this year’s theme being a Music Festival of dreams, while parents volunteered their baking talents and time to raise money for the school.

The kids rocked their performances, songs like Dream, Rainbow Connection and Aerosmith’s Dream On. And we got to perform too, a sweet little jazz song that just so happens to have the word “dream” in it. You can listen to our version here.

I spent the whole day at school, revelling in its culture, one that happens to be über supportive of music education. I had the opportunity to meet parents and teachers and some pretty special kids. In between the two concerts, one for parents, the other for the students themselves, I also participated in a couple of classes that my sweetheart was teaching, a grade one class in the morning and later that afternoon, a grade three class.

I was completely smitten by these children but let me tell you, as charming and wonderful as they all are, I can barely string two words together on this blog tonight, dear readers, as my head is pounding and my eyelids drooping. I am utterly exhausted from my day at school and I was only observing. Observing how vigilant the teachers are, how responsible, how they have to ask another teacher to cover for them and watch over their flock just to take a bathroom break, how they know the kids inside out, their names, personalities, quirks, strong points, weak points, adaptations, accommodations, etc. One day and I am in awe of their dedication, patience, tolerance to noise levels (ooh, my aching head), and their stamina.

As I reach for the bottle of Tylenol, I bow to my sweetheart tonight, to all teachers. Thank you for the work you do on behalf of our children. Please don’t give up on them, despite the difficult conditions in public eduction these days. Carry on. Dream on …

I met my son’s teacher this afternoon, protocol after the first trimester report card. Armed with notebook, occupational therapy evaluation/recommendations, last year’s copy of the IAP (individualized adapted program), and a little lipstick so I wouldn’t look too dowdy, I strategically prepared myself for battle while at the same time steeling myself for bad news.

Except there wasn’t any. None. Nada. Not one iota of negativity. Not even a recommendation.

The report card had been sent electronically earlier in the day and as I hadn’t seen it yet, the teacher obliged me by pulling out a binder and showing me his marks and then comparing them to last year’s. Apart from “arts plastiques”, phys-ed and French, everything in his grade five report card was above average. I’m talking 80s and 90s. And even at 75%, his mark in French was only 1% below the class average. Not too shabby for an anglophone kid with issues!

She explained that it was perfectly normal for there to be an adjustment period in grade five. It is a huge leap from the previous cycle, not only in academic terms but also with respect to the level of autonomy expected of the students. After a slow start out the gate in September and plenty of angst thorough October, my son has adapted to these new demands so well that the teacher considers him to be a top student.

But how is this possible? He has struggled so much in the past and has needed so much support.

According to Madame Diane, he is using strategies learned via the various resources we have consulted since he was three and a half years old. Namely, occupational therapy and private tutoring. She believes that kids who are diagnosed early and receive subsequent intervention cope better later on when the going gets tough(er) because these strategies are already in place. Not to mention they are used to working very hard. Lord knows, he works hard. Nothing comes easily. Everything is uphill. He is striving and as a result, he is thriving.

The best part is the teacher acknowledges this. She suggested that with his positive and enthusiastic approach to learning, he might even do well in the Excellence Program in high school. Not in an elite private school, mind you, but rather the local high school we are zoned for. His marks have caught up and he is certainly used to hard work. Why the hell not?

I admit it, I was floored. And totally unprepared to let go of the bleak canvas I had painted of his academic future. Now I am replacing it, albeit cautiously, with all sorts of possibilities.

Let me make very clear that the issues have not disappeared. He still has DCD. He will still struggle at times. And he will likely always need some sort of support to cope with various challenges as they arise. But in the meantime, afters years and years of hard work and interventions, it is finally pay day and we are celebrating. Hurrah!

I want to acknowledge everyone who played a part in today’s success story. Our main resource has been the Buds in Bloom team: interventionists Jessica and Anne, who helped so much in the early days, way before we had a diagnosis; Jeff, officially an OT now, who has been a major player in Sean’s improvement in the past two years and knows all about Pokéman cards; and of course our champion, Michele Hébèrt, founder of Buds in Bloom, for her unwavering support and advocacy over the past seven years. I am also grateful to the gifted teachers at Lansdowne West, a private tutoring resource we have used for going on four years now. And to all the other people in our little village: friends, family, and special people in Sean’s life, who have kept the faith even when I didn’t, thank you. I love you all.

I won’t gloss over this part. It has cost me a lot of money to access this support. Thousands and thousands of dollars. And this financial sacrifice has taken its toll, particularly on my wardrobe. Still, I would do it all over again to reach this point. Early intervention is key. If you have concerns about your children, seek out resources, pay if you have to. Your closet will forgive you and hopefully, one day, your child will thank you.

1. It was raining when I got up today so I wore a hat to work to avoid absorbing any more atmosphere. I bought it while on vacation in Rhode Island this past summer at some big box store. As far as I’m concerned, they should call it “The Big Head” store. That’s how incredible it is to find something that fits over my noggin and allows me to think clearly at the same time. The best part is that three of my patients told me I looked like a little girl. The fourth one had no idea who I was and it didn’t seem to make any difference when I took the hat off. And yes, I’m still wearing it as I blog.

2. I have been eyeing a bag of hand-me-downs that a friend gave me for Sean. It’s full of comfy-cosy, fleecy, stretchy, muffin-top accommodating active wear. The clothes are too big for Sean right now but just a little too big for me. I figure why not hand them up to me until he grows into them? Score!

3. Our professional team held its second symbolic 15 minute break today at work. Eighteen of us were lined up in our chairs outside the elevator and this time somebody brought lollipops. I’m thinking maybe I should bake something for next week’s pause. A few people suggested that we should maybe take two breaks during the week. There’s a thought! With such an awful work climate lately, this show of solidarity is a wonderful bonding opportunity, not to mention the candy.

4. My widow’s peak continues to thin and wreak havoc on my forehead. I’m seriously considering having it permanently removed. Either that, or I am going to buy some hair glue and whip it into some sort of shape. What do you think of these styles?

5. My son’s teacher gave him a head’s up on his report card today : 94% in math! I must admit, I didn’t believe him at first. Math is such a struggle for him and he works sooooooo hard at it, it didn’t seem possible. But there you have it, hard work (and awesome resources) sometimes pay off. We decided to celebrate by having fast food for supper and Halloween candy for dessert and took some selfies just for the heck of it. Notice he’s almost as tall as me?

I went back to my handsome Cowboy-Dental-Surgeon a week ago to have the hole in my head fixed. You may recall that I broke a tooth last Spring while eating some salad and it had to be pulled.

In case you’ve forgotten what he looks like, here’s a little reminder.

I tried to live with the gap, I really did. Eventually I’d get used to covering my mouth with not one, but two hands every time I guffawed, right? And so what if I used my fork instead of a tooth pick to dislodge the food that got stuck in that cavernous space. Food like cranberries and peanut butter on toast, bite-sized pieces of chicken, and broccoli flowers. Surely I could enjoy a decent quality of life without Kraft caramels or sponge toffee. Couldn’t I?

But then I broke a tooth on the other side of my mouth, probably because I had been favouring one side for so many months, and even though the dentist was able to repair that one, I didn’t want to risk compromising the mastication process any further.

During the pre-op consultation, I was advised that I could opt for sedation during the procedure and opt I did.

The assistant seemed awfully concerned when I announced as much during last week’s pre-surgery prep. “Are you sure someone is going to be picking you up?” Maybe they were worried I would try to sleep it off on one of the  plush waiting room chairs. Once I reassured her, she put this ginormous four-cornered cap over my head and complained the whole time that I had too much hair. (Yeah, yeah, talk to my hair dresser.) So there I was looking like the anti-conehead, wondering whether or not the person who designed it actually knew that the world was round. Ian says they put it on me because I’m a tête carré but I think we can all safely assume that they make you look as ridiculous as possible so that they can laugh at you while you’re ga-ga in la-la land.

I don’t remember what handsome Cowboy-Dental-Surgeon was wearing when he finally walked into the operating room but I’m pretty sure he was thinking there was a mighty big planet filling up the corners of that square hat. I also recall him telling me I should feel the effects of the sedation almost immediately, right after he injected me.

My next conscious thought when I woke up was that it was all over and oh God, please don’t tell me my mouth was open the whole time and gasp, what if I drooled? Needless to say, by the time they brought Ian into the room, I was still pretty groggy and discombobulated. I’m surprised I managed to remember my PIN number after handing over my credit card. Bet they’ve got some pretty strong smelling salts handy when that happens. Or maybe they just tie you to a plush chair until you come to and fork over the cash.

On a completely different topic but eventually getting back to the main one, this past week-end, Ian and I were discussing possibly buying matching cowboy boots. Where does one buy cowboy gear in Montreal anyway? And are they any good for meaty calves? As my ex-mother-in law used to point out to others while I was still within earshot, “She got hefty legs, don’t she?” By the way, I blame their heft and meatiness on all the toe-raising I have to do reaching for stuff.

I mentioned my follow-up appointment with Cowboy-Dental-Surgeon today and Ian asked me if he wore cowboy boots. “I dunno. I never really checked his feet.”

So I decided to look down … look way down, during my follow-up visit today, not an easy feat when the person you are trying to check out insists on making constant eye contact with you. I definitely noticed what he was wearing on top: a lovely burnt orange shirt with a cowboy embroidered on it and rich, chocolaty slacks. The opportunity finally arose as I swung my legs off the dental chair and sneaked a look down, down, down. Oy. Here is what (I think) I saw:

Or maybe they looked more like these:

Yep, they were definitely tan suede clogs.

Never mind. I’m getting a new tooth and to celebrate, I’m treating myself to some hefty-sized cowboy boots. Yee haw!

I unfriended two facebook friends this week-end, a rare occurrence for me.

One is of no consequence, a random facebook dude I kept bumping into via the posts of a mutual friend. He seemed harmless enough initially but as it turns out, he is a right-winged anomaly amid a sea of lefties, his main purpose in life being to goad liberals into his pit of self-perpetuating nastiness. Indeed, he is the sad and pathetic lone troll of his own facebook posts.

The second person I unfriended however is someone I know personally. It happened as a result of two separate but equally hateful posts from her that showed up on my newsfeed suggesting: 1) that niqab-wearing Muslims could very well be terrorists and 2) if they (“they” presumably referring to niqab-wearing Muslims) don’t like it here they should “insert expletive here” go to back to their own countries.

Not surprisingly, the awful circumstances, media hype and government reaction surrounding the recent killings of two Canadian soldiers have fanned the flames of intolerance. Mention the word terror and the usual suspects appear. Not the ones bearing rifles mind you, but rather the ones who, like predictable Pavlovian-trained dogs, fire up their self-righteous, narrowminded views and post them publicly, grammar mistakes and all.

For a refreshingly different take on these events, read this and this and this.

I wrote about the upsetting posts to a good friend of mine. He replied with a question, “Are you still friends with that racist?”. Which made me stop and think because if being a facebook follower counts then yes, I was still friends with her. And for that matter, did I really consider her to be a racist?

I asked my son to pull out the list of words he was studying for his grade five Ethics and Religious Cultures course. Words like value, self-esteem, prejudice, discrimination and open-mindedness. He knew the definitions of these words by heart which pleased me but suddenly I wondered if he really understood them.

I was confused. Not to mention the two words I really wanted to clarify were not even on his list. I looked up the word racist first and wasn’t convinced. Then I looked up bigot. Bigot, “a person who is obstinately or intolerantly devoted to his or her own opinions and prejudices; especially :  one who regards or treats the members of a group (as a racial or ethnic group) with hatred and intolerance”. This fit the profile better than racist.

I thought back to the words my son had memorized and hoped he would not learn about racism and bigotry the way I had, being on their receiving end. Having your peers tell you “go home Paki” when you’re only seven years old gouges the psyche. Being pre-judged for no other reason than the colour of my skin was probably the most defining moment of my life. No doubt, it’s exactly the same feeling as being judged, hated, called a terrorist, or told to go back to your own country, for any other outwardly religious or cultural difference. It hurts. It maims. Sometimes it even kills. On this issue, there is no grey zone for me. I find it immoral, unconscionable, unjustifiable. I will not tolerate it.

So what’s the solution if I can’t change the world with loving kindness and peaceful intent? For starters, I can take a stand and dissociate myself from some of the ugliness on the net. I can take back control and stop the propagation of these hateful memes on my newsfeed.

Living an authentic life requires removing the pieces that don’t fit, and that includes people whose core values are diametrically opposite to mine. What I did was the right thing for me, for my family and for peaceful niqab-wearing Muslims everywhere. I unfriended the bigot.

Namaste