Just This Afternoon

Sooooo, .... Yeah. That's a bit embarrassing.

Colleen arrived home with a smile on her face.

"It went really well, Hon'," she said. "My dad and I actually had a real conversation. I must say, it felt like two adult equals just having ... No. ENJOYING a conversation."

I asked about her mum. She was in the car when they left our place.

"Oh gosh, no. We dropped her off at the school. She was doing something there with the kids. It was just the two of us. Just me and my dad."

"So? You were gone a long time. What did you guys talk about?" 

"Everything! We probably chatted for an hour before he even mentioned the house. He said he'd like to get $1250 per month, an increase of $250. But since we pay him bi-weekly, it's only $125 each time. We can afford that. AND when I told him we planned to inquire about a mortgage to buy a home of our own, he was actually quite supportive!"

She was beaming. Beaming!

"It was really nice. It was probably one of the best talks I've ever had with my dad."

"What about the house?" I asked. "Did he say WHEN he plans to sell it? And did you remember to ask about ..."

She held her hand up suddenly as though she were stopping traffic. She was grinning now, pleased with herself.

"As a matter of fact, I did. He said absolutely. When this house is sold, the profit will be split four ways. Maybe even three ways, between my brother, my sister and me. He said he'd be willing to discuss it when the time comes. He acknowledged it would be a great help to us in the form of a down payment. So there."

So there. It appears the situation is less dire than I had imagined. It would seem that I believed things worse than they actually were. "Catastrophising," Colleen calls it. She says that's actually a word. I believe her because, you know, she's got a Master's degree now.

So there.

***

  

 

 

Just This Morning

A moment ago, Colleen’s parents collected her and the three of them went off for coffee. I had just returned from walking the dogs. I stood in my coat and boots at the door and watched them drive away. Larry had arranged it yesterday. Colleen didn’t sleep well last night because her last shift was hectic and emotional. And on top of that, she was worried about meeting with her father. She called it a “setup.” She believes he’ll want to tell her of his plans for this house - increasing the rent and eventually selling. Notice I didn’t use the word “discuss”. Larry doesn’t discuss things. Larry tells you things. 

So I watched the three of them drive away. Larry brought his wife, but Colleen was expected to leave me at home. That doesn’t sit well with me. At all. I feel excluded. Intentionally excluded. It’s true my emotions sometimes get the best of me (please see my journal entries from the last fifteen years), however, if they’re going to make plans for my home, the outcome will affect me as well. Larry will steer the conversation. He'll monopolize and manipulate the conversation. Colleen readily admits her vulnerability and weakness against the will of her almighty father. She says it's always been that way. Old habits are hard to break, she says. Believe me. I know. I should be there to support her. 

Frankly, I think my in-laws are afraid of me. I presume they don’t like me and don’t respect me, sentiments shared mutually. My emotions frighten them, especially Larry. Colleen is much easier to handle. So they’ve removed me from the process. That’s what I believe.  

So I will sit and drink coffee and nervously consume masses of unnecessary calories while I wait for Colleen to return.

 

You know, friends, a cigarette would be really welcome right about now.

Or a line.

Neither is an option, though.

Not now.

Not neither.

Not never.

Update

A return to bone chilling cold this morning. But it’s been mild lately. Rainy. Nearly all the snow has disappeared leaving small, scattered mounds of filthy crust under what seems like an eternally leaden sky. It’s depressing, actually. Colleen is home this week. She takes the dogs for their morning walk. That’s always the hardest one for me. My body seems uncooperative first thing in the morning, creaky and partially seized. Picture the Tin Man. Believe me, I will miss Colleen when she starts her new job. It all begins on Monday.

No further news to report about Larry’s vague plan to sell our home. He simply announced he was considering it, and/or raising the rent. No date was given. No time line. No opportunity for discussion. That’s the way he does things. He makes announcements and the world accepts. When Colleen met her mum for breakfast on Friday, Patricia gave Colleen a piece of paper with some numbers scrawled on it – Larry’s plan, I guess for the future of his property. But again, this is Larry’s way. Rather than invite us to an information session where we might be afforded the opportunity to ask questions, or, heaven forbid, express opposition, he just casually hands his wife a slip of paper with some meaningless arithmetic, and orders it delivered to Colleen. Oh well. I guess I’ll continue to deliver $500 to him every other Thursday just as I have for the past ten years. I will not mention his sudden, unexpected and disturbing phone call or his cryptic note. When he decides what he wants from us, he’ll let us know. Meanwhile, we are proceeding with plans to investigate a mortgage. First, though, we’ll meet with our financial advisor to let him know about Colleen’s new income and ask his advice on (among other financial matters) buying versus renting a home. We’re to meet him on February 1^st at 6:15 pm.

My lung doctor ordered an echocardiogram when I saw him last, and yesterday was the appointment date. 10:15 at Toronto General Hospital. We drove downtown and parked underground at the hospital. $4.50 for each 30 minutes. I don't know how these people can sleep at night. Thankfully, the procedure was done on time. We were only parked for 90 minutes. The echocardiogram is simply an ultrasound device designed to examine the heart. It's not the same as an ECG (or EKG). The doctor will use the data collected to assess my heart health and help determine my eligibility for a lung transplant. And since everyone asks, no I am not on the list. Not yet. I guess I'm not sick enough yet. 

As I sit here at the keyboard, hunting and pecking as have always done, I will tell you I am not sick. I am totally fine, thank you. The trouble comes when I exert myself. I feel weak sometimes when I walk the dogs. My steps are shorter than they used to be. And slower. Colleen walks too fast now. She never used to. Oh sure. I could walk faster, I guess, but I don't want to. I don't feel like it. It would be exhausting. Literally. And when I shower, I feel a shortness of breath. When I dry myself, I am deliberate in my pace. Whenever I move about, lately, there's a certain awareness that comes to me. I'm not necessarily "out of breath", but I notice my breathing. I feel it when I brush my teeth, when I climb the stairs, when I carry a basket of laundry. Even, or perhaps especially, as I climb back into bed after a night time trip to the toilet. I am aware then of my breathing, quickened by my minimal exertion, and audible in the dark silence. Does Colleen hear it too? 

My next appointment is on February 9th. I'm to have a CT scan first, then the familiar pulmonary function test followed by the six-minute walk. We'll see Dr. Moric after that. It was suggested that we might also meet with the transplant team on that day, but it's becoming quite a chore to confirm such a thing. I'm sure it's difficult to coordinate schedules and arrange a meeting with half a dozen or more busy professionals. It would be good to know WHEN this is arranged, however, as early as possible. It's equally difficult to arrange for our support people (thank God for friends) to accompany us to the hospital to attend this intensive, informative, and emotionally overwhelming meeting.

As always, we wait.

I'll let you know how it all shakes out.

***      

A Bit of Chaos to Begin the Year

Incredibly, Colleen STILL hasn’t heard heard from her prospective employer at the hospital. On Wednesday, January 3^rd she was given a conditional job offer – conditional upon review of references. She was asked to provide names and contact information which she submitted on Monday, January 8^th. Today is Friday. We’ve waited impatiently all week to hear from them. Apparently, Colleen’s phone rang while we had breakfast this morning, but we didn’t hear it in the noisy restaurant. She spent the rest of the day trying unsuccessfully to get hold of the woman who’d called.

After breakfast, we traveled to Mark’s Work Wearhouse, a retail outlet for men’s clothing. While I was reluctantly trying on blue jeans, Colleen’s phone rang again. She answered it hopefully, but alas, it was only her father, Larry the Chiseler. They had a long conversation. I felt very anxious for her to end the call in case the hospital was phoning about her job. Very anxious. But I did my best to keep my mouth shut.

Larry was calling to talk to her about some plans he had for our home. He told her he was thinking of either raising the rent to better reflect market values, or simply selling the house. (It was just what we needed to hear at that moment) Either way, it will affect us negatively. We currently pay $1000 per month, a VERY good rate. This house could easily fetch between $2000 and $3000 per month. The property itself is worth more than $1,000,000. He also mentioned dividing the proceeds (after taxes) among Colleen and her two siblings. It would be a four-way split, of course, with one quarter going to millionaire Larry.

I don’t know what to think of this. Larry sat there with the others in the coffee shop yesterday and listened to me tell of my dire and uncertain medical future. He heard me say I am really struggling to cope some days. He knows I will eventually need to be close to Toronto General Hospital. In fact, candidates for transplant are required to live within one hour of the hospital. We are only twenty minutes away now. We don’t want to move. We’ve found peace here at last. Relocating is extremely stressful, as well as expensive. And where could we go? We cannot afford to buy a house here. We couldn’t even afford to rent a place here. Not at full market prices.

When I sold my house in 2008, we wanted to move away and buy a home of our own. But we were enticed to stay here with an offer of ridiculously low rent.

“We’d really rather you stay in Mimico,” cooed my mother-in-law.

It was impossible to turn down such a generous offer. But since then, Toronto house prices have nearly tripled. And the increase has affected homes in a fifty mile radius. I don’t know where we could go. I honestly don’t know what to do at this point. I guess we’ll have to sit with Larry and Patricia and hear what they have to say. Patricia will serve tea. Larry will offer financial rules and regulations, news of recent legislation, lots of advice, and a liberal sprinkling of bullshit. I will do my best to listen. I will do my best to maintain my composure, even when I sense that every fluid in my body is beginning to boil.

Colleen tells her parents too much, I think. She offers more information than is necessary. When she mentioned the real possibility of a good-paying job, her selfish father immediately saw an opportunity to benefit. A few days ago, we had dinner with them and Colleen mentioned again her desire to have her own practice. Her father AGAIN suggested she return to school for a PhD. And make no mistake about it, friends. His desire for a doctoral degree is not for Colleen’s benefit, but for his own, to give him bragging rights and inflate his ego.  

“It’s expensive, Dad,” said Colleen. “Are you willing to fund it?”

I was stunned by his response.

“Sure, for a share in the business. An investor is always given a share of the profits.”

At first, I thought he was joking. But he wasn’t. He was quite serious. Is that all his daughter means to him? A business opportunity? It seems to me a good parent would do all he could to further his child’s career. It seems a good parent would be a little more altruistic, a little more ... loving. But not old Miser McP. I mean, seriously. The guy owns three houses. He has four cars, two of them valuable classics. He has complained on occasion about having “too much money”. Yes, really. I’ve heard it myself. Twice. And now that Colleen has finally completed her Master’s degree and is on the verge of a good income, her vulture father can’t wait to exploit it. I don’t know the whole story, obviously. But that’s how it appears to me.

Anyway, back to the phone call. I was looking at price tags ($118?! For a pair of blue jeans?!) when Colleen was attempting to end the conversation with her dad.

“OK then. Right. Yes. Well, I can’t say without talking to Dale. No. You decide what you want to do. And we’ll base our decision on that. Yes. OK. Bye.”

Yes, Larry old pal. You decide what you want to do. I hope you don't simply raise the rent. If you decide to double the rent, we'll move out. I was never happy paying $1000/month to a millionaire who happens to be my wife's father. I sure as hell won't give you double that amount. I'll give it to a stranger, or better yet, to a mortgage holder, before I give you $2000/month. I'll invest in Colleen's future, thankyouverymuch. Not yours. 

But where would we go? And how will we afford it? 

Personally, Larry, I hope you sell the place. Maybe Colleen and I will get a piece of the proceeds. It MIGHT be enough to put a down payment on a tiny, old house within an hour of downtown Toronto. I know you don’t like me, though, so I won’t hold my breath for that outcome. And all this, ...  All this as I contemplate my deteriorating health, portable oxygen, anti-fibrotic medicine with its horrid side effects, Colleen’s almost job, my elderly parents, etc.

At home later, my prudent wife put her arms around me and held me tightly.

“Let’s not go crazy yet,” she said softly. “We’re fine now. All is well now. Let’s stay in the now.”

Of course, she’s right. We will hold hands and stick together. We’ll get through this, however it unfolds. And who knows? Maybe this is the first step toward something much better.

*** 

Another Year of Good Health

Hello dear readers. Sorry I haven't written much lately. I haven't had much to say, really. It occurred to me recently that it was four years ago at this time that I first began this blog. It's been four years since I was given my diagnosis, four years since I was told to "get my affairs in order." Since then, we have traveled to Normandy, retracing my father's footsteps from World War II. We've been to the UK, Costa Rica, the American southwest, the Mexican Caribbean and the tip of the Baja Peninsula. And we've driven the entire length of Ontario's Yonge Street, 1900 km from Lake Ontario to Rainy River. There are more travel destinations on our bucket list: Australia, Greece, Italy's Amalfi Coast, Spain, Portugal, the south of France ... The list goes on. But my doctor wants to prescribe portable oxygen and anti-fibrotic drugs. This will make travel all but impossible. I don't want to get stuck on that eventuality, though. Let me remain positive. 

This month is a month of celebrations. We celebrate Colleen's completion of her Master's degree in social work. She interviewed for a job today at the same hospital where she did her placement. She offered psychotherapy to clients there on an out-patient basis, and she enjoyed every minute of it. We'll know next week whether she's been hired or not. Fingers crossed. This month, we celebrate another year of good health. I can still walk the dogs. I can still mow the lawn. I can live a full and satisfying Life with relatively little thought of my lung disease. I am blessed. Truly.

Tomorrow afternoon, Colleen and Ivy and I will board a plane for the Dominican Republic. We'll be gone for a fortnight. A winter storm has arrived tonight and is forecast to bring 10-15 cm of snow. Our departure will be a happy one, I assure you. This holiday may well be our last as a family. Ivy will get busier with college and boyfriend, Colleen will begin a full-time job, and my lungs will continue to deteriorate. But who knows? I was not at all positive when I began this blog. And that was four years ago. Maybe I'll be blessed with a few more years of good health. They say a positive attitude goes a long way toward maintaining or recovering our health.

And so I offer thanks to God and to all the many friends and family members who have joined us in laughter and tears to support us and pray for us and assure us that we are remembered and loved. Here's to beating the odds again in 2018!

Amen.

***

More Research Required?

I met a neighbour on the street this afternoon while I was out with the dogs. She was pushing her aged father in a wheelchair. The old man was clutching a device on his lap with a clear plastic tube that ran from there to his nose. 

“Hiya Margo!” I said, and then to the man in the wheelchair, “Is that oxygen you’ve got there, sir?”

“It is,” he replied gruffly. “And it’s a real pain in the ass.”

I told them a little about my diagnosis and said I expect to be using oxygen myself in the future.

“Well live it up now while you can,” the fellow said. “You won’t be doing much once they hook you up to this thing. It’s a real pain in the ass.”

I’m wondering now if there’s more to this oxygen thing than meets the eye. Perhaps it’s not only the nose that’s affected. 

***

In the Theatre

Since late August, I've been involved with a theatre production. The play is an American farce about the antics of a convent of nuns who make wine in secret and sell it in order to save an orphanage. It's really quite funny. Audiences seem to love it. Although I have done a lot of acting in the past, this time my role is that of stage manager. My job is to ensure all props and costumes are ready, and all actors are in place in time to appear on stage. The director is in charge until the show opens. After that, all responsibility falls on the stage manager. It can be a stressful job at times. My duties also include setting the stage for the opening act, and making sure things are in place after the intermission. When furniture or other heavy objects are required to be placed, it can be physically taxing. A steep flight of stairs leads to the lighting/sound booth above the auditorium. It is from this vantage point that I observe the show and communicate with my assistants back stage.

I'm finding it all a bit challenging. I did the same job last year, but I don't remember it feeling so exhausting. The theatre is about an hour drive from my home. I drove there every day last week - Sunday to Saturday. This week, only three shows are scheduled: one on Friday night, a Saturday matinee, and a Saturday evening show. On Sunday, we will strike the set and store the props and costumes. A pot luck supper is planned later that day to celebrate the end of a successful run. I have enjoyed the process, but I will be relieved when it's finally over.

I am utterly exhausted.

***