Horse Lake, Thursday, Gilbert’s Heart Disease

The sun is out big time. Hardly a cloud in the sky.  Yesterday overcast rainy with mosquitoes. Morning working in the camper. Laura puts on earplugs and listened to music.  Gilbert sleeps on the bed with her.  She’s reading. I’m working. It’s not a bad gig for a rainy day in paradise.

In the afternoon I rode my motorcycle down backroads slipping and sliding in the muck. My arms and shoulders are telling me this morning I got my share of exercise. I had the camera along and took some pictures of the area I was in.  Firs, muskeg, pine. 

I rode up a side trail and parked the bike. I took the Chiappa Double Badger folding rifle and targets to a clearing I found a short walk beyond.  I shot off 5O rounds with the 22’ single shot barrel. I was grouping within 5 inches only  slightly left and high of centre but it was not good enough to hit the head of a grouse. I’d hit the body of a rabbit but that’s not good enough. I think I might add a little scope. I’ve needed a scope in recent years partly because of my aging eyes and partly because of my precision shooting.  A grouse head is about the size of a quarter coin.  

The 20 guage single shot barrel was amazing. I tried the 6 shot and the slugs.  The slugs were a bulls eye.  I walked back to about 20 yards where I normally shoot grouse from and while I’d had trouble with the 22, I would get the grouse every time with the 20 guage.  I will have to work on reloading quickly. My mentor Bill Mewhort years back chose a single shot moose rifle for the accuracy of the longer barrel he was able to get without the regular action. He could load three shots almost as fast as I could with the bolt action.  

What’s nice about the Chiappa is I have the perfect bird gun.  It’s actually fits in my pack folded. Further if I carry a slug I have the potential in a crazy situation to be armed to defend against a bear attack if I’m not surprised.  I’m usually pretty alert in the woods the possibilities in the wild are always there.  I remember the times I’ve come across  bears and badgers and I’ve be fortunate they opted to leave me alone. I’d definitely been undergunned sometimes at the time of those encounters.  

Gilbert was sick last night, coughing and having problems breathing. He’d gone on for an hour unable to settle. I’d wake and go back to sleep only to wake again.  I brought him up on the bed and with Laura and I massaging him and some more of one of his medicines he finally settled.  I think he has trouble breathing with his congestive heart failure and he panics.  Dyspnea is a side effect of one of his meds but this was what we took him to the vet for. He coughs until he spits up clear fluid so it’s pretty certain that’s the congestive heart failure , so called ‘water on the lungs’. His X-ray showed that. He’s on two diuretics and yet he continues to have this problem. On rainy days it’s worst. Once he settled and stretched right out he slept straight through for 5 hours. Now we’re up at 9.  He’s just fine this morning.  He was barking at the ducks whose sound of landing as a group outside the door, surprised him.  He’s not coughing. I had trouble having him take his medication, it’s wrapped in roast beef. He wouldn’t take it so I walked him a bit to pee and again tried and with a lot of fuss he took it.  I was pretty exasperated.

I’m finding myself re thinking euthanasia.  Individually I’ve know that I’d like to go and have always held that if things became so wrong I’d suicide. MAiD is the euphemism today.  I found myself thinking Gilbert was going to die and then I was selfishly thinking maybe it was time to have him ‘put down’.  Poor guy.

The problem though is the same I see with the death penality.  I believe it’s right. There are limits to rehabilitation despite what some would argue. I know that ‘God’ works miracles but there are countless examples where a community can’t ensure a person who offends won’t reoffend. It’s the same issue that soldiers face with the inability to take prisoners where the prisoners could give away their positions behind enemy lines , the result being that the platoon is killed for not.  Historically communities banished those who were re offenders.  It’s the reoffenders that are the real challenge. 

If we think about the worst crime of murder then perhaps there can be extenuating circumstances and a guy killed his ex wife or mother in law.  I’m just suggesting these as example.  Someone else might think of murdering the boss. I’m not speaking to the idea of deterring others. No one would have thought about murdering my ex wife or mother in law.  They might think of murdering their boss so historically the whole idea of murder was a costly issue.  In the village you had to pay the cost of the loss of that person to the family or tribe. Like with a lot of things and the law, the rich could get away with murder easier than the poor. But the murderer might alternatively become the slave to the family.  

The whole idea of the jail industry, with people kept at huge cost to society is a type of evil that is driven by greed and the ability to tax people with little accountability.  Historically law was mostly about recompense, not this weird ‘punishment’ idea.  My principle problem with the death penalty is the State. The State is so intrinsically flawed and biased with a long history of mass murder that it should not have the power to kill individuals ‘legally’ given it’s history of errors. Even in a democracy total idiots get elected and these people and the media can influence judges and innoscent men and women can be killed for profit.  I believe in the death penalty but don’t know who should do the killing. Hence the historical value of banishment.  I think branding people with the Scarlet Letter or a big M for murderer or T for Thief ,  might be an alternative. I’ve not really thought it through but know that the STATE should not have the right to kill and that the whole ‘Life’ sentence issue would only make sense if it were cheap. What we really need is for Australia to become a prison colony again. Ultimately  the moon or mars will suffice. Space exploration if only for the sake of penal colonies for workers is a grand idea. 

Now what about MAiD. Again the State is the problem. I’ve always held that I have the right to end my life. I admire my Christian and Catholic friends who believe suicide would lead to hell but I’ve always maintained that I personally have the right and a loving God would not condemn me. At most I’d be a teenager who crashed the family car and the loving father would be miffed but still love me.  I don’t ‘own’ this body. It’s a vehicle I inherited. I have too known so many individuals who use ‘suicide’ as a weapon of threat and extortion. Then there are those who want attention and the others who would suicide if they broke their fingernail. I love that the Buddhists and Hindus to a large extent like I , consider it a personal choice, that they discourage. I certainly don’t admire the STATE and it’s Jihad Suicide bombers. I”ve always felt leaders should be willing to do whatever they ask their men and women to do so know that Jihad is invariably left to the grunts. The guys with the virgins here on earth aren’t about to blow themselves up for a speculative proposition.  All propaganda.

But if I was Gilbert and couldn’t get my breath and faced that terror alone I would be glad for a ‘magic pill’. Bring on the cyanide.  In the spring for the first time in my life I was ‘unable to get my breath’.  That’s when I believe I may have had SARS. I was coughing like Gilbert, crying and praying and more desperate than I can recall for two days. I’d have these ‘spells’ when I simply could not take air in and my body, normally a twin, to my self became one with myself and together we felt utter abandonment. I understood then in that instant the cry of Jesus on the cross. “Eli, Eli, lama sabaqtani!”  My God, my god , why hasn’t thou forsaken me!

Last night I thought Gilbert would die and I felt that again there was nothing I could do but pray. I have cried by bedsides too many times to remember. I have pleaded with God to save patients and been rewarded by hard work and miracles but in my own life I’ve not had success. Wife’s have gone on to be ex wife’s, family members have remained sick. Loved ones have died. Dogs and cats have died.  I’ve known terrible pain.

But pain is bearable.  Breathlessness is not.  The greatest torture known isn’t being eaten alive by ants or staked through ass by Count Vlad. It’s water boarding.  Obviously I can’t speak from experience. I’ve not had my face eaten by ants though this weekend the mosquitoes tried my patience and I have had a hemorrhoid that drove me to distraction. None were like that experience this spring of not being able to breath.  Asphyxiation is intimately tied to panic.  Panic attacks are experiences of inability to breathe.  Covid 19 is all about that breathlessness.  I can’t imagine a worse death. But all death is breathlessness and eventually it passes and you die.

I thought Gilbert might die last night. His enlarged heart might give out or he’d just choke and seizure. He lived.  

This morning I thought of suicide. I was angry at Gilbert for yet another night disrupting my sleep. It’s been weeks, this being the worst, but I’ve risen with his coughing for months . What’s changed is that he doesn’t settle. It used to be I just held him and he stopped coughing.  Then I could take him for a pee and a short walk and he’d settle and sleep through the night. But now I’ve been taking him out every few hours and he settles and then it repeats. I’m so thankful we’re on holidays. 

Which brings me to the point. If I had to work and was raising a family without support of my village eventually I’d want to kill the person I was caring for. If I was the person unable to care for myself I’d want to die. My mother told me she was ready to go when she was bed ridden. “It was okay when I could sit up in a chair, Bill, but now all I have is a ceiling.I’m not going to get any better.”  I’d rescuscitated her twice. I only resuscitated my father once. I’ve resuscitated countless people. It’s a skill and a ‘gift’. I’ve watched spirits rise from bodies and called them back. Not alone.  The trouble is that it’s only temporary.  It’s a wrestle with death. Death is inevitable.  

Gilbert is an inconvenience. I was annoyed with him this morning when he wouldn’t take his medication and I felt like slapping him.  I was crying too.  I remember others caring for their parents, the people I know caring for disabled people. My brother put up with my ornery father’s cricitisms and moods right to the end. My brother is a better man than me.  My mother cared for my grandmother till I found her cold one morning in the sun room. I have a disabled friend who is really demanding at times but we all humor him. He is in the most severe chronic pain and disability known and yet our society , the STATE, has no heart dealing with him. Indeed girls are taking advantage of him because he is frail and they are the psychopaths of the world. I witnessed caregivers hurting him myself.  Now the STATE and the COURTS are punishing him for his weakness.

I felt like killing Gilbert ‘for his own good’ because he ‘was suffering’. He was suffering but I was kidding myself. I’m a contemptible selfish jerk whose sleep has been disrupted and this is my best friend and loved one and I’m thinking murder. The fact is he’s loving his life when he’s not coughing. Yesterday he was cuddling with the love of his life Laura for hours. She’s giving him treats and sitting with him on the lawn listening to the ducklings that are walking by each day. I’ve been playing ball with him which he loves despite being blind. He loves going for walks. I remember my mom loving being pushed around in her wheelchair outside by my father. She lived for those hours until she was permanently bed ridden and stared at the ceiling bored to death.  

I’m not going to die well. I’m a coward. I love a loving God but I’m the first to tell him what I need and it’s really hard to accept ‘thy will be done not my will’. I’m not a masochist. I don’t enjoy pain or risk or discomfort.  I’m not very impressive to myself. Others seem to see me well but within myself I’m rarely measuring up,. How can I be a lover and think of killing my little love because he can’t breathe and is suffering and I don’t want to be bothered by it any more.

The fact remains that is what I learn from so many.It’s not the thoughts or the words but the actions. I didn’t kill Gilbert or myself yesterday and he’s now sleeping at my foot and I’m just so sad.  Aging now is a matter of loss. But I’ve been blessed beyond what anyone deserves to know this little guy.  Better to have loved and lost then never to have loved. 

Thank you God for another day. When I was at sea in hurricanes and storms and it was night and I was near despair it would always be better in the light. The sun is wonderful this morning. St. John’s latest ‘long dark night of the soul’ has passed. I’ve another day to learn to be more loving like my dog who trusts and loves unconditionally.  Gilbert has another day of play. Thank you Jesus. 

,

Sweeny Todd, by Stephen Sondheim, Vancouver Opera at the Queen Elizabeth Theatre

I’ve seen several Sweeny Todd’s but this Sweeny Todd by the Vancouver Opera is by far the best.  Stephen Sondheim’s music is rockstar sensational and Jonathan Darlington’s musical direction is genius.  I loved Darlington’s opening performance the best.  Greer Grimsley, bass baritone, from New Orleans, plays Sweeny Todd and his performance alone was worth coming for. I’ve never heard such an incredible voice so perfect for this role.  That said, Luretta Bybee playing the pie lady Levitt  was so enjoyable to listen to and delightfully comedic.
Tenor Rocco Rupolo was equally a delight as the love struck sailor singing his heart out for Johanna Barker, played by soprano Caitlin Wood. I thought her first number ’shrill’ only to fall completely in love with her voice as it grew richer and warmer throughout the production.  The whole musical ensemble grew together this way crescendoing to a great finale.
Pascal Charbonneau’s tenor, as he played  Tobias was alive with character. I loved Karen Ydenberg’s soprano beggar woman performance.  David Curry, tenor, played Adolfo Pirelli hilariously and had an amazing voice that filled the hall with laughter.    Baritone Doug McNaughton played the evil judge so well that he really irritated me despite his masterful voice. Michael Barrett, tenor, played the horrid Beadle to vocal perfection.  Zacchary Reed Baritone sang immensely well in the part of Jonas Fogg.  I loved all the voices and all the costumes and all the acting and the ingenious set.
To a non opera going friend I said, Greer Grimsley’s voice is to opera what Wayne Goretsky’s stick handling is to hockey.  That good, my friend replied.  Yes, I said.  And Darlington is like the coach the Canucks needed to bring the Cup home.
As for the story, written by Hugh Wheeler, it’s rather tasteless, more like a fart joke than Steven King at his lowest. Hugh Wheeler clearly could have used editing by Monty Python. A vengeful barber slices the throats of his enemies and others rather indiscriminately while Mrs Lovett turns the corpses into pies for profit, selling human remains to the unaware cannibalistic masses. It’s as macabre as a Robert Picton Farm opera with Sarah McLaughlan  and Bryan Adams in happy pig costumes singing a Bare Naked Lady score.  Is someone in the VSO smoking BC Budd or are times so bad in Gotham Vancouver that the well heeled need this level of humour to continue their decadent businesses?

Story-police head quarters and aliens

Police Headquarters was a 5 story building built in the 70’s but rather along the familiar lines of high schools built in the cold war era.  There was a heavy functionariness about it  There was little glass on the first floor but quite enough on the floors above it.  Police cars with their distinctive black and white colouring were parked about the base.  A sort of human factory place.  Lots of activity with no apparent purpose.   Busy.  Lots of people mulling about at the entrance.  Quite a few sitting in the waiting room.  Lots of open area desks, themselves made of steel, heavy.  A faint human odor pervaded.  The lighting was florescent. Unpleasant.
“I’ve looked up everything we have on killings and there’s no similarity. Not that there’s any pattern but I just thought I might check the records."
“Good try."
“I doubt we’ll get anything from the crime scene. Fairly cut and dry. "
“Interviews then."
“Yes. Might turn up a lead."
“Do you have the address?"
“Yes."
He took his jacket from the back of his chair. His police 38 was in his shoulder holster.  The jacket concealed it well enough.  She followed him to the car.  It wasn’t much of a drive. They didn’t talk. There wasn’t anything to say.  So much was a waiting game.  Patience was critical in ambush and stalk.
The house they were looking for had an ornate metal fence around it.
“Must be worth a million in this neighbourhood."
“I’d say."
Two white Doric columns framed the door.  He rang the bell.  Shortly a flicker of movement appeared in the eye hole before the heavy door was opened a crack.
“Can I help you?"
“Are you Mrs. Jones-Whitaker?"
“Yes."
“We’re from the police."
“Yes”.
“Might we come in."
“Certainly."
She opened the big door and invited them into a large foyer where they all stood awkwardly for a bit.  She was dressed in a white robe. No jewelry. She was beautiful in a fragile way.  The thought of “porcelain looks” came to mind for the female detective.  The male detective was looking beyond the foyer into a rather elegant sitting room of mostly white furnishings offset by a large reddish toned persian rug.
“Could we speak to your husband?"
“He’s not here. He didn’t come in last night.  I was actually getting worried and considering calling you."
“I’m sorry to say there’s been a shooting."
“Yes”.
“We believe your husband was the man who was shot."
“Ooh."
She went quite pale which was itself extraordinary because she was already so pale to begin with.  Walking away from them she moved into the waiting room and sat down on the settee.
“I know this is quite a shock and I really am sorry to bring this news but could you tell me when you last saw him.” he said
“He really is dead?” she asked.
“Yes."
“Last night I guess.  He came home from work.  We had dinner here. It wasn’t much.  Just some left overs I cooked up. He said he had to return to work for a bit.  Some sort of unfinished business.  He left.  I stayed.  I fell asleep watching tv and awoke this morning. I was just getting dressed."
“Was he concerned about anything in particular.?"
“Not that I know of. He’d been a little distant.  Distracted by his work.  That’s not unusual. He had a lot of responsibilities."
“What was his work?"
“Guidance systems.  He built missile guidance systems."
“Was there anyone you knew who might want to hurt him."
“No. This really is appalling. I must get dressed and call his father.  HIs father is still alive if this doesn’t kill him.  His mother died only last year.  Will I be able to see him."
“Yes we could take you there now."
“I’ll just be a minute then.  Please make yourself at home. I just made a pot of coffee in the kitchen.  Help yourself."
She ran up the stairs, a faint sob, echoing down as she scurried up.
The detectives wandered into the kitchen deeper in the direction she’d waved.
“She took that well enough."
“She did. Nothing seemed awry though.  She certainly showed surprise. "
“That sob just now was  something."
“Grieving widow.  Didn’t sound faked by any means."
“She tried to remain composed if anything.  Breeding some might say.”  He was pouring the coffee, 2 cups, opening the refrigerator to find the cream and pouring quite a dollop. She took hers black.
“They’ve got a child.” he said
“How do you know that.”
"The pictures on the fridge. And a photo of the three of them.  A girl, must be early teens.”
“I’d guess she got herself off to school on her own today.  Likely won’t be happy to hear her father died."
“Could she be a suspect."
“No.  It’s not a teen crime by any means.  Almost professional.  Ear markings of a hit, if anything.  Maybe to do with the missile business."
“Very good coffee."
“It is.”
A  short while later the wife came down the stairs dressed in sensible shoes, nylons, a black skirt and blouse.  She had tucked her blond hair into a scarf. Some make up had been dabbed about her eyes which were still red from what appeared a private cry she’d had upstairs, alone.
They drove back to the station.
She gasped when she saw the body at the morgue.  Death does that to loved ones. Especially when they’re not the shooter.  The detectives looked knowingly at each other when they heard that sound. It was like the earlier sob.  Sounds of innocence.
Before leaving her back home at her front steps they acquired the names of his employer.
A NASA and Boeing collaboration.  He’d looked them up on his iPhone while she drove.
“It was a very large building situated on an industrial complex at the south of the city.  Everything was new and neither could remember hearing anything about the building or the major contracts that wickipedia said were being developed here.
Aliens watched their car as it pulled into the long driveway that lead to the first security check point.  They had eyes in the trees.  Humans would have taken them for nests.  They were but in addition they were sensors that relayed visual auditory and sensual contents of the whole region back to the mother ship cloaked and orbiting the earth at that very moment. This complex was indeed one of their interests.  A glutinous creature wasn’t very happy with the way the day was unfolding.  The glutinous creatures looked oddly like a bowl of jelloThey’d had a minor interest in the man who had been shot.  No one really thought it would change things except the bowl of jello. The bowl of jello was quivering and this caused its colours to change. Right now the orange was evidence of interest and maybe fear.  Even the jello had difficulty with self reflection.  Watching the sensors wasn’t a particularly appealing position.  It would rather be in the meeting right now that was taking place down what otherwise might be called a hall.  Odd sounds and flashes of light emanated from that region further on and if the truth be known the jello was trying to make sense of what was being communicated.  It had something to do with this whole complex.
The police car had passed both check points and pulled into the parking lot.
“It’s quite impressive,”
“Yes, in that glass and steel sort of way."
They walked through the glass doorway across the reception floor to the information security station beside the elevators.
“We’re hear to see, Mr. Rogers,” she said showing her id.
“He’s on the 15th floor. You can take the elevator there, the smiling ex military sort replied.  She wondered which service he’d served in. Likely marines she guessed as they headed for the elevator.
The main concern of the aliens was the progress the humans were making.  They weren’t quite ready for earth to learn of what they were using her solar system for.  Once they were in space their property would naturally become theirs.  But in the meantime they really weren’t in a position to object to the pilfering of saturn’s rings or mining on Nepture.  But once they established a presence in their space the rules simply were that they were to be left alone to make the next leap to the galaxy.   All new races were left with just enough propellant to get to the nearest star.  They’d be poor for a millennium or so but it wasn’t other races fault they’d not hurried up and got ahead with space travel when they first thought of it.  The longer a new race took the more their resources were depleted.  Intelligence sort of flashed about the galaxy and that attracted theives. Not that jello though of their expedition that way.  They just knew that where intelligent life blossomed there were usually excessive deposits of the means of travel across space. Some called it intelligent design. Others called it coincidence.  Jello didn’t speak.  Quivering was its sole means of communication and such ideas didn’t seem to have a place in a glutinous body of desire and need with loosely linked purpose and telekinetic capabilities.