The Bloody Doors Off

I barely made it through the day.

Been non-stop on a client project they needed turned within twenty-four hours.

Took me nineteen (not including a two hour nap).

So far.

We pushed the deadine to Thursday afternoon. There are a few final things I couldn’t get done.

This is my life as a freelancer. There can be nothing all day, you take a nap for an hour or two, and when you wake up and check email, you’ve got a job request so sleep, and dinner, get pushed back.

And back.

But this has show me… that I’m not that guy anymore. I can’t work twenty-nine hours and be functional, physically and mentally. I need to take breaks.

Otherwise a day like today.

I hitched a ride with a vending machine repair man
He says he’s been down this road more than twice
He was high on intellectualism
I’ve never been there but the brochure looks nice

Sheryl Crow

I sometimes dream of road trips.

Can never remember the destination. Don’t know if there ever was one.

And never with the same person (people).

That hadn’t really popped up in my mind before. Of if it did, the thought was so fleeting that a whisper carried it off to obscurity.

Tonight it chose to properly remind me.

Also the few road trips I did take over the years.

My first strip club.

Doug, Anthony, George and I. We were, eighteen? Shit, this is gonna depend on whether this trip happened before or after my first trip to Buffalo. I’ll get to that.

We grew up together. Three of us lived on the same street within stone’s throw of our houses, and the fourth lived on the first cross street to the left. The memory is hazy, but I remember it was about my birthday. And we took the QEW westbound out of the city. To what city, I have no clue. I remember a seedy strip club. There were wood shavings on the floor. (Which I now think was there to absorb any spilled beer or worse.) And a dancer, who back then would’ve been my age now (okay, maybe mid-forties), who tried to take the belt off my pants.

I’d had a beer or two, but that was Not gonna happen. She intimidated me.

Buffalo.

I remember I was nineteen, and you needed to be twenty-one to drink in the State of New York. I was on co-op assignment with The Scarborough Mirror and the bullpen decided one Friday they were going to the Anchor Bar in downtown Buffalo and they invited me along. For some inexplicable reason, I began chanting pro-Soviet propaganda as we approached the border. I was reminded it was a long walk home. (I have proof of this somewhere.)

It was the first time in Buffalo. First (and not the last) time at the Anchor Bar. Finest wings I’ve ever tasted. Nothing has compared in the past thirty-five years. And I feel in love with live jazz.

Oh yeah. I tried to conduct a phone interview with Monika Schnarre (Ford Models 1984 “Supermodel of the World”) in the Anchor Bar’s one phone booth. Ended up rescheduling for her Toronto press junket the following week.

I was nominated for that article.

Not because it was good.

Good lord. It sucked.

It appeared on page 3 on the specific week all main articles were generated in all the boroughs.

But I was still nominated, dammit.

National Museum of the United States Air Force

This was a memorable road trip, for all the wrong reasons.

We got lost in the middle of the night, on backroads in Ohio. We couldn’t see the road in front of us. Which turned extremely scary when, as we were speeding forward, we left the road and sailed through the air, because of a sudden and extreme dip in the, well I can’t for sure call it pavement.

We drove through the wrong side of Cincinnati at two in the morning. And we were too afraid to roll down the window and ask for directions.

My friend Paul snored. We shared a two double-bed motel room. His sleep apnea ensured I couldn’t sleep. I wouldn’t fall asleep until we were back home a day later.

Pork Burgers at Harmony Lunch in Waterloo

A woman I was seeing at the time and I drove out to Waterloo based on a friend’s recommendation, and had amazing burgers. That had to be prior to 2016, ‘cuz that’s when they originally closed and were reopened by a group who promised to be faithful to the little diner that’d been around since 1930.

Flash forward to today.

That just feels like a lot of work.

Packing for a week-long stay at a cottage takes a flow chart for planning. And I can’t make those mental gymnastics on my own. (Marlo may add “at all” and she wouldn’t be wrong.)

And so I dream.

Sitting in the passenger seat, feeling the car roar to life as we race along a well-travelled highway to destinations unknown. Stopping at the most unlikely restaurant/diner and discovering the best [insert personal preference here] in all of Canada. Praying the motel room door locks from the inside. (And this is important: it should NOT, under ANY circumstances, give off a murdery vibe. Your first thought after stepping into the room should not be, “And how would you like to be murdered this evening?“)*

It’s almost 2:30 am.

Should’ve been in bed an hour ago.

Alright, I’m on my way.

Places to be.

* True story.

(TLDR: I go on some wild tangent – again – hinting at baring a piece of my soul, but it could also read as bullshit. Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here.)

Mollie and I went to see Doctor Strange in the Multiverse of Madness earlier today.

But this isn’t about the movie.

No spoilers. This isn’t about the movie.

Some asshole in the theatre thought it’d be hilarious to project a red laser pointer at the movie screen. It got so damned frustrating that someone yelled out, “Knock it the fuck off!”

Oh yeah.

That someone was me.

And I’m seriously trying to process this.

1. Idiot acts out in theatre.
2. This seriously pisses me off.
3. It is goddamned insulting and insensitive and my eyes keep getting drawn to the damned thing.
4. So I express my displeasure verbally.
5. And when that doesn’t have an effect, I go find a manager.

And now I have to ask.

Have I become a Karen?

I went looking for the manager.

Okay. So now I realize this was long-winded way to make a “Karen” joke. (And my apologies to all the Karens within the orbit that is my life, and for all others as well.

But you have to admit.

It’s kinda funny.

Right?)

But, as better men than I have explained, humour is tragedy plus time. (You’re thinking of the Woody Allen film quote “comedy is tragedy plus time”; turns out, Mark Twain said it first.)

There’s truth behind the ha ha.

I don’t know where that outburst came from. I’m generally more measured, it takes a fair amount to hit my boiling point.

All of a sudden, I feel 55.

April was shit. (Excluding the final few days that led up to Maddy and John’s wedding.)

Work-wise, it was great.

But my health.

Sorry folks.

Storm clouds on the horizon.

The waves may get choppy.

There were struggles.

That night just weeks ago. “We think you’re having a heart attack.”

Well. Duh.

It’s how I’ve been dealing with it emotionally.

And.

Not so good.

I mean. There are restrictions.

Can’t get my monthly testosterone shot now. Don’t know how that will react with my beta blocker.

Can’t take one of my pills either.

In this moment. Right now. It feels like I’m being stripped of invisible armour, exposing me at my most vulnerable.

But I dunno how comfortable I am with that.

And everyone’s got stuff that is purely theirs, and only share with those with absolute trust.

Yes. I realize that by stating I have stuff I will never share on social media won’t surprise anyone.

They’ve probably got the same. Stuff, five people in a world of billions, are privy to.

And that in a circular way, I’m looking for loopholes to insinuate something salacious.

I’m not TMZ.

I’ve lost the thread of this post.

Fresh from a visit from Harold.

My manifestation of despair.

I was in the kitchen, making a grilled cheese panini for my wife. Decided to have a late-night snack.

And that led quickly into my recent heart scare, and receiving not one but two mailed confirmations of my appointment with the cardiologist at the end of the month changing it from a stress test to a phone consultation.

As if they were going to take that away from me.

Like it’s some kind of fucking badge.

I survived a (tiny) heart attack.

And if they took that away, I’d look like an attention-seeking liar.

That’s not the worst of it.

Because I think to myself.

“Well, maybe I should have a heart attack. You know, a small one; no lasting damage, but scary enough for me to start taking better care of myself. Just because I had salad three times last week doesn’t really fucking count because they were Caesar salads.“

Maybe I should.

If that doesn’t scream potential to commit self-harm.

It lasted one second.

Just one.

Long enough for Harold to slip through my defences.

I need a distraction.

Think I’ll finish watching Holey Moley.

You walked into my house last night
I couldn’t help but notice
A light that was long gone still burning strong
You were sitting, your fingers like fuses
Your eyes were cinnamon

You said you stand for every known abuse
That was ever threatened to anyone but you
And why should I know better by now
When I’m old enough not to?

Beth Orton, Stolen Car

I’m not the type of person who stays until the last wedding song. I’m more than happy to slip out after the cake is cut, get some fresh air, and then take the long route home.
Especially on a Sunday.
In Hamilton.
But not tonight, for it’s Maddy and John’s wedding. And I am here to celebrate their love until they kick us out.*
We’ve made some great memories today. And dancing with my wife counts in the Top 10.

* We didn’t make it to the last dance. Or the after-party, sadly.

I was filling Marlo’s and my CPAP tanks and I was running a mental inventory of what was happening on Wednesday, when my brain turned to what I’d put in The Boy’s^TM lunch in the morning.

That’s nothing new. And it led me on a windy (‘wh-eye-ndy‘) train of thought. Remembering that Woodsworth middle school (grades 7 and 8) did have a cafeteria and now that I think about it, I remember buying the cream puff donuts that came in a clear wrapper and a white cardboard back.

Before that, I used to go home for lunch. For the first few grades I would go to Doug’s house (he lived across the street; we were the best of friends right up through high school, and at one time may have duo-hosted a little television program called “The Doug and Paul Show” (it had a theme song.)

I remember Kraft individually packaged cheese slices pressed between two pieces of Wonder bread. Mayonnaise may have been involved. Oh, and tuna sandwiches. Cut into triangles.

Wait. That’s when my mum hosted the monthly bridge club with the ladies on Painted Post. Little wedge sandwiches and tea and I’m sure there was alcohol involved but I can’t prove it because my mum has been gone over 5 years and last night we lost Auggie and. Just for a minute.

Just for a minute.

I was in a very happy childhood memory.

I wasn’t reminded.

And it passes.

I can expect more of these, I imagine.

Christ, I’m gonna be off my head if anything happened.

We don’t even have wills.

Marlo’s prodding me to fill out a questionnaire and get the ball rolling.

Writing a will means you’ve contemplated your own mortality and don’t want to fuck over your loved ones when you’ve gone.

Why would I ever want to think of that? That hurts.

On a scale of 1 to 10, that was a 6.5.

The elephant on my chest felt like an 8. And now I get an updated appointment letter from my cardiologist changing my in-person stress test at the end of May to a “phone reassessment”.

Are they going to take back their diagnosis?

It’s barely been 2 weeks (no, less, 10 days maybe) and I’ve been living with this thought of “okay, I had a teeny heart attack, but I’m good and I just need to take better care of myself and holy hell what if it had been worse and I was still in hospital and Marlo and The Boy^TM had to … with Auggie … and.

And my phone beeps.

I return to the present.

But first, one last thought of the sandwiches. And my mother’s laugh as they do Bridge-y things on the first Tuesday of each month.

Brandy, our family poodle, was 11 when he was hit by a truck in Tillsonburg.

I wasn’t there to say goodbye. That always bothered me.

It took me over 15 years to allow a new pet in my life.

He was a stray kitten my nephews had named Tigger. They couldn’t care for him properly, so I adopted the rascal. He used to climb on my bedroom furniture and knock over any loose change at 3 in the morning.

He was still very young when he got crystals. My girlfriend Suzi footed the bill for his operation because I couldn’t afford it. He survived close to a year, choosing to hide in our bedroom closet after she and I had rented a one-bedroom condo.

It was quick.

Willow was adopted soon after. A black and white domestic short hair cat, she lived to be eight before she suddenly took ill. I took her to the vet; there was no real option. We said goodbye in the exam room.

During Willow’s time with me, I adopted a tortie that I named Roo. (Can’t have a Tigger without a Roo.) She also lived to about 8 years old. Roo also became sick. There were no warning signs. I found her in the hall closet, wrapped her in a blanket and frantically searched for an emergency vet.

She died before I could dial the number.

There’s a pattern here.

My furbabies, to this point, had quick endings. (Hannah and Izzy are going to be 14 this year, and I swear they’re still on the first of their 9 lives.)

It wasn’t prolonged.

The grief hit immediately, and hard. But there was no time to really think about it.

I ‘adopted’ Auggie when I became a part of Marlo and the Boy’s lives. I’ve had the privilege of being her “Papa” since 2017.

Friday evening, after a lot of discussion with both my wife and a cardiologist at the Animal Hospital where Auggie was diagnosed with severe heart disease, I found a mobile palliative veterinary service that cater to geriatric care and end of life in a setting of your choosing.

I took the Quality of Life Scale, because there was a part of me that still hoped.

When the punch to the gut faded, I filled out their online form. Surprisingly, I received an email response around 9pm, even though their hours said they closed at 6pm on Fridays. They gave me their availability. Marlo and I discussed it and accepted the time offered.

They called Saturday morning to confirm, and spent 10 minutes taking me through all that would happen, including the aftercare.

I wanted so badly to change my mind.

But without her pills, Auggie’s time is extremely limited. Her belly will resume filling with fluid, breathing will become even more difficult. Auggie’s energy is already waning. She lost half a kilogram in a matter of weeks.

And we can’t let her suffer.

But even now.

I don’t want to go to sleep because that means Monday will arrive when I wake up.

Then I remind myself that it’s already after 12 am; Monday is here, fuck my feelings.

The vet said they would call again this morning, to make final arrangements.

I feel like a monster for going through with it.

And a coward if I back out.

I know we can’t.

We must do what is absolutely best for our missus.

I need to shoulder this pain.

So she won’t suffer.

Tonight, I discovered just how much I dislike the feeling of crumbling feta cheese on my fingertips.

This will be my fifty-sixth rotation around the sun later this year, and only now am I learning this fact about myself.

And I believe it to be an important enough discovery to blog about it.

Huh.

Also just noticed that, when I don’t have my dentures in, I like to press my thumb against the roof of my mouth, along the ridges.

I’m in a sensory-enhanced mood tonight.

Izzy’s soft mewlings at my feet.

The sound of the dishwasher.

The clack of the keyboard as I type this. That’s a two-fer right there.

Even rubbing the sleep out of my eye just now.

---

Dizzy spell a moment ago.

Couldn’t go twenty-four hours, could I?

---

Watched Auggie walk in circles for two minutes, while outside looking for a place to pee. Then spent another minute standing by the open door. Like she wasn’t sure why she was there.

---

Eh. I’ve got nuthin’ else.

It was really about that realization over touching feta.

The rest is just filler.

---

Hey. At least I’m trying to write.

If nothing else, I’ve retained my ability to mash up bizarre ideas.

It’s been one week since you looked at me
Cocked your head to the side and said, “I’m angry”
Five days since you laughed at me
Saying, “Get that together, come back and see me”
Three days since the living room
I realized it’s all my fault, but couldn’t tell you
Yesterday, you’d forgiven me
But it’ll still be two days ’til I say I’m sorry

One Week, Barenaked Ladies

A couple of decades ago, I was freelancing for The Scott Mission. I remember being in the break room when someone there announced that a little known local band named Barenaked Ladies wanted to do a benefit concert for them.

The Mission politely turned them down, citing the name of the band. I don’t know who was the ultimate recipient of their generosity.

Funny how things like that stick in your memory.

It’s been seven days since the start of my Big Cardiac Adventure^TM and I’m not sure how I’m processing. I had a fucking heart attack, there’s no denying. Luckily it was ‘tiny’ (to use the doctor’s words) and I’m recovering decently (excluding Saturday night’s trip to the ER). Went to the dentist this morning for a filling, and goddamn my blood pressure was perfect. It’s never been that good. And I’m only taking half a beta blocker each day.

Nobody’s treating me with kid gloves, and they shouldn’t. There is some gentleness involved, but it’s more random acts of kindness than anything (a good friend checking up on me, a neighbour offering to take down the recycling).

I’m able to work, and the stuff coming in so far is definitely not stressful. Sleep hasn’t been the best but it’s better than when I was laying in a hospital bed, listening to the odd Code Grey (or other random colours that I had no idea the meaning of).

So. A week in. Physically, I’m fine.

Mentally? I’m working on it.