A Home of Our Own

My MIL's house, left to her by her mother. We've never been happy here.

Yesterday, Colleen and I had a difficult conversation in the car on the way home from Mt. Forest. It’s a topic that resurfaces periodically and never seems to be dealt with. A few days ago, I was perusing ads for Windsor real estate and once again I noticed how affordable houses are in Windsor. It’s really remarkable. The combination of inexpensive real estate and low interest rates means we could own our own home in Windsor for less than half of what we pay here for rent.

So we discussed this. Again. We’ve talked about it a dozen times, but we can never come to a decision. Yesterday, we decided on a plan of action.


We'll stay in this crappy old house for another year. We'll pay down our debts and when Ivy is finished high school, we’ll take a serious look at relocating to Windsor. Or somewhere. We want our own home. We want stability for the future. We want a finished basement, a garage that fits our car, a proper deck in a back yard we can use. We’re sick of the traffic here, the noise, the frantic pace of Life. We are really not happy here in Toronto. We've paid Colleen's father $1000 every month for eight years. If we had applied that money toward a mortgage, we'd be much further ahead today. And I could leave Colleen with a home of her own after I'm gone.

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A Progressive Disease Progresses

Friday. I didn’t sleep well last night. I don’t think Colleen did either. We were out the door at 8:30 this morning to catch the bus. We took the subway to Toronto General Hospital. We got breakfast in the food court and then rode the elevator to the 10^th Floor respiratory clinic. I barely had time to finish my coffee in the crowded waiting room before they called my name and led me off to do the various components of the pulmonary function test. This was my fourth time, and each time so far has shown a slight decrease in lung function. The first time I did it, two years ago, I scored a 97. This means my blood contained 97% of its optimal oxygen level. About a year later, it was 90%. Eight months after that (today), it was 84%. That’s a decrease of 13% over two years. 6% in the last eight months. Dr. Lau was concerned, concerned enough to schedule my next test in four months instead of the six month interval we’ve been following. He also strongly recommended I submit to a lung biopsy.


“It will specifically identify IPF and give us strong indicators of the exact type of pulmonary fibrosis we’re dealing with. A definitive diagnosis will also help us map out a treatment strategy. We can’t stop the scarring, but there are drugs available to help slow the progression of it.”


I’ll be hearing from a surgeon soon to schedule an appointment to discuss the biopsy. And at Colleen’s insistence, I’ve agreed to attend the pulmonary rehabilitation programme at Toronto Western. They work with adults with chronic lung disease to improve their ability to care for themselves. The clinic teaches skills such as stopping smoking, exercise, coping strategies, proper nutrition and ways to control fatigue and shortness of breath. Patients attend weekly sessions for a maximum of 3 times a week or a total of 36 sessions.  The fun will begin next month, I think. Oh well. At least I’ll have something to do after I retire.


At the Swiss Chalet across the street from the hospital, Colleen dipped a French fry in a small bowl of gravy and took a bite. When our eyes met, she raised her perfect eyebrows.


“So?” she asked. “How do you feel?”


“Scared,” I replied.


“Me too,” she said. And then she cried.


I’m glad I’m retiring. A shit storm is coming. And I feel so sorry for Colleen.




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