Rhymes, Rants & Accolades from North Central BC

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Musings from the Nineteen-Eighties

Musings from The Nineteen-eighties. [Before I Joined A Religion]

I discovered these lines on yellowed scraps of paper in a bundle of musings I had typed out on an old manual typewriter back in about 1983. I had been following the writings of Charles Lindbergh, world-famous pilot, and in later years, an environmentalist. His writings had been featured in serialized form in the Readers Digest magazine. I had also been reading books by a woman named Vera Stanley Alder about what she referred to as “The Ancient Wisdom.” All interesting stuff for a woman like me, raised in the bush, and never having paid much attention to any kind of philosophical or religious idiom. But I did consider myself as a Christian, after having read parts of the Bible from time to time.

Organized religion is often regarded with fear and/or distrust. The distrust stems from the tendency of the church elders and priests to dictate certain rules and to solicit money from its members. The fear is invoked by the mysticism shrouded around the interpretations of the religious writings. God (or Gods) are most often depicted as all-powerful beings who are somehow situated in a spot above the earth where they can peer down upon us and keep track of each, and every individual mistake made by man.

Language is a poor communication tool, and many words have changed in meaning over the years. I strongly believe the word “fear” in “fear the Lord” (from the Bible) is meant to mean “respect”

My dictionary says one definition of fear is: “The reverence or awe felt for God.” If this is so, the whole idea of being afraid of God and intimidated at the thought of punishment for our sins, is wrong. It may even be the cause for the wrongdoing of those who are naturally rebellious and have, for one reason or another, gotten their kicks from defying authority of any kind.

My favourite book in the Bible is Ecclesiastics. There is one word in there that is frequently used, but I believe is not meant to be interpreted as it is. The word “meaningless” reflects a note of despair in modern day usage. I think the phrase “without meaning” or “without importance” would be more in line with what the author intended to convey. The message in Ecclesiastics is meant to be a comparison between what man generally regards as of importance, and the insignificance of it compared to the spiritual way of life; of living as we are meant to live (in harmony with one another and all other creatures.)

My youngest daughter refers to God as “a feeling.” I believe her definition is apt. When God is referred to as “Him” it is not meant that He is a male being. (My trusty dictionary – one definition- defines He to be: “one of unspecified sex.”)

God is sometimes referred to as “Mother Nature” but the term does not denote femininity as such.

The word “Mother” is apt in one sense. It can mean: “that from which others have sprung” (Oxford dictionary) and denotes a sort of completion, which in my mind is what God is.

God is a completion, but his various components are in a constant state of change. God is the Whole: The Spirit which abides in each one of us (animals, vegetables, mineral, etc.) We are the pieces of a 3-dimensional jig-saw puzzle which, because of the 4th dimension (time) are in a constant state of change in relationship to one another. Each change necessitates changes in adjoining pieces of the puzzle….

PS would love some feedback on this blog. Thank you. By the way these musings are not necessarily what I believe now. But I do like the metaphor of the jig-saw puzzle…


In an earlier life, I was able to multi-task quite well. With a baby on my hip and a child or two toddling behind, I was able cook, launder and , sometimes, even hold down a job creating meals for hungry loggers and sawmill workers.

Now my short term memory only permits me one thought at a time to direct my everyday activities. As soon as I turn on a burner on my stove, I need to set up the timer on my cell phone for a designated period of time, to remind me of what I am doing. Otherwise the smell of burnt whatever, permeates the air, while I am watching TV or checking out Facebook.

It’s as if a curtain has fallen on that particular stage of my existence and scene one has been delegated into the past. Whenever the timer goes off, it’s almost always: “What the heck is that all about!!?”

My cellphone is the best timer I’ve ever owned. It plays loud music, rather than the pinging that dollar store timers are usually only capable of emitting. I am hard of hearing and often unable to pick up on their whimpy warnings.

The only thing is, I get excited when my phone plays that lovely “Down By The Seaside” song. I find myself streaking across the kitchen floor, anticipating a phone call or at the very least a text, from a friend.

What a let-down. But, thanks anyway Telus, no more burnt pies in my oven.

I drag my thoughts back to 15 minutes or so ago to when I put the pies in the oven. “Oh right, the pies!”

History is a learning experience

Thanks to my wonderful Chinese-Canadian first cousins, I have learned much about Chinese-Canadian culture and history – which is also mine.

It has only been since the end of the Second World War that our ancesters, originally from across the sea, were able to become Canadian citizens in a country where many of them were born. And some had even fought in one or two World Wars as part of the Canadian military.

Lately, apparently because the Covid 19 pandemic originated in China, their children and grandchildren are once again the targets of racial bigotry on the streets of Vancouver. It is heartbreaking to learn that some of my kind, gentle, and sometimes brilliant, cousins may themselves be judged because of their racial profiles. My own Dutch and English DNA has left me with predominatly White facial features. I cannot imagine being looked down upon as being racially inferior to anyone. I am one of the lucky ones.

I believe our social history- good and bad- should serve as a record of what to do and what not to do. All the nasty stuff needs to be piled up out there like a farmer’s manure pile. And it needs to be carefully examined. Injustices need to be acknowledged and compensated or, at the very least, apologies need be voiced. We cannot change the past but we should not minimize the horrors or neglect that have occurred.

Racism is what people in a minority group, such as our First Nations people, have experienced and what they can relate to. Their emotional content is not something that we, a bs part of the larger group, can understand. If we have never been personally racist, I don’t think we should feel guilty. It was not our fault to begin with.

The blame is in the system. I suppose that is why it is referred to as “systemic rasicm”. The British-run colonial government created the “Indian Act” and First Nations people were herded into a separate category from the rest of us. It may not have been entirely racist to begin with. The British had a tendency to herd their own citizens into groups. Many of their “upper crust” children, including my grandmother, were encased in boarding schools.

When all is said and done, though, I hope we honour the differences in our cultures and races. We don’t need to blend in and become bland. I enjoy and respect our indigenous cultures – it is exciting for me to hear the drumming, the singing and watch the dancing. I wouldn’t want that to change.

But we must remember that the blame and the shame belong to the past. Eventually we need to move on. Time passes and in the scheme of things, life is short.


Those with severe mental/emotional disorders can relate to an opression similar to that of racism. Bullying by authority and others has always been rampant toward the mentally ill and those in the throes of drugs and alcohol addiction. I recall seeing a drunken indigenous person being thrown into a paddy wagon years ago. The door was slammed against the poor guy’s leg and there was no sympathy expressed by the officers. I remember cringing but actions by those in authority was never questioned in those days.

In the early nineteen eighties my son who was hallucinating on the streets of Toronto was taken down by police who launghed as they ground his face into the sidewalk.

The lower nature displayed by some humans reminds me of young turkeys towards those that fall or are sick. Bullying has to do with survival of the biggest and strongest of the species.The human world should be long past that stage of existence.

One policeman who had taken the new “sensitivity” program developed for police officers said he was pleased that it was available. The program helped police distinguish between erratic gestures displayed by mentally incompetent and those exhibiting genuine criminal behaviour. But, as the officer pointed out, the intense RCMP defensive training in Regina for recruits, would most likely cut in when faced with the necessity for an instant reaction toward perceived life or death situations.

I like the idea of trained and empathetic mental health professionals working in the field together with law enforcement officers.

One thing I do not understand is our sublime acceptance of groups advocating obscene and dangerous racist attitudes. There is no excuse for allowing the Neo-Nazi and Klu Klux Klan groups to exist, after so much horror and bloodshed has been documented regarding the history behind these groups. It has been noted that their mandate can inspire dangerous psycological imbalances just by their very existence; particularly among young not-quite-developed minds. Many years ago Oprah Winfry took a chance by inviting KKK members to be on her show. The show went quite well and it appeared that these fellows had an attitude change. But the horrible aftermath was that Oprah received a huge number of calls – from young men who inquired how they could join the KKK organization!


BRAIN CHEMICAL DISORDERS by Doris Ray [ this was a series of blogs several of which were published in the book “Making Noise: Northern Women, Caring & In/visible Dis/abilities” edited by Si Transken & Lynn Box of Prince George BC in 2007]

On Being a Mother

Sometimes I think we mothers have no control at all over events that shape the course of our lives. After the last babe has fled the nest, we should be able to rest upon our laurels. The big job is done. We have fed and diapered our flock and launched them successfully through infancy, adolescence and other milestones such as attaining that all-important driver’s license. Now they are married or in college or perhaps hitchhiking around the world. Your only obligation is to send them money periodically—if you have some. (If you’re really lucky and I know I’m fantasising, they’ll send YOU money once in awhile.)

But that’s not necessarily the way it works. We are allowed five minutes or so to bask in a state of warm complacency before our REALLY big job begins. Unforeseen circumstances loom that are beyond our control and we find ourselves caught up in a brand new facet of the human experience. Destiny points the way and we have no choice but to hang up our hats and become enmeshed in something that is in dire need of our particular talents and dedication.

For me it was mental illness. At the age of 21 my son Bruce was struck down by the symptoms of an illness which at times was so bizarre that it was beyond my capacity to comprehend. Despite his doctor’s diagnosis of schizophrenia, I sometimes suspected that he had multiple personalities, or else was in a state of being possessed by otherworldly entities. Bruce was puzzled and bemused by the hallucinations he was experiencing. At first he recognised that they stemmed from his own runaway imagination; later on, he became overwhelmed by them.

In 1993 I became inadvertently drawn into the dark world of mental illness where tragic circumstances sometimes occur when its victims are unmedicated or wrongly medicated. Schizophrenia adversely affects the lives of family members, friends and other members of the community, as well as the victim. Sufferers don’t always realise that they are ill. Sometimes they express disturbing and even criminal behaviour. When that occurs we can no longer ignore or sweep under the carpets, the plight of the mentally ill in our society.

I’ve learned that schizophrenia is a disease that has concrete and specific symptoms due to physical and biochemical changes within the brain. It strikes one in every hundred young people—world-wide, and is usually treatable with medication. It has nothing to do with diminishing intellect or talent. Over the years my son has managed to retain his ability to write poetry and draw cartoons. For that I am grateful.

Doris Ray is a board member on the BC Schizophrenia Society, a non-profit organisation that advocates for those with a family member or friend suffering from a brain chemical disorder such as schizophrenia, bi-polar disorder, depression or an anxiety disorder such as OCD. To contact the Prince George Branch of BCSS call: 561-8033 or 1-888-561-8055 (toll free)

Upon Being Politically Correct

Nowadays being “politically correct” has become a part of our social conscience. Sometimes I think it has swung too far: I would not in the least mind being referred to as a fisherman, even though I am biologically a woman. I am also against feminising manhole covers and Manitoba. But I do see red whenever someone in the media uses the word schizophrenic in reference to anything other then the disease. The other day I half listened to a CBC Radio broadcast featuring some long winded intellectual. I could not believe it when this smart person misused both the word “schizophrenic” (he was referring to a situation where there were two or more options) and also the word “psychotic” instead of “psychopathic”.

Psychosis is an acute symptom of a brain chemical disorder. The sufferer has withdrawn from reality into a delusional realm of existence. His behaviour is most often not criminal, although he is a high risk for suicide. A psychopath, according to my dictionary, is “an individual who is emotionally unstable to a degree approaching the pathological, but with no specific or marked mental disorder.” People diagnosed as psychopathic often express antisocial and even criminal behaviour patterns.

There is the same social stigma attached to a brain chemical disorder such as schizophrenia as there is to homosexuality. During my son’s adolescent years I believed the worst thing that could happen to him was that he could turn out to be gay. (He’s not.) He was shy and didn’t date so that thought had occurred to me. Many times over the past twenty years I have reminded myself of that paltry concern. I have wished fervently that one morning I would wake up to the knowledge that instead of my son’s having been afflicted by a devastating brain disease, he was merely gay. Everything, it seems, is relative.

When The Hard Drive Doesn’t Work

It must be very hard to accept the fact that you have a chronic, incurable illness. It must be especially hard to acknowledge that your brain—the part of you which houses every piece of remembered information, as well as the emotional content associated with each experience, can become faulty. But the brain like every other organ in the human body, is subject to the possibility of becoming diseased or of malfunctioning.

The brain is similar to the hard drive on a computer. When it doesn’t work properly, it may begin to churn out garbled information. You have relied on that hard drive ticking away inside your head for all the days of your life. At first you have a tendency to believe the false information you are receiving. If your brain informs you that you are not sick, how are you supposed to know the difference? If your brain tells you that other people can read your mind and are plotting against you, you may believe that as well. When you finally realise that you have a brain chemical disorder and its not going away anytime soon, you need to develop a sense of humour—big time!

Retaining a Sense of Humour

I was down at the Coast during the “big blow” on Easter Sunday 1997. A big wind in the country is merely an interruption between the snow or rain and the ever-popular sunshine. The important thing to remember is to stay off the lakes in your rowboat or canoe. But a wind storm in an urban setting can be an eerie experience, especially if one is imaginative and spending the night on the Riverview Hospital grounds in Port Coquitlam.

Mental patients–I have found–are like everyone else. Those whom we know and love are just fine. It’s the strangers we have a tendency to mistrust. But when I am anywhere south of Hope or Princeton, I begin to notice that there are a lot more strangers strolling about than there are friends. Many have attributes that would qualify them as being “weird” in downtown Fraser Lake. (Simply not wearing parkas and winter boots in April would do that.)

When the sun goes down in the city I never know what to do with my purse. Draping its strap across the opposite shoulder used to deter snatchers, but now I hear that is not enough. Seasoned crooks merely cut the strap and run. Even though it contains nothing more valuable than Kleenex and an occasional coughdrop, I clutch mine closely to my bosom. Holding my head up I stride confidently, gazing neither left nor right, hoping to create the illusion that I am armed with a lethal weapon or at the very least have a black belt or better in karate.

Cottage 119 at Riverview is for patients’ family members to stay when they are visiting. Conveniently, it was right around the corner from where my son resided. At five-thirty on Easter Sunday, Bruce and I were finishing dinner when there came a tremendous burst of wind, followed by a high volume of screeching and wailing sounds from somewhere outside the building. The creaking of branches from nearby trees, as they gnashed and rubbed together, completed the symphony.

Each succeeding gust of wind produced more banshee-like shrieks that pierced the air above the droning sounds of traffic on the nearby highway. These high pitched sounds were not unique to the Riverview area. Later that evening my daughter phoned and said the same eerie noises emanated from outside her in-law’s home several miles away. The hydro was off over there, she stated, which made things even spookier.

She wondered if her not-very-courageous, nervous and overly-imaginative mother was up to handling the situation. I assured her that in the event of a power failure, my finger was poised to dial the telephone for a taxicab.

My son had to leave at 9 P.M. If I was alone in the dark at that time, I was out of there!

Bruce and I discussed the history of the large tract of land known as Riverview. We agreed that the lush grounds would be a wonderful place to live, if one were considered “sane” and did not have to be there. There has been a concerted effort afoot by entrepreneurs to get their hands on the valuable piece of real estate, and build condos and monster homes upon it. That hope is not being shared by mental health advocates and promoters of Hollywood North.

People in the film industry are often seen skulking and lurking in and around the architecturally-pleasing old buildings. I have noticed that mental patients are usually pretty laid back. Chances are if a really weird character was spotted on the Riverview grounds, it would be a movie or television star and not a resident.

There are many beautiful trees on the Riverview grounds, most of which shed their foliage in great heaps in the fall. Now outside our window, we could see these wrinkled pieces of brown parchment, the corpses of last year’s beautiful leaves, begin to rise and dart erratically up into the darkening sky like flocks of small, hungry bats. The scene was more reminiscent of Halloween than Easter.

My son was now mentally stable. I could tell because his sense of humour was evident. He had mentioned that there was an historic graveyard located a short distance from the cottage. Just then a gust of wind blew up, setting in motion whatever it was that caused the shrieking noises.

“Perhaps its the ghosts of long dead mental patients,” Bruce suggested with a grin. I was not amused.

Major Depression

Major depression is the most common of all brain chemical disorders. According to statistics one man in ten and one woman in five will suffer a serious depression at some time in their lives. Many of us become depressed when we anticipate or experience unpleasant situations. It’s that “blah” feeling that envelopes us when our least favourite aunt arrives for an extended visit and the anguish that tears us apart (after the murderous rage has subsided!) when we discover a parking lot dent in our brand new car. And in my case, the ultimate down-in-the-dumps despair I once felt when I stepped on the bathroom scales. (I remedied that a few years ago when the offensive measurement of poundage went out with the garbage!) Those dark feelings usually dissipate within a reasonable length of time and are a part of everyday living. But when those feelings don’t go away, the sufferer may become trapped inside a demoralised and hopeless state of existence.

Symptoms of major depression are: tearfulness, brooding, irritability, obsessive rumination, anxiety, phobias and excessive worry over physical health

Panic Attacks

I had my first panic attack when I was about 13 and in the eighth grade. The teacher in our small rural school had asked me to read a poem to the class from our English textbook. I had been reading aloud to this same bunch of kids since Grade 2 so this should not have been a big deal. But that day an idle thought drifted through my mind that was to cause me consternation for more than four decades of my life. For some reason I thought, “What if I can’t do this? What if the words get stuck in my throat?” And that’s exactly what happened! My throat closed up tightly and I could barely breathe, let alone talk.

After that excruciating experience I avoided reading aloud to my classmates, or to anyone else. As a young mother I usually joined whatever organisation happened to be sponsoring my children’s’ particular endeavours. I enjoyed the interaction with other people although it seemed I was forever being nominated for the position of secretary. I would always decline. My heart would beat fast and I ‘d be trembling as I fumbled for an excuse. I knew I would have no problem with the business of keeping track of the minutes; it was the thought of reading them aloud at the next meeting that terrified me.

Panic attacks can occur at any time. You might be shopping, sleeping or in the middle of a meeting. An episode usually begins abruptly, peaks within 10 minutes, and lasts about half an hour. Signs and symptoms can include a rapid heartbeat, sweating, trembling and shortness of breath, as well as other body alarm signals. The symptoms of panic are so intensely physical that it often doesn’t occur to people that the attack they are having is due to a chemical imbalance in the brain. They may even think they are having a heart attack.

Obsessive Compulsive Disorder

The plight of victims suffering from a psychiatric illness known as obsessive compulsive disorder was the theme of a Jack Nickolson movie entitled “As Good As It Gets.” Jack did not experience hallucinations or delusions but he was overly concerned about things that made no sense to his friends. Common fears are: fear of contamination, concern with order and neatness, doubts of having injured someone, left something on (or unlocked) and inability to throw anything away. The person will be driven to perform specific ritualised behaviours calculated to temporarily reduce their discomfort such as: repeated hand washing and cleaning, excessive ordering and arranging, checking and rechecking, and collecting useless objects. A diagnosis of OCD is made when obsessions and compulsions become so marked they interfere with social and occupational activities, or cause intense subjective distress. Thankfully, there are now effective treatments available for those who suffer from persistent panic attacks or OCD.

Bi-polar Disorder

Psychosis can occur in extreme states of mood disorders as well as in schizophrenia. Psychotic depression often takes the form of delusions of imaginary poverty, terminal illness, cosmic self-blame for world problems. Conversely, psychotic mania (in bipolar illness) involves delusions of wealth, great personal power, unlimited abilities or cosmic importance—symptoms that in psychiatric terms are referred to as “grandiosity.”

Those suffering from manic depressive disease or what is now referred to as bi-polar disorder often experience a constant “double whammy” of symptoms.

THE SPANISH FLU – 1918(from my book”Common Threads” page 185)

[Note: the book is categorized as “Fictionalized Biography” but the following incident is from an interview I had with my uncle in 2007. His mother (my grandmother) had worked as a care aide at Royal Jubilee Hospital in Victoria where she contacted the disease] I never met my grandmother but I like this story!

“….For two and a half weeks Nell lay on a cot in the crowded Women’s Isolation Ward, not caring whether she lived or died. In all that time she only permitted liquids to pass between her swollen tongue and clenched teeth. Her body shrunk and she suffered from fever induced hallucinations- but no nosebleeds…[note apparently it seemed that: “patients with bleeding noses survived more often than those that did not” ]

“……. That evening [November 11th 1918] when the physicians made their rounds their voices were boisterous because of the alcoholic spirits they’d imbibed in celebration of War’s end…

“By the second week in November, hospital admissions with symptoms of influenza had decreased considerably. The larger number of beds now housed patients who were on their way to recovery. In Nell’s ward there remained only three women in a semi-conscious state. These patients displayed the blue skin tones of cyanosis caused by a lack of oxygen. The physicians making their rounds noted that Nell appeared to be one of them.

“‘ I’d wager a whole wad of money that woman won’t make it ’til morning,’ one of the doctors was predicating. ‘I won’t take you up on that one,’ his companion chortled, with a slight slur in his voice.

“The callous tone of the physician’s remarks penetrated Nell’s consciousness even before the words did. A wave of indignation swept through her and she was suddenly determined to prove them wrong. All that night Nell lay on her cot forcing tiny spurts of air into her tightly congested lungs. By morning she was coughing so hard hard her chest hurt. She was alive but the two other women in the ward were not….”

Note: my grandmother’s story told to me by her son, was related using terminology and reminiscences picked up from separate research (not necessarily factual)

Plastic bags, paper towels and baking soda

Oh my gosh! I am low on those so-called ‘single use’ plastic grocery bags! My cute cloth bag made by Elaine W for storing grocery bags is almost empty. I use grocery bags to keep lettuce, etc fresh in the fridge; to contain garbage (if the bag is leak-proof) and for umpteen other household things. And reuse for groceries, library books etc. What to do? Guess I’ll have to buy some plastic bags from the store…

I would like to share a hint about paper towelling vegetables. If you wrap your cut veggies with paper napkins or towelling before storing them in plastic bags they last longer. When you need more of that half-a-turnip or cabbage, replace the damp towelling. Also use aluminum foil to wrap your celery. It will last for (almost) forever. Another hint, which I learned from Florence and Ed S. is the surprizing cleaning attributes of plain ordinary baking soda. We had a kitchen cleaning project going on at the Legion and a bunch of us arrived with products such as Mr Klean etc. The S’s had their baking soda and it worked best of all. And none of that yucky man-made odour that they’ve recently determined is not healthful for children. Or for adults for that matter.

A Story About Love and Grief

This was posted on Facebook this morning by someone who knows about love and has experienced grief. It was written by Tim Ofield.

“I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to “not matter”. I don’t want it to be something that just passes.

My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see.
As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out. Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.”
-Tim Ofield

From a “Queenagers” Persepective

Now that I’ve reached the Age of Consent no one asks my permission anymore.

Actually, it’s freeing. I am a person. Not a female, nor a male. Just me. I don’t need the approval or consent of anyone. Except my kids. And they are mostly too busy or too far away to keep track.

My life is probably boring from the perspective of younger minds and bodies. Ever since the medical professionals installed stents into my 80 plus – year-old heart, I’ve obsessed about two things: fewer sugar products (which I enjoy) and more green vegtables (which I dislike)

I’ve decided to incorporate some rules into my breakfast and luncheon regime. Combine veggies with crispy bacon for breakfast. Almost any greenery tastes better with bacon. Soup with large particles of green stuff in it qualifies for lunch.

And as for supper, gonna take my chances on that. You never know when someone’s gonna invite you to an irresitibly delicious dinner.




Sounds like a message that once came by wire,
Delivered by someone In formal attire.
Important wording about something dire,
From the Prime Minister or perhaps even higher?

Maybe it was from the Queen,
Commemorating me for being….

But a hospital gown was my realization,
With doctors and nurses in fraternization.
Cardiac Arrest might mean operation,
They’re eying me up in stern contemplation.

There’s a Cardiac Unit Investigation
Into spurious activities at this station.

I was then shuffled into a cavernous room,
No windows at all in that darkened tomb.
There were various people with masks, I assumed,
To hide their identity, from me I presumed.

With me on a high bed a group of them joined,
To hook me to wires with a camera in groin.
The xray machine checked the route it was going,
To my beating heart, its journey was showing.

A voice whispered softly into my ear,
“You have two blockages,” was what I did hear,
“We’re putting in stents cause we greatly fear,
Your premature death in less than a year.”

Thank you Vancouver General Hospital!

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