Frank

I went to visit my new friend, Frank last week. The streetcar took me there in less than ten minutes, arriving just after 10:30 on Thursday morning. Frank and his wife rent a condo unit at the posh Grand Harbour building on Lakeshore Blvd. Their 7^th floor windows overlook the lake. Suzanne was away. Frank invited me in and took his seat by the window. He held a guitar.

“I’ve been asked to play at a church mass next Sunday,” he said. “Would you like to hear the song I’m practicing?”

 

I said I would, and he began to play. I closed my eyes and leaned back into the couch cushions as his nimble fingers began to pluck the first light notes of “How Great Thou Art”. Soon, I was smiling and mouthing the words along with him. My new friend is a talented musician with a lovely voice! Tears came to my eyes when I realized the lilting voice I heard was originating in Frank’s new lung. He’d had a single lung transplant on Christmas Day last year.

 

“God has blessed me,” he said later. “I pray He’ll do the same for you, Dale.”

 

My prayers are the same, dear friends. Mine are just the same.

Mum and Dad - Update

I got an email from Dad tonight:

Hello kids,

         I felt good yesterday, we went with Pat to Hanover, did a bt of shopping even had lunch at K F C .   I felt good when I went to bed, but during nite things changed. I had a very upset

night . This morning I walked like a drunken sailor also very dizzy when trying to mwalk.  But this PM. I do feel much better after my lunch. I have a tired feeling.   How could I feel so good ,yrsterdsy and so rotten today?     Dad.   .. .

Mum answered the phone just now.

"Things aren't too good here at the moment," she said. "Your dad was sick last night and fell off the toilet into the mess. He's feeling a little better today."

I was feeling a bit better myself, ... until she continued.

"And the doctor says I have Alzheimer's."

It may progress slowly. Some diseases move slowly. There's always hope, isn't there? 

I'm meeting with my new friend Frank tomorrow morning for coffee.

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The Impatient Patient

My chest is sore. Not all the time, mind you, but as I write this I'm aware of a tenderness in my chest. It feels like my ribs are slightly bruised. It's especially noticeable at night when I lie on my side. I wouldn't call it pain just yet. It's too mild even to call it discomfort. But something is there. Something different. Something new. It sounds silly, I know, but I almost wish this illness would hurry up and get on with it. The sooner we get started, the sooner we'll get through it. Patience is a virtue, although it's never been one of mine. I can well imagine a time in the months ahead when I'll regret these words and wish things had progressed more slowly.

It's all rubbish anyway, isn't it? I have no idea how quickly or slowly the disease will take hold. This waiting is tough. It hurts to think that as Colleen loses weight (40 lbs. so far!) and becomes healthier and more fit, I'll grow weaker and "older."

I've always wanted to visit the north of France and see the beaches of Normandy where Dad drove a truck from a landing barge in June of 1944, just nine days after D-Day. I want to see Dieppe,
Dunkirk, and the Canadian War Memorial at Vimy. Colleen would love to show me the verdant hills of Scotland. And there's a friend who lives in Wales ...

"If you plan to travel," Frank told me, "you'd better do it soon. It's more difficult with portable oxygen. And travel health insurance is exorbitant once you've had a transplant."

Retirement. Health. Travel.

When? How? Where?

I feel as though I want to race to see all I can and do all I can while I still can. But I'm not sure which direction to go, or even how to start the bloody car. I've been known to have a tendency toward negativity. 

"Have faith," says Colleen, cupping my cheeks and smiling her sweet smile. 

Come to think of it, maybe I'll let her do the driving.

...

Hope, Delivered Personally

Remember the miracle that happened a couple of weeks ago at Colleen’s meditation group? Frank and Suzanne made it clear then that they’d be amenable to meeting with Colleen and me to discuss Frank’s IPF journey and subsequent single lung transplant. I phoned him on Friday. We met at his place on Saturday morning. I didn’t sleep well Friday night. I was excited about meeting with Frank. I was both excited and uneasy about what he might tell me. I needn’t have worried. He and his wife were gracious hosts offering us coffee, homemade muffins, and best of all, hope for a happy ending to our journey.

 

“You’re lucky, Dale,” said Frank. “You have options. A single lung transplant. A double if it’s available. And the doctors and support staff at Toronto General Hospital are the most caring and committed people I have ever met. TGH is renowned as a world leader in lung transplant surgery and treatment of lung disease. You will be well cared for, I promise. You do not have a fatal disease. You’ll see.”

 

He gave us some prayers and poems that he said he’d found helpful. And he cautioned us against reading too much on the internet.

“It’s not all fact. It’ll only bring you more worry. I didn’t spend any time at all on the internet. I got my facts from the doctors, the specialists.”

 

He gave me the name of a respirologist at Toronto Western Hospital. A woman.

 

“She’s young and she’s good,” he said. “Give her a call.”

 

I already have an appointment at TGH. We've asked our GP for a second opinion. I’m to have another pulmonary function test on May 9^th. Afterward, I’m to see a Dr. Moric. I guess he (or she) is a lung specialist. They’ve asked me to bring a CD with the CAT scan images of my lungs taken last December. Hopefully, we’ll get a better sense of the rate at which my condition is progressing. Hopefully, it’ll progress quite slowly. I find it interesting that Frank and his wife are leaving the programme just as Colleen and I begin it.

 

“I’m being discharged from the programme next week,” Frank told us. “Suzanne and I will be here in Toronto until October when our lease expires. Our home is in North Bay, though, and we plan to return there. If you’d like a mentor, please do keep in touch. We’re only a phone call away.”

 

We exchanged hugs in the foyer and I am still feeling the glow of their genuine concern and compassion.

 

Thank you, Lord, for Frank and for Suzanne. They delivered Hope.

 

...

Mum and Dad

I spent a couple of days at Mum and Dad's this week. Life is difficult there. Dad's 92 and becoming more frail each day. Poor Mum is 84 and getting more forgetful. She has good days and bad, but lately, the bad ones seem more frequent. A trip to the grocery store with her was a frustrating ordeal, although I remained patient with her. She clings stubbornly to her list and refuses to cross off the items as she buys them. I offered to help her with this three times before giving up. In the end, I thought, what difference does it make whether she buys whole milk or 2%? What does it matter if she buys two boxes of Corn Flakes? Or three. Each day with Mum is a day to be cherished. She'll be gone one day and I'll miss her. Or perhaps she'll live for many years yet, but a continued series of small strokes will erode her memory until there's little that's left of my mother. This is Dad's worst fear, and, I must admit, mine too.
 
Is it wrong that I sometimes wish Dad would just ...? Well, it would put an end to his worry, his sleepless nights, his tearful pleas for improvement in his wife's condition.
 
"I never imagined in a million years that things would go this way," he told me. "I always thought she'd be with me, and that she'd look after me when we got old. I set her straight a hundred times a day. I don't know what she'll do when I'm gone."
 
His hearing is fading fast. His eyesight grows dimmer with each passing day.
 
"If only I could hear better," he says. "I know Life would be so much easier if I could only hear better."

 It's a great irony that the two people whose support I most crave are the two least able to carry the extra burden.  

 

Hope Renewed

A miracle happened last night.

Colleen leads a meditation group on Tuesday evenings at the church. I went after work. A new couple were there – Frank and his wife Suzanne. Frank told us he’d recently had a lung transplant and when I asked him why, he said he’d had a disease.

“It’s a rare disease called IPF,” he began and I could scarcely believe my good fortune as he briefly told his tale.

I told Frank and the others that I, too, had been diagnosed with IPF. I found support in that small group. Frank and I exchanged phone numbers. He looks great, Ms J! He’d had the surgery on Christmas Day last year. He’s 65, ten years older than I. If he can do it, so can I. I left the church feeling encouraged, supported, unafraid of the future.

“It’s been quite a journey,” he told us. “But I’m well on the road to recovery.”

I’m so glad we met. I’m so glad I decided to attend Colleen’s meditation group. I nearly didn’t go. I hadn’t slept well the night before in Windsor. Scary thoughts of my uncertain future held sleep at bay in the wee small hours before dawn. But my workmate, Jimmy, urged me to go.

“You always say you enjoy it,” he said. “The shuttle goes right past the church. Why not jump out and go to the meeting?”

Honestly, friends, I believe God Himself put Frank and I together in that room last night. Frank told me he’d be more than happy to discuss his journey with me and to answer any questions I might have. I will contact him. I will definitely contact him. He lives right here in Mimico. I could walk to his home in fifteen minutes!

This is the most uplifting news I've gotten since first learning of the condition in December!

...