Kind Of Blue First Day Of Summer

I know I should be happy because it’s the first day of summer. Above all else, this means we’ve reached the definitive part of the year when the days are longer and it’s okay to wear shoes without socks. Not wearing socks may be my hands-down favourite thing about summer; closely followed by the earthy smell in the air when it starts to rain. But I’m not sensing the uplifting summer feeling today. It might be because I see before me another year when my summer will be spent mainly indoors as I struggle from day to day with pain that unlike the seasons seems endless.

Instead of thinking about the longer, sunny days ahead, I’m feeling rather blue…

I can only hope that tomorrow the sun will shine brighter and that light will lift my mood. While holding on to that hope I’ll have Miles keep me company.

 

Miles Davis – Kind of Blue – 1959 (Complete Album)

 

Good News After A Flawed Rush

Remember that rambling tale I wrote yesterday about what happens when you rush? Well, it turns out all was not for naught after the convoluted list of mishaps I went through to get to my non-appointment appointment. My Endocrinologist, who graciously saw me even though I arrived for my appointment five days early after her office hours had ended; called me first thing this morning to let me know that my blood test results were better than good – I guess that means they’re great (?)!

Nonetheless, there is a backstory on the blood tests and a reason for having an Endocrinologist. It’s because about eight years ago I was diagnosed with Graves’ Disease, which is an immune system disorder that causes an overproduction of thyroid hormones (hyperthyroidism). If you want to learn more about it, clicking on the above highlighted words ‘Graves’ Disease’ will lead you to the Mayo Clinic’s overview. However, what I’m about to tell you isn’t pretty because I probably had the worst convergence of symptoms imaginable and it took quite some time and lots of tests to figure out exactly why my body was working against me.

The least concerning of the symptoms was excessive perspiration, which is as gross as it sounds. It made me feel conspicuous whenever I had to wear heavy jackets, multiple layers of warm clothing, or the temperature in a room or outdoors went above 20 degrees Celsius because I was guaranteed to have rivers running down my back or pools collecting under my armpits, but I could deal with it by changing clothes or taking a shower. I developed an intolerance to extreme heat that still makes it difficult for me to enjoy weather warmer than 25 degrees Celsius, so air conditioning has become a good friend of mine. Then there was the shortness of breath for no reason at all including just lying on my couch. It made me wonder how it had ever been possible for me to be a long-distance runner; and of course, the heart palpitations that started happening at random intervals didn’t help to put that question to rest. They scared the crap out of me each time I experienced the rapid fluttering in my chest.

I also lost a lot of weight. When a person of my physical build loses more than ten pounds it’s noticeable in the way your clothes fit, or stop fitting, and you start to look emaciated. The people in my life noticed it before I did because they could see the changes in my face, which is naturally angular; as it became leaner each time they saw me. I noticed it when the clothes I had altered after purchasing them to fit me properly, started to sag on my disappearing waist and other places. That weight loss caused incredible fatigue, but between my irritability, anxiety, and disrupted sleep patterns, I didn’t get much rest. The weight loss was accompanied by hair loss. I started to shed so much when I combed my hair it looked as though I might be related to some species of longhaired cat – strangely, I have such an abundance of thick hair on my head that the only place the loss was noticed was on the floor or in my brush. Finally, my skin began doing strange things and all those symptoms lumped together prompted a barrage of tests.

The first round of tests indicated that there was something not quite right with my liver. I had to stop taking all medications cold turkey for 30 days to clear my system and then redo all the blood tests. When the results from the second set of blood tests were delivered the one thing that stood out was the high level of thyroid hormones. Unfortunately, that wasn’t enough for a complete diagnosis. I had to have a thyroid biopsy to rule out cancer and a thyroid scan that involved drinking radioactive dye to see if I had enlarged nodules (noncancerous lumps) growing on my thyroid that might have to be surgically removed or might require the complete removal of my thyroid gland. After all those uncomfortable diagnostic procedures, the good news was that I neither had cancer nor required surgery because either one or both would have meant taking thyroid hormone medication for the rest of my life absolutely never missing a dose, on top of whatever other treatment was prescribed.

What I did have to do was take anti-thyroid medication for a while to stop the overproduction of thyroid hormones. Early on, the dose had to be corrected to deal with the unexpected occurrence of side effects that are supposed to be rare: most notably vertigo that still affects me occasionally. However, the anti-thyroid treatment recreated the necessary hormonal balance within about three years and my Endocrinologist declared that I was safely in remission and could stop taking the medication. I got that good news about a month before my current illness showed up almost four years ago. Throughout this illness, I’ve had to continue having regular blood tests to check my thyroid hormone levels, ultrasound scans of my thyroid to monitor the size of the nodules, and check-ups with my Endocrinologist. When I saw her on Wednesday during my non-appointment appointment she told me that if the results of the blood tests looked good I didn’t have to see her again until next year at this time. Then if my blood test results are consistent through to that time it means I will have been in remission for five years and the likelihood of the Graves’ Disease recurring will be slim.

Where I was frustrated with myself on Wednesday for rushing to an appointment I didn’t have, today I’m quite content because of this good news. My hope is that my thyroid hormone levels stay normal until next year so I’ll have more energy freed up from having one less invisible illness to think about.

 

The words of this song don’t match my good news, but the mood of the song certainly does…

Sam Cooke – (Ain’t that) Good News

 

When Haste Really Makes Waste

When one lives in constant pain there is only so much energy available for doing things, so making mistakes with your time can be costly. For example, yesterday, I had to muster all the energy I could to get myself ready for an appointment with my Endocrinologist to make sure there are no hidden threats to my health lurking just below my larynx in my thyroid glands. However, nothing in the hours leading up to my appointment seemed to want to go right. Starting with overloading the circuit breakers while trying to make something to eat and running my stove, electric kettle, and toaster oven at the same time – I’m sure the toaster oven is the culprit because this never happened with my old one –, which resulted in partially toasted bread for my egg and cheddar cheese sandwich.

I’ll skip over showering and getting dressed because that’s an ongoing battle whether I’m rushed or not, and go right to traveling to the appointment. I ordered a ÜberX pick-up to get me to my appointment a few minutes early because my Endocrinologist may be the most efficient doctor I know so she is always on schedule. As I made my way out to the street, I called the driver because the Über app was still showing him as two minutes away, which is what it had said 2 minutes before. When the driver answered my call, he said he was waiting right outside my home. Of course, I couldn’t see him because once again the location-finder GPS in the app sent him about a block away from my home. When I told him this he seemed annoyed but said he would turn around and come get me. Luckily, I hadn’t closed the app and noticed that he canceled my pick-up.

At that point, time was ticking away and there were no available taxi cabs in sight so I ordered another ÜberX. This time I manually entered my address and searched for my destination, which I selected from a list of in-app suggestions. Can anyone see where this is going? The driver arrived within five minutes. I told him I was running late. He assured me he would get me to my appointment on time. He set off driving down a street, where at that time of day, promises slow-moving city traffic, but he was certain he would get me there on time regardless. I tried to let go of my anxiety and started to chat with him about why he chose to become an Über driver, which is a conversation that tends to deliver a wide array of responses: his was simply the convenience of managing his own schedule.

Within a few minutes, he announced that we were arriving at our destination, which for so many reasons wasn’t possible. When I looked up, I saw the wrong hospital in front of me. I looked at the Über app and realized that I had, of course, selected the wrong address for the hospital from the app-generated list when I ordered the second pick-up. Editing the drop-off address only made things worse because who knew that the hospital had so many clinic locations listed under its moniker. This course correction led to what might have been a hilarious sketch out of a sit-com, were it not for the fact that I was anxious about not making it to my Endocrinologist’s office before she shut the door for the day.

I directed the driver to take a back street shortcut where at the end of it we had to choose between joining slow-moving traffic again and trying to find the right one-way street to get us back on course. I opted for finding the one-way street, which all turned out to be designated to go in the direction opposite of where I needed to be and we landed on a main street with streetcar lines that ensured that our travel time would be extended. I called my doctor’s office to let them know I was running late but they were done answering calls for the day so I dropped right into voicemail. I left a message, which I’m sure was met this morning by a furrowed brow from the office administrator.

To get us out of the panic-inducing stop-and-go traffic, the ÜberX driver turned down a one-way street that could get us to a hospital entrance within a few short minutes. But… we missed the turn-off for the next street that would finally lead us there. He decided to take a chance at backing up to save me time, but there was a car coming down the one-way street behind us that made reversing an impossibility. By this point there was nothing to do but laugh. We were both laughing at what might be the most painfully comical Über ride experience for us both. We followed the street to its end then drove down two more streets that finally got us to the rear entrance of the hospital. I thanked him profusely for doing his best to get me there on time and only missing the mark by ten minutes after all the confusing stops, starts, and turns.

Then I walked as quickly as my very sore legs could carry me to the Endocrinology Department offices. To my relief, the doctor’s office door was still open and she was there, talking with two of her students. When she looked up and saw me, she smiled and asked what she could do for me. I apologized for being late for my appointment and she looked thoroughly confused. She told me I wasn’t booked for an appointment and double-checked her patient log for the day that I certainly was not on because my appoint, that I so determinedly tried to get to, was scheduled for June 19th, which was five days away. I had mistakenly entered it into my calendar for the incorrect date.

Thankfully, she’s a patient-focused doctor. Instead of making me return in five days, she sent me to the lab to do my blood tests and stayed after the office should have been closed, to see me. So I guess, as much time as I wasted by rushing to get to my appointment early – I do see the irony in that statement – the day wasn’t completely squandered.

 

Rush – Closer To The Heart

 

Peanut Butter and Bananas

Some days are harder than others are.

On a day like today when my entire body feels sore from the moment I open my eyes, it’s hard to imagine anything that can help make me feel better. One would think all the pain medications I take might do that; but they only make it possible for me to cope with the always-present pain and the soreness, which is a by-product of any movement or exertion I make with my now atrophied muscles.

Today, however, there was one thing that made me feel wholly better for a short time. I made myself a peanut butter and banana sandwich. My version of a comfort food that I’ve been eating for as long I can remember. If you’ve never tried one, I suggest that you should, at least once in your life. Because, for me, peanut butter and banana sandwiches make everything feel better…

 

 

What Matters about the Appropriation Prize

I’ve been engrossed by a shameful display of white (mostly male) privilege exhibited on social media and in widely circulated articles, by a group of powerful Canadian publishers, editors, and journalists in recent days. The words they have used (written and verbal) have caused pain to which they are oblivious. Even as some of them apologized, it was clear they did not understand why so many people are angered and hurt. Some of them, while holding firm or further digging in, continue to defend what they see as an attack on free speech.

This morning, in an interview on CBC Radio, Indigenous critic Jesse Wente, eloquently re-positioned the spotlight where it belongs. He brought back to the fore, the issue of the Aboriginal writers, including Alicia Elliott, who were personally harmed and whose works were overshadowed by the flippant editorial that stated cultural appropriation does not exist and encouraged other writers to write about people and lives they do not know. His emotional and frank statements raise the question of why, in 2017, these discussions are still so necessary.

 

Jesse Wente – CBC Metro Morning

You can also watch the interview and read the written transcript here on the CBC website.

 

As often happens in controversial cases involving race, Mr. Wente was also called upon on Saturday, by CBC News, to engage in debate about Aboriginal cultural appropriation with the editor/journalist whose offensive tweet was the catalyst for the call to donate to an appropriation prize. In that interview, it was remarkable to watch as Mr. Wente’s words fell on the ears of a person who is so disconnected from the barriers racism and other social justice issues can sometimes impose. From his position of power, which is propped up through multiple societal constructs, said editor/journalist was both condescending and immovable.

 

Appropriation vs. artistic freedom – CBC News Interview

 

That editor/journalist has since resigned from his role as editor-in-chief at a Canadian literary magazine. As part of his reason for resigning he noted, “The Walrus Foundation is moving in a direction that is different from what I was hoping. My dream was always to create a Canadian version of Atlantic magazine, which offers intelligent well-researched viewpoints and articles on all sorts of issues, including controversial topics,” he said. “The cultural appropriation issue would be only one small example of that.”

 

 

For further insight into this issue more articles are listed below.


 

The cultural appropriation debate isn’t about free speech — it’s about context – Alicia Elliott – CBC Arts   –

The unbearable whiteness of being (oblivious to privilege) – Ricochet

A Note from the Publisher and Executive Director – The Walrus

‘I invoked cultural appropriation in the context of literature and writing only’: Hal Niedzviecki – CBC The Current

Jonathan Kay resigns as editor of The Walrus amid cultural appropriation controversy – The Globe and Mail

Walrus editor Jonathan Kay quits amid free speech uproar: ‘I have been censoring myself more and more’ – National Post

It may be harmless appropriation to you. But it’s our preservation – The Globe and Mail

Cultural appropriation and the privilege of creative assumption – The Globe and Mail

Cultural appropriation: Why can’t we debate it? – The Globe and Mail

Debate over cultural appropriation a centuries-old battle for Indigenous groups – The Globe and Mail

 

The Appropriation Prize Through a Pain Clouded Lens

It’s hard being me right now. That’s not me feeling sorry for myself. I’m referring to living with a chronic illness that causes me constant pain. It makes it difficult for me to keep up with the social justice issues I once passionately followed and supported in my daily life; and it is harder still because I constantly doubt myself because pain affects my concentration, as do the pain medications I take to manage it.

It’s especially tough when I engage with people who may hold a privileged place in society because of their race, gender, sex, class and/or profession. If they say or do something that resonates negatively to my core, I question whether I heard or understood the words or actions correctly because my mind is sometimes so clouded by all the medications I take to manage my pain; and I question how or if I should respond.

I’m not American. However, since the arrival of the Trump Era and the relaxing of the niceties of political correctness – which served for so long as the thinnest shield between people of colour, LGBTQ communities, immigrants, the differently abled, and women, and the bombardment of overt racism, homophobia, sexism, and xenophobia; I’ve witnessed a shift. Even in my personal relationships. People now say what they think and feel without fearing repercussions.

Yesterday, I didn’t have to doubt, not even for a second, that members of the upper echelons within Canadian media have discarded all pretense that it matters if people know what they truly feel about marginalized and racialized people. In fact, a career journalist for the Toronto Star, went as far as pointing out in her Friday column that she loathes identity politics and racialized is “(an invented word)”, while applying her 20th century views to the state of modern-day journalism in reference to a black freelance writer’s activism.

My head wasn’t clouded at all yesterday. I had no doubt, when first I read an article in The Globe and Mail about the poorly received editorial in which the now former-editor of a writers’ magazine stated he did not believe in cultural appropriation and that there should be an ‘appropriation prize’. I had no doubt when I read the full editorial in the opening pages of the Spring edition of the writers’ magazine dedicated to Aboriginal writers, where the former-editor’s beliefs overshadowed content from the very writers whose stories are so often silenced.

 

Write Magazine Spring 2017 – Hal Niedzviecki’s – Winning the Appropriation Prize

 

I still had no doubt when I later saw a list of white publishers, editors, and journalists facetiously jump forward to raise money to start a fictional ‘appropriation prize’ for the writer (assumedly a white one) who could best and most believably write about people, cultures, and races they know nothing about. That late night fundraising effort on Twitter was allegedly in response to protecting free speech – the beneficiary of protections in cases of overt racism always tend to be the thing that is least threatened. In the wake of fallout from the editorial written in the writers’ magazine, the editor resigned. This group of media power brokers voiced their outrage that a member of their clique was punished for something they too view as non-existent. They mocked the suggestion that the editorial harmed anyone. Harm which because of their privileged perches they could never see.

 

On Glibness And Diversity In Canadian Media – Buzzfeed – May 12 2017

 

Appropriation Fund – Contributors – Credit to Jake Mooney on Twitter – May 12 2017

 

I’ve chosen not to write the names of the people involved in this outrageous game of “this is who I really am” because I once held some of them in high esteem. I did, however, include the original offending editorial (above) and links throughout the post to informative articles I read yesterday, as well as additional links to more articles below.

As a Canadian, I’ve been hoping for the better part of a year that what is happening south of the border wouldn’t take hold here. The thing I forgot is that even when you think you have no weeds in a garden, it’s impossible to see what’s rooted below the surface of the dirt.

 


Editor quits amid outrage after call for ‘Appropriation Prize’ in writers’ magazine – The Star

Cultural appropriation prize fund was the unkindest cut of all: Paradkar – The Star

High-profile Canadian journalists pledge to raise money for ‘appropriation prize’ – The Star

Indigenous literature’s fearless aunties respond on cultural appropriation – Ricochet

André Alexis: The complex issues within cultural appropriation and art – The Globe and Mail

Christie Blatchford: Magazine editor the latest to be silenced for the sin of free speech – National Post

Editor Resigns Over an Article Defending ‘Cultural Appropriation’ – New York Times

In the end, cultural appropriation is about the cash: Walkom – The Star

 

Surgical Scar Struggles

I started writing this post in early September of last fall, after taking a long look at the 11-centimeter (just over four inches) surgical scar that starts at the bottom of my belly button and makes its way down my lower abdomen on to my pelvis. When I started writing it, I was feeling optimistic because it was starting to shrink and fade, but my mood shifted as I started to think about it being a lifelong reminder of what I continue to live through. I forgot that I had started writing it until recently when I read a post on Nursing Notions site titled ‘Not Yet Defeated’ about her experience with surgery and healing.

As I wrote last September, it hit me that my scar is more than a thick, raised, itchy, line in my skin that will never completely disappear. It is a constant reminder of so much. This vertical line is evidence of the most significant attempt to resolve the suspected cause of my chronic abdominal pain and the pain that grew from it and now radiates down my legs, out into my hips, and up my back. It is a reminder that a surgical team led by one of the most skilled surgeons in my city sliced through layers of my skin, fat and muscle that protected my abdominal organs to explore the space cradled by my pelvic bones to find the growth that shouldn’t have been there and remove it. My fading surgical scar will always remind me that although the surgery wasn’t as invasive as expected and the growth was cut out, it failed to get rid of my pain.

That may be the worst thing about having to look at my scar each time I undress or every time I touch it to scratch the itch: I remember the failure. The itch tells me the scar is healing, still shrinking, while my pain remains the same. Eighteen months after my surgery, regardless of how liberally I massage rich moisturizers into my skin, the itch won’t go away. Before the creation of my scar, I had already been through so much. Now, while it sits so prominently on my lower abdomen, I continue to live with the pain and more failed treatments. I thought that was more than enough. That was until I started planning a trip where I’ll have a chance to submerge my body in saltwater then allow myself to float to the surface towards warm rays of sunshine. Then, for a moment, I felt something unexpected…

Apart from my doctors, some family members, and a few close friends, I’ve taken comfort in not having to show my scar to anyone. The thought of having anyone stare at my scar is unsettling, and I’m not ready to have it become a conversation piece. When I pulled out my swimsuit bottoms recently I unexpectedly felt overwhelmed with self-consciousness. I’m no exhibitionist but I’ve always worn fairly conservative two-piece swimsuits because a one piece/maillot reminds me of high school gym classes. This means that to enjoy the water the way I’m looking forward to I need new swimwear because everything I own puts my once scar-free abdomen on display.

After anxiously searching online for hours, I finally found bottoms that cover my abdomen all the way up to my belly button completely hiding my scar. I know that in the grand scheme of all I’m living with this probably sounds vain and superficial, and it shouldn’t be a big deal. However, it’s a big deal to me because it’s another thing, more change, for me to adjust to. My life changed the day my pain started, it changed after each inconclusive test and invasive procedure to get to a diagnosis, it changed again with the first slice of the scalpel into my flesh and each stitch to close me up, and it continues to change with each failed treatment and every handful of pain medications I swallow daily.

My scar will always be with me as a symbol of what I have to live with because of my illness. My frustration is not knowing when or how deeply, coming into awareness of more changes will affect me in the future. However, I must believe I can find ways to live with it all: this time it’s in the form of spandex and nylon swimsuit bottoms. And I’ll do whatever I can to adjust to the next change when it arrives.

New Swimsuit Bottoms