I haven’t captioned all the photos from the Ashley and Turner Wedding Extravaganza, but here they are:
I also have photos from a recent rehearsal session of the band I just joined, stilllife.
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Category: It Happened to Me
Maria, who works the front desk, keeps a stash of aspirin, acetaminophen and ibuprofen for anyone who needs it. My head feels better already.
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Dad update
As I mentioned earlier, Dad is the recipient of a kidney from his
sister, my Aunt Beth. The problem with donated organs is that while by
necessity are a close match to your body, they don’t have your unique
genetic code. This would normally cause your immune system to attack it
since it’s a foreign object, and attacking foreign objects is an immune
system’s job. Hence, organ recipients must take drugs that suppress the
immune system, which is done by preventing the reproduction of white
blood cells. As you might conclude, the price paid for being able
to keep the organ is that you now open the door to all kinds of
infections that you’d normally shrug off.
(Bacteria are everywhere, especially in supposedly benign places like shopping carts and computer keyboards.)
I knew that the infection that Dad contracted in his toe was the result
of having his immune system suppressed. Dr. Sivaciyan, a friend of the
family explained to me what I didn’t know: the blood clot that formed
in Dad’s leg was a byproduct of the infection. Dad was taking
anti-clotting medicine, so it would take something unusual to cause a
clot. The blood clot cut off the blood supply to the kidney, causing it
to go into shock.
Simply put, the measures taken to keep the kidney also put it out of commission. Talk about your vicious cycles.
We’d originally hoped that the removal of a couple of Dad’s toes would
be sufficient to rid him of the infection, but the spread was greater
than we’d realized. A more radical amputation was necessary, so earlier
this week, he’d undergone what they call a BKA — a below-knee amputation.
I can only imagine what Dad’s going through right now. He’s
disappointed that his kidney may no longer work after the major
production of getting the transplant barely two years ago, and losing a
chunk of leg can only compound that heartbreak. Still, as my sister
likes to put it, Dad’s a “tough old war horse”, and if anyone can pull
through a situation like this, it is he.
The good news is that the infection seems to be completely gone. Now we
have to see if that kidney restarts. Once again, the immune-suppressing
drugs are both blessing and curse. They slow the rate of reproduction
of immune cells, but they also slow the rate of reproduction of kidney
cells. The kidney may rebound, but slowly.
In the meantime, I’m doing what I can, which is visiting him as often as possible (the Second Cup
coffee shop in the hospital knows what to make me as soon as I step
into without having to ask). All we can do is wait and see what happens.
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Urinefatuated
(Warning: Bathroom humour ahead.)
Our band’s rehearsal space — kindly loaned to us by Jerry Rabba, whose family owns and runs the Rabba
chain of 24-hour convenience stores — is a small building, more
cottage than house, located in Mississauga, the next city west of Accordion City. Its plumbing is disconnected, so we make use of the bathroom at the Starbucks next door.
Unfortunately, Starbucks closes at 11 p.m., and our recording session
on Sunday was stretching late into the night. Luckily, we’re all boys
in the band (so far — we’re looking for a bass player, and for
variety, we’d like a female one) and are thus equipped to relieve
ourselves in the woods out back. The -20 degree C (-4 degrees F)
temperatures make it uncomfortable, but at least it’s possible.
At the end of the session, Pete and I went outside to do our business.
From the distance, Pete yelled “I’m writing my name in the snow!” Not
having engaged in this fun activity in years, I decided to do the same.
In fact, I tried to do one better; having drunk a venti (Starbucks-ese
for “extra large”) hot chocolate only an hour earlier, I figured that I
had enough “ink” to write something more than just a simple “Joey”. I
thought I’d try “Joey + Wendy” (yes, that’s The Redhead’s
real name). It’s not as romantic as carving our initials in a tree, but
I’m the resourceful type who likes to improvise using the materials at
hand.
I think I need to come up with a simple nickname for her, at least for
peeing purposes. The “E” and “Y” in Joey have plenty of strokes, and
Wendy’s “W” and “E” also demand a considerable amount of urine (not
mention a fair bit of hip dexterity) to spell out. I was barely able to
get half of “D” before I finished.
Maybe I should’ve had a Super Big Gulp.
I would have taken a picture, but my camera’s battery was as out of
juice as I was. I’m sure some of you consider this a fortunate turn of
events.
Most women would fail to see the romance and humour in this gesture;
luckily for me, The Redhead is not most women. I told her about this
last night over the phone, and she responded with unstoppable laughter
for over a minute.
I’ll take that as a “thank you”.
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Canmore photos
I’ve posted the first set of photos from the trip to Canmore I recently took with The Redhead. Here’s a sample:
The rest of the photos are in my Canmore photo album.
“Trust me, you’ll really like this place,” said Pete, who was driving
us through a series of darkened streets lined with warehouses,
factories, industrial lots and not a single human being in sight. “It’s
an awesome restaurant that used to be downtown, but decided to keep
their costs down by moving out here.”
Jeremy looked about suspiciously. “Uh, this restaurant isn’t running out of the back door of a dog food factory, is it?”
We’d taken so many twists and turns through obscure streets from our
start near Don Mills and Eglinton that I had no idea where we were. We
finally turned onto a street that I recognized — Laird Road — and
there it was, nestled between an auto body shop and something equally
industrial: a restaurant marked Marvellous Edibles.
In this neighbourhood of factories and yards full of trucks, I was
expecting one of those greasy spoons that happens to make the world’s
most fabulous banquet burger. Instead, we walked into a place that had
the decor of a French bistro.
It was packed with customers, and all of them were tucking into very
delicious-looking dishes. I saw a woman enjoying what looked like a
glazed duck on a bed of noodles, while the man beside her appeared to
be enjoying some kind of tenderloin with garlic mashed potatoes.
Someone else was taking their first sip of a steaming bowl of
apparently homemade chicken noodle soup, brimming with noodles.
We managed to get a seat despite not having made reservations. Pete and
I ordered the pork chops with spetzl and
red-cabbage-and-caramelized-apple casserole. The pork chops (CDN$18)
were perfectly done, and covered with a creamy mushrooms sauce and
slices of giant mushroom, and the spetzl and casserole matched it
perfectly. Jeremy had the steak and frites (CDN$16), which he reported
were delcious. The frites came with a side of “Cafe de Paris” butter
for dipping. It’s probably the kind of thing that would make a
cardiologist scream, but it’s oh-so-tasty.
Dessert was equally fantastic. Along with everything else on the menu,
they make everything themselves, even the bread. Jeremy had a
raspberry pie (CDN$7), Pete had a chocolate-raspberry mousse cake
(CDN$7) and I decided to have a slice of something they rarely
prepared: a cocount banana cream pie (CDN$7), piled high with
freshly-whipped cream and cocounut and packed with banana slices on a
thick shortbread-like crust.
I’m going to be atoning for this at the gym tomorrow.
The service is friendly, and the owner was going from table to table,
making sure that everyone was happy and making recommendations (he said
I should try their bread pudding next time).
If you like simple food prepared exceedingly well with the freshed of
ingredients in a nice bistro atmosphere, you’ll love this place. The
prices — pretty cheap considering the quality and generous portions —
will make you love it even more. It’s worth the car trip (it’s not
conveniently close to the subway), but be forewarned that the place has
a following — make reservations. For more details, take a look at their site.
(Special note to The Redhead: Next time you’re in town, I’m taking you there for dinner.)
Categories
Dad’s getting better
Friday’s night’s hanging out at bedside with Dad was a pretty quiet
affair — it was just me and him in a darkened room in the Intensive
Care Unit of St. Joseph’s. He slept most of the time, while I quietly did some light reading (really, it’s one of the simplest techie books of all time).
Saturday’s visit was completely different. I arrived in the afternoon
to find the room filled with people: Mom, my sister Eileen, my Aunt
Beth, who’d flown in from the Philippines the day before, and Letty, a
friend of the family. Dad’s bed was set so that he could sit upright,
and Eileen was spooning him some soup. He asked for some hot chocolate.
He seemed better, even making his usual observational and irreverent
wisecracks.
Someone mentioned that Aunt Beth (who is one of Dad’s younger sisters)
is Dad’s guardian angel. Every time his health takes a turn for the
worse, she comes over, and within a day or two, he gets better. Kudos
to her for leaving Manila (where the weather seems pretty nice right now) for Toronto, where we’ve been enduring temperatures of -25 degrees C
(-13 degrees F). Perhaps her visit, combined with some antibiotics, and
the removal of a blood clot and a couple of infected, unsalavageable
toes, made the difference.
I’m sure your kind words and prayers also helped. Thanks to everyone who wrote in via comments and email. You’re great people.