To Uncle Frank...

Cool.

Today marks the one-year anniversary of the death of a true honest-to-goodness viking, and one of my favourite people in the world - my mom's brother, my uncle, Frank Unkerskov.

Late June 2010 was the beginning of a year of loss, and while we were wrapped up in the horrific shooting death of my 'little brother' Jesse Archer that occurred a week after Uncle Frank's death, I often feel ashamed to say that I did not pay him proper respect.  It isn't that I didn't feel the pain of his death or that I did not love him as much as I loved Jesse.  It isn't that because he lived in Alberta my whole life I never got to know him and therefore did not care (he moved out there to work shortly after my Uncle Peter did, then found the love of his life, my Aunt Karen, and that was that).  There really is no excuse, and for that I am so sorry.  Today, one year after he was taken from us much too soon, I will try my meagre best to share memories of Uncle Frank, as I remember him.

When my mom told me that her brother had died, it was a beautiful sunny morning a few days after my thirtieth birthday.  Matt and I were leaving for the zoo, and she called me up onto the back porch.  I could see from her face that something horrible had happened.  My mom is one tough cookie, with an amazing ability to see the best in every situation.  She has seen more than her share of loss, having lost her dad to a heart attack when she was eighteen, and her oldest brother Peter to a car accident when I was just six months old.  If my mom is upset, there is a very very good reason.  She told me about what had happened (an unexpected heart attack at home at the age of 59) and I hugged her tight and we cried and cried and cried, right there on the back porch.

With mom, on her wedding day

What hit me more than anything else about that moment was not directly the loss of my uncle, although that was sad enough.  But it was the sight of my mom totally lost and consumed by grief that really got to me.  She just kept saying 'I don't have any brothers anymore.  My brothers are gone' and hearing that affected me so deeply that I will never forget it.  I remember trying to imagine at that moment how she possibly must feel.  How would I feel if I lost my big brother so suddenly and unexpectedly?  Such a notion is completely unthinkable to me.  Justin has always been there for me when I needed him, and even when I haven't.  He is my dearest, closest friend - the Batman to my Robin - and to lose him would be to lose part (a BIG part) of myself.  I don't know what I would do without him, and the thought of losing him and not having him around scares the pants off me.  But I thought about that moment - mom crying over the loss of her brothers and how I would feel to lose my brother, all week long after hearing the news.  I can still hear her crying and whispering those words to me in my head, and I imagine it will stick with me for the rest of my life.

'danish gangster' look... ha ha

Nine days after Uncle Frank died, after being shaken so deeply to the core, I had the misfortune of getting a taste of what losing a brother is all about.  At 4am on June 28th, Matt and I got a phone call - the phone call no one wants to get - telling us that the oldest of his three younger brothers, Jesse, was in Intensive Care at Kingston General Hospital.  We were told that he had been shot in the head, and that he wasn't going to make it.  I was in the bathroom when Matt answered the phone after so many rings, and I remember hearing his wail as he put down the phone and hit the floor.  On autopilot, we rushed to Kingston to say our goodbyes.  The ten months that followed that moment were so emotionally gut-wrenching; so intense, yet totally surreal, that I didn't have time to think about anything else.  Now that things have settled down a little bit, and we have been to court and seen the mindless brute responsible for such a horrific event sentenced to a mere seven years in prison, we can try to put the pieces of our shattered lives back together and move on as best we can.

Frank at 22

I often feel ashamed and embarrassed over the fact that during the whirlwind surrounding Jesse's murder I didn't think about Uncle Frank and my Aunt Karen and their two kids, my cousins Jessica and Tyler, nearly as much as I should have.  Maybe because Jesse's death hit us a lot closer to home.  Maybe because of the horrific details surrounding the end of such an innocent young life that positively oozed generosity, kindness, and raw talent.  Maybe because Jesse played such a key role in my life for the last twelve years, and maybe because, living two provinces over, I didn't get a chance to be as close to Uncle Frank as I should have been.  Whatever that 'maybe' might be, Uncle Frank's death seems more real now than ever before, and I think of him all the time.  I cry for him all the time.  I cry because he's gone, and I cry for my mom and my MorMor and for Karen.  I cry because today is Father's Day, and my cousins are not able to laugh and hug their dad and tell him what a great father he is - instead they are mourning his loss.  I cry because I didn't know him as well as I should.  I cry because I will never get the chance.

Four of Five Unkerskov kids - Frank, Sharon, Peter, Susan (my mom)
August 1958

Because he lived so far away, and because we never really saw him, I'm sad to say that my memories of Uncle Frank are few and far between, and a lot of them stem from stories Justin and I were told about him as kids.  The few memories I do have of him are some of my fondest.  When I was little, Uncle Frank was the closest I would ever get to knowing a real viking, and I thought of him (and Uncle Peter) as just that.  I still do (a much kinder, gentler viking... you know... without all the raping and pillaging... ha ha).  It wasn't just that he was born in Denmark or that he had shaggy hair or that he was big and tough, but I'm sure that helped.  He was the ultimate storyteller and absolutely the best at telling a joke.  No one could tell a tale like Uncle Frank.  He made everything so funny and lively and every story was a story worth telling.  He would have us rolling on the floor with laughter.  He seemed so self-assured, he was a great husband and dad, he stood up for himself and his family, he never took crap from anyone... but he did it all with a huge heart, a quick wit, and an undying sense of deliciously dark gallow's humour shared by all the Unkerskovs and Poulsens I know.

Peter and Frank - 1972

I remember being regaled with stories from mom and her two sisters about what it was like growing up with Frank and oldest brother Peter, and what tyrants they were.  In my young mind, Frank and Peter were about as cool as it gets.  They were good-looking popular guys (mom says that girls used to get all dolled up and walk past their house and back, in hopes that Uncle Frank would be in the yard and see them), but they were not stuck up about it.  They were down-to-earth, friendly guys, but were not afraid to speak their mind - the Unkerskov boys were much respected as a pair 'not to be messed with' and got in their share of fights, and that made them close to superheroes as far as I was concerned.  Whether he was tying my mom up in the front yard so he could steal her bike to ride to the pool hall, or having full-blown fist fights with Uncle Peter that left gaping holes punched in the walls while my mom and her sisters tried their best to keep out of the way, the stories I heard never matched up with the person I knew and loved as a kid.  Uncle Frank did these things?  Loveable, kind, gentle Uncle Frank??  hmm... are you sure??  Impossible.

Grover and I today
(We've worked things out)

I have tried my hardest to collect as many memories of Uncle Frank as  I could.  Because they mostly occurred when I was small, and my memory is not the greatest, timelines are questionable at best.  When attempting to conjure as many anecdotes as I can, the memories all just swim together in bits and pieces, and it just makes me wish that much more that I had had the chance to sit down and talk to him about what really happened, from his point of view.  I wonder what he would have remembered about sending me that stuffed Grover from Alberta on my second (third?) birthday.  I recall being so excited when a big package came, with MY name on it.  Things changed pretty quickly once I opened it though.  I'm sure Uncle Frank didn't know that I was deathly afraid of Muppets, or that upon opening the box that contained my new lovable furry friend I would be sent screaming from the room waving my arms in the air in sheer terror.  I wish I had a chance to share a laugh with him about that now, because I know he would have gotten a real kick out of it...

Uncle Frank, Jessie, me, Justin - Red Deer, 1986

Uncle Frank, me, mom, cousin Anders, Justin, Aunt Karen
Red Deer - 1986

We went to visit Uncle Frank and Aunt Karen in Red Deer twice when I was little (apparently 1983 and 1986) - both times in the winter, because mom and dad would ski - but I can't seem to distinguish between the two trips in my mind.  I don't remember much, but I am lucky to remember what I do.  I remember an old man on the plane wanting to take me to the Calgary Stampede and buy me a cowboy hat.  I remember sitting with Justin and my cousin Jessie on top of a shirtless, supine Uncle Frank as he lay on a brown couch watching John Wayne movies.  I remember their friendly brown and white dog, Rastas.  I remember Uncle Frank giving Justin and I our first sugar cereal ever (Alpha-Bits, Honey Comb, and Honey Nut Cheerios, specifically).  We had never had sugar cereal before - didn't know it existed even until that point, so that one sticks out very vividly... ha ha.  I remember 'frying' 'hamburger patties in their front yard very very distinctly... it is quite possibly one of my favourite childhood memories, and I will remember it for a lifetime.  I am three (I guess?), playing all by myself, 'frying hamburgers' in the front yard as follows: 1. Form patty from snow.  2. Throw in 'fryer' (i.e. a puddle)  3. When patty turns from white to translucent, it is cooked.  4. Fish it out with a stick.  5. Repeat.  As lame as it sounds, every spring when the snow is melting and there are puddles on the ground, I think of that moment in Uncle Frank's yard and I smile.  I remember chasing my cousin Jessie, who was barely old enough to be running, down the hall with a gold-plated baby fork (why? who knows.  Sorry Jess... no hard feelings?  ha ha) and having Aunt Karen yell at me for it (rightfully so), and I remember eating spaghetti with Justin and my second cousin Randy in the kitchen at mom and Uncle Frank's cousin Karen's place and listening to the grown ups in the other room laughing and talking.  I remember going skiing for the very first time ever, and being enrolled in the 'Chocolate Moose' ski school at Lake Louise, where I spent more time having ski instructors drag me around at the end of a pole than actually learning how to ski.  I remember driving past the ski jumps still standing from the 1984 Calgary Olympics.  I remember going to visit Aunt Karen's mom in Drumheller, and visiting the Royal Tyrell museum in the Badlands (I got a plaster casting of a 'trilobite' which is still with me, somewhere).  I remember that when Uncle Frank drove us to the airport when it was time to fly back home, 'Karma Chameleon' by the Culture Club was playing on the car stereo, and the car was green.  I remember Uncle Frank coming to give away the hand of his youngest sister, my Aunt Stephie, when she married Ian when I was ten years old.   I remember talking Zappa with him at his last visit to Ontario in November 2001.  I wish I remembered more than that, but I don't, and it makes me so sad.  It doesn't seem like a lot of memories to remember such a wonderful man.  He was so much more than that.

A 'knus' for Ollie!

I miss you, Uncle Frank.  I love you dearly, and I always will.  You were one in a million.  Legendary story teller.  Reputed Hell-raiser.  Fabulous husband and amazing stay-at-home dad.  Great golfer.  Friend to cats and dogs and small children everywhere.  Frank Zappa fan.  Sender of frightening Muppets.  Grower of bushy moustaches.  A Viking with a heart of gold.  I wish I had taken the time to get to know you as an adult.  I wish I had called you, or written letters, or bugged you more about staying in touch on Facebook.  It's true what they say; you really DON'T know what you've got 'til it's gone.  Everything changes in a heartbeat, and while we often don't have control over what happens to whom, and when, we do have control over how much we interact with and appreciate the people in our lives who really matter to us.  Although a lesson learned the hard way, in losing Uncle Frank I have been reminded how important it is to make the effort to reach out to those you love, no matter how far away they are or how long it's been since you last talked.  Each moment you share with them could be your last, so make the most of it while you still can.

I think another trip to Alberta is in order...

Last visit to Ontario - Nov 2001

Presenting www.sockbun.ca!!!

After receiving much encouragement and enthusiasm from my rudimentary market research, it seems that I have found my place in this world...  I am destined to make sock buns, and I couldn't be more excited!  I must give the people what they want, and if what they want is maniacal stuffed rabbits hand-stitched from a pair of socks, then who am I to deny them that?!?  Hooray for sock buns!

With much help from my dear husband Matt, I would like to present our new webpage and order system for all your sock bun needs:

www.sockbun.ca  

(these buns have already found new homes, but yours will be just as cute)

Go there!  Tell your friends!  Buy a sock bun!  No, buy two!
 
Many thanks to those who were so enthusiastic in putting in their orders right away.  It was a major confidence boost, and I definitely needed it... I really appreciate all  the support and interest, and I assure you that you will LOVE your sock bun.  It is the cutest twenty bucks you will ever spend... no foolin'

Hooray for sock buns!  

anniversary of a real pain in the ass...

7 years ago today I was in a horrific bike accident, and though it happened so long ago and I was in excruciating pain, I remember just about every detail from that day.  I was riding my bike to work in Kingston, coming down the big hill on Division Street to the Shopper's Drug Mart at Kingslake Plaza just before Division exits onto the 401, and was going the same speed as the traffic (about 40-50kph, I would say).  It had rained that morning, so the road was pretty wet, which of course made my tires pretty wet, and my rims pretty wet, and therefore my brake pads pretty wet.  So when some jerk in front of the blue Acura that I was following decided that he/she REALLY REALLY needed to stop at Tim Horton's, turning at the last second without signalling, the Acura driver slammed on his brakes, and without having time to think too much about it, I slammed my brakes on too (if you can 'slam' brakes on a bike).  Because it was wet and I was going so fast, my bike quickly fish-tailed out of control and sent me into a giant skid, and before I knew it, I hit the pavement, going 50, landing smack-dab on my right hip and then skidding about ten feet along the road.

The incisions in my hip.  Oh they get better, believe me.

I have read that the femur is the strongest bone in the human body.  It is as strong as concrete.  Apparently no one told my right femur that, because it broke upon impact as soon as I hit the ground.  I can distinctly remember hearing it break - it sounded like when you take a big fat thick carrot by both ends and snap it in the middle.  I'll never forget that sound for as long as I live.  The force involved in that fall must have been pretty substantial to do that kind of damage.  At the time, I remember hearing it, but it didn't really register that I had broken anything; I guess probably because I was in some serious shock.  I had also dislocated my knee, which was a whole 'nother ball of wax... just agonizing pain...  I remember standing up, dazed, and trying to walk on my broken leg to get off the road.  The sickly feeling of broken bones buckling under my weight was pretty gruesome, and it hurt a whole lot, so I lay down again in the middle of the lane to await the ambulance, whose siren I could hear in the distance.

3 days after

When the paramedics arrived (one was named Terry, and I can't recall the other guy's name), they were just amazing.  They cut my pants off in the middle of the street, which I'm sure was just thrilling to the ten or so gawkers who had gathered to watch me writhe in agony (hey, I can't say anything bad about them; one of them called 911 after all). They got me on a back board and immobilized my neck and asked me a whole bunch of questions, and then they told me they were going to put my knee back where it should go, and that it would be the most pain I have ever experienced in my life.  No one wants to hear any kind of medical professional tell them this.  Ever. But they weren't lying.  The other dude (not Terry) held my shoulders, and Terry got down by my feet, and after telling me to take a deep breath, he YANKED ON MY BROKEN LEG with all his might.  Oh it hurt.  I remember screaming at the top of my lungs for what seemed to be a lifetime, but was probably just a couple of seconds, and then all of the sudden, my knee popped back into place and it was like a wave of instant relief washed over me... my pain was gone... never mind the broken femur, it didn't seem to be an issue, as far as pain level was concerned.  Then the EMTs bundled me into the back of the ambulance (which was pretty darn cool, I must say), and off we whizzed to Kingston General.

Five days after.  Pretty sweet road rash, eh?

At the hospital, I was put on a morphine drip and they stabilized me in a little room to wait the eight hours until they could get me in for surgery.  During this time, I had x-rays taken and learned that my femur was broken about three inches above my knee; a long, jagged, ugly looking break.  The bone had snapped, but on an angle, and then one of the broken ends had cracked up the length of the bone.  Pretty nasty.  I gave one of the nurses Matt's work number, and they made the call for me.  After talking to Matt for a bit, he hung up to start the journey from Cobourg, where he was still working at the time, only coming up to Kingston on weekends.  He got to KGH in record time, and I felt much better.  I drifted in and out of drug-addled consciousness, and then awoke to find myself upstairs being prepped for surgery.  Before I knew it, I was counting backwards from ten (I doubt I made it past 8 or 7), and then I woke up in a semi-private room in the dark, with Matt there holding my hand, promising me he would return the next day (it was about 3am).

Six days after.  Gettin' all yellowy now.

During surgery my surgeon, Dr. David Yu, made an incision at the top of my hip, drilled a canal down into the middle of the femur, then rammed a titanium rod through the length of the bone, and screwed it into the head of the femur just above the knee (I have seen this procedure done on TV since then, and it does not look pretty.)  My leg swelled up to at least twice its normal size, and it was most uncomfortable, to say the least.  I  woke up the next morning at the crack of dawn with the bitchiest nurse on the face of the planet telling me to 'get up!' and yanking the covers off of me.  Get up??  Was this woman completely mad?  No.  Well, maybe.  She got me up and out of bed and standing with the help of a walker, and I shuffled gingerly to the bathroom.  I tried to get on the toilet to pee, but had some difficulty, which resulted in me pissing on the floor.  I did this several more times while I was there, and I think the orderly who came to mop the floor for the umpteenth time during my stay really really wanted me to die.  If looks could kill... sheesh...

One week after.  If there was a 'best bruise' contest, I would be a shoe-in.

After a few days of half-assed physio, when they were satisfied that I had mastered the crutches, I was finally allowed to go home.  I was given a prescription for some serious narcotics and was told that a physiotherapist would be by once a week to help me with my recovery.  The pain was horrific as Matt bundled me into our van and drove over the pot-holed streets of downtown Kingston to our basement apartment on Fraser Street.  I was dizzy and light-headed and weak; I thought I would never make it down the stairs to the pull-out couch which Matt had set up for me, as our bed was too low to get in and out of easily.  He took great care of me for several days after my return home, which was good, because I sure as hell couldn't.  My sweetheart is such a great guy... aww...

Nine days after.  Such colour!  Such texture!  lol

But then he had to leave.  Matt left Kingston for Cobourg, and I was on my own until the following weekend, when he could come up and see me again.  I was petrified.  I was all alone in a basement apartment in the middle of December, and was so sore and light-headed that even the most menial task like going to the bathroom or making myself something to eat took forever.  Everything was SO hard.  My leg was still swollen and puffy, and I could barely find it in me to do much of anything... if I had had a bedpan, I would never have gotten out of bed, because it was just so much work.  I realize that the best thing in such situations is to get up and get back to normal as quickly as possible, but that idea seemed totally laughable at the time.  I couldn't sleep, I couldn't eat, I couldn't go anywhere, and I was all alone except for three cats (Spliff, Black Cat, and Frank) and our first rabbit, Zeus.  And while they did their best to take care of me (the three cats would not leave my side the entire time, and even Zeusie jumped up on the pull-out and stretched out beside my leg), it sucked, to say the least.

Frank (left), Black (behind my head) and Spliff (right) on nursing duty

Looking back, the accident and its aftermath has been one of the most challenging things I have ever had to deal with in my life.  But I try to look on the bright side.  If there had been a car behind me when I fell, I would be dead.  The shards of broken bone in my leg could have ripped through my femoral artery, and I could have bled to death on the side of the road before the ambulance arrived.  There is no end to the possible tragic endings that COULD have taken place, so I consider myself pretty lucky when it all boils down to it.  Definitely not something I want to do over again (I have been on a bike ONCE since my accident, but I am determined to ride the shit out of one the next chance I get).  Oh well, everyone has to have one exciting yet horrible story to tell for evermore, right?  In my case, I hope this is the one and only.  As for the titanium rod, it's still there.  I can have it taken out at any time if I want to, but it is totally unnecessary surgery, so I think I'll keep it.  I've grown quite attached to the dear little thing over the years, and it hasn't caused me any grief, so I see no point in having it removed.  

Plus, I like to tell the kids I am a robot.  

Attack of the Homicidal Jungle Cat...

I was most brutally savaged by a tiny tiger last week.  

You wouldn't think an eleven pound house cat would be able to inflict the sort of damage I have endured over the last eight days, but you would be sorely mistaken.  Last Tuesday I helped my dad take my parents' cats, Spot and Carol, to the vet for their annual check-up and vaccinations.  When asked a few days prior if I would help dad out, I agreed without thinking twice.  As it turns out, I should have thought twice.  While Spot is just the sweetest little cat you ever did see, his sister is a force to be reckoned with, and while I 'happily' take her abuse in the form of spitting and hissing and swearing when I go upstairs to cut her nails from time to time I seriously underestimated her sheer power and ferocity.  As a feral cat not much more than a kitten herself, Carol was rescued from a window well with her two tiny babies by a cat rescue agency and was put up for adoption, unwittingly taken in by my naive parents in their quest for a pal for Spot after our old dog Max had to be put to sleep.  She has always been on the wild side, and is never quick to trust anyone at all, but I had no idea she was capable of such carnage.  I mean, come on... it's a house cat, right?

After giving Spot his needle and putting him back in his carrier, Dr. Hall moved on to Carol.  The minute he touched her, she started muttering under her breath in that unearthly, eerie, demonic cat voice we are all familiar with; a foreshadowing of the hellfire that was about to be unleashed.  He checked her ears and mouth and heart and lungs and all that good stuff, then gave her her needle, and she was pretty well behaved, relatively speaking. I was duly impressed at her ability to keep her composure; I figured Dr. Hall would have long been disemboweled by this point in the proceedings.  Then he moved on to her nails.  Carol has trouble with her nails - sometimes they grow too long and curl around into her little pads, the poor thing - and since she is so violent and trimming them is a chore that involves me, dad, a towel, and lots of screaming and carrying on, we aren't as diligent about cutting them as we should be.  Since this was one of those times, and we were here to see Dr. Hall anyways and he probably happily cuts cats' nails all day long, dad asked if he wouldn't mind cutting them.  Like a fool, he agreed, and like a fool, I held her.  

I am no stranger to holding cats.  Whenever there are veterinary procedures to be done 'round these parts, I am inevitably the one to carry them out, and I do so quickly and efficiently with my pet's well-being in mind.  In fact, until I was eighteen, I lived my entire life believing I would become a veterinarian, and did my co-op in Grade 11 at this very clinic (the Dundas Animal Hospital), which is owned by Dr. Hall.  Needless to say, I like to think I know what I am doing when it comes to this sort of thing.  This soon changed, however.  As the vet started in on Carol's talons, her muttering turned to growling, which grew louder and louder with each toe.  Then the shit hit the fan.  When Dr. Hall tackled the nail that had curled over on itself, Carol EXPLODED.  

She screamed, she snarled, she spit and hissed and drooled and panted.  She wriggled and twisted and puffed herself up in a frenzy as she tried to get away from me.  I held her as tightly as I could in a futile attempt to keep her still, but she was like a rabid, cornered wolverine in a fight for her life.  And she bit.  She bit and bit and bit.  She sunk her teeth into my hands no less than three times; a not-so-serious chomp to the right wrist, and two bites so deep that her entire fang disappeared beneath the skin - once into the meat between the thumb and forefinger on my left hand, and on the other hand, she very nearly bit clear through my pinky finger.  At the time, sure, they hurt - I restrained myself from yelling 'FUCK!' at the top of my lungs in the vet's office, which I am very proud of - but the pain wasn't that bad, and I didn't think they would turn out to be so serious!  I'd been bitten by cats before; certainly not this badly, but I'd been bitten by cats before.  I was more concerned that Carol was ok, and that Dr. Hall was able to clip ALL of her nails, because I certainly wasn't going to finish the job after this little psychotic display.  It took dad (who was scratched for his participation) and I both to hold Carol down and cover her face with a towel, while Dr. Hall finished her nails, and then we shoved her back into her carrier and I assessed the damage.  

My hands were already starting to swell to an unbelievable size - they looked like inflated surgical gloves - and they were turning an angry shade of reddish purple.  They were burning and itching like crazy, and had started to throb painfully.  I didn't think very much of it, being preoccupied by the sheer amazement of Carol's ability to defend herself for such a wee beastie... dad and I drove home in awe at the fury and speed of her attack.  After coming back downstairs (mom and dad live above us), I looked up 'cat bite' on the internet, just out of curiosity.  Like an idiot, I was totally skeptical when all I read was how dangerous cat bites can be, and how serious they are, and how at least 40% of them turn out to be infected and require medical attention, so I did nothing right away except wash them really well and put Polysporin on them.  Surely they couldn't be that bad, could they?  It's only a cat, for pete's sake!  

But no.  I was wrong.  It seems cat bites are among the worst out there.  Their slimy, filthy, little cat mouths are teeming with bacteria, including Pasteurella, Staphylococcus, Streptococcus, and Clostridium, just to name a few.  And while they have little to no bite pressure (unlike dogs, which have teeth designed to crush bones, etc), and are unable to move their jaws back and forth to grind their food (cat jaws can only move up and down, not back and forth), the shape of their teeth contributes to the severity of the bite.  Because cats' teeth, particularly the long canine teeth, are long, thin, cone-shaped, and needle sharp, they are capable of penetrating deep into flesh and leaving puncture wounds that close up when the tooth has been pulled out.  While this may not sound so bad, the danger lies in their filthy bacteria-ridden saliva, which is essentially 'injected' into the hole and then left under the skin to fester once the wound has closed up again.  Cats are essentially venomous, it seems... like little komodo dragons, or little gila monsters... While I should have heeded the advice to head to the hospital immediately and get my wounds checked out, I was so tired and the thought of sitting in emerg for a couple of hours was so unappealing that I decided to wait until morning, and tried my best to get comfortable enough to go to sleep; no mean feat, let me assure you.  

The next morning, I woke up in excruciating pain.  My hands were huge and the flesh around each bite was a red, hot, blotchy, streaky mess.  I had Matt drop me off at St. Joe's on his way to work, thinking I would be out in an hour or so with a prescription for an oral antibiotic.  No such luck.  When I told the triage nurse I was there because of a cat bite, he rushed me through the intake process, and before I knew it I was whisked away for my first course of IV antibiotics.  I sat with an IV drip in my arm for half an hour, then a lovely, dreamy nurse named John unhooked me, taped the little lead tube to my arm leaving the needle in the back of my hand (after blowing out a vein in the top of my forearm... ugh), and bandaged my puffy freakish paws for the return home.  I came back twice more for more IV antibiotics and was given a prescription for ten days of clavulin (in pill form this time, thankfully) on top of that.  Finally, on Thursday afternoon, the IV and bandages were removed and I was told I didn't have to come back unless things took a turn for the worse.  I am finally able to close my hands in a half-assed fist (they still hurt like crazy and I can't make a tight fist, but seeing as how a few days ago I couldn't even move my fingers, I'll take what I can get), and the swelling has gone down almost completely.  It appears I am 'on the mend.'

If anything, I have gained a whole new respect for house cats through all of this.  I think a lot of the time we forget that we are living with what are essentially 'little big cats' and that above all commonly-kept pets, cats remain the most unchanged by evolution and domestication.  Cats command respect and will not be coerced, tricked, or forced into anything they don't see as worth doing, and for years and years human beings have learned to accept this, so I guess I should have seen this coming a mile away.  Carol's explosive reaction was phenomenal, and there is no doubt in my mind as to her ability to defend herself when faced with danger.  Seriously, I am still in awe.  While my initial feeling was something akin to wanting to boot her down the stairs (no, I'm kidding, I could never do that...), I have since come to terms with the fact that she was just doing what any cat would do, whether it be a pampered tabby or the most ferocious of wild beasts.  That being said, will I go upstairs to help cut her nails any time in the near future??


Not on your life.  

Evil, heathen Carol (left) and lovely, wonderful, well-behaved Spot (right)

Smokers are jerks... and I mean that in the nicest possible way

I am a proud non-smoker, and I always have been. Oh sure, I tried it in grade eight when the rest of the world (i.e. my group of friends) tried it, but lucky for me it just didn't stick. I am amazed that it didn't, but it didn't.  Two adults I lived with for the duration of my childhood who prefer to remain nameless smoked my entire life. My brother, who was my hero growing up (not that he isn't still or anything) smoked from the age of about fifteen until he found out he was going to be a dad five years ago. My husband Matt smokes. Most of my friends smoke. Why not me? What made me say 'Ew, this is disgusting, what is wrong with you people?' and not them? It puzzles me to no end. Not that I am complaining or anything; I've saved myself a lot of money, a lot of health problems, and a lot of hassle by choosing not to smoke, so I am definitely glad I never took it up.

That being said, I have never been one to rag on smokers all the time for their choice of habit. I am not one of those non-smokers that bitches about smoke from your cigarette going in my face, or one who will not hang out at certain friends' houses because they are nicotine fiends, and never would I NOT see a band or musician I liked because I might inhale a little second-hand smoke. I tend to avoid situations where I am unable to breathe, as a rule, but it isn't going to ruin my night if I have to deal with it. While it amazes me that people in this day and age STILL decide to take up smoking even with all the scientific evidence that suggests it just might not be a good idea after all, I am not one to go into some big spiel about how you are going to get any number of cancers, shorten your lifespan by about fifteen years, have disgusting breath and stinky clothes, nicotine stains on your fingers, an increased number of fine lines and wrinkles, end up with heart- and/or lung-disease, become impotent, increase your risk of stroke by 40-60%, increase your heart rate and blood pressure, or significantly decrease your circulation. That's your problem, smokers, not mine.

But what's with smokers thinking it is ok to chuck butts everywhere? Seriously, it's nearly as disgusting as the act of smoking itself. Maybe even more so, now that I think about it, since it affects the general public and the environment instead of just the health and wellbeing of the smokers themselves. Why is it so easy for people - even good people who pick up after themselves and recycle and sort their garbage and all that good stuff - to throw their butts on the ground? Do they honestly think it does not count as littering? Because it does... and nothing pisses me off more than littering. Cigarette butts, made primarily from a type of plastic called cellulose acetate lovingly wrapped in paper and rayon, take anywhere from 18 months to 10 years to decompose, depending on the environment they are so haphazardly thrown into. They are not completely biodegradable, only breaking down into smaller physical components. In addition to the 'visible' cigarette butt itself, each one contains toxic chemicals such as benzene, arsenic, ammonia, nicotine, tar, butane, cadmium, formaldehyde, copper, DDT, acetone, lead, turpentine, radon, stearic acid, methanol, toluene, and hydrogen cyanide (to name a few) that leach into the surrounding environment, stunting plant growth and invariably ending up in our waterways, where each cigarette butt pollutes 40L of drinking water. Cigarette butts are also a danger to wildlife who ingest them thinking they are food, and are responsible for millions of fires worldwide (90,000 yearly in the US alone). They are the most-littered item in the entire world, with billions of butts being thrown on the ground each year.

The world is not your ashtray. If you want to smoke, that's fine; that's your choice. But throwing it on the sidewalk, or on the road, or in a nice wooded area, has got to be the pinnacle of ignorance. Use the ashtray in your car, carry a bit of foil or a little container in your coat pocket to put them in, or use provided 'butt stops.' There is no reason for them to end up on the ground. Thank you.

gross.

Who do you wear YOUR poppy for?

Today, Remembrance Day, marks the 92nd anniversary of the signing of the Armistice between Germany and the Allies during the First World War.  At the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month 1918, key members of the Allied Forces met with representatives from Germany in a railway car in the Compiègne Forest in France, to sign the military agreement that would end the fighting on the Western Front and signify the end of 'The War to End All Wars.'   When I was a little kid in elementary school, I can vividly remember people making more of an effort to commemorate this important event, and to recognize the struggles and sacrifices made by those who fought and died for their country in The Great War and in all the wars and battles all over the world since that day.  I recall having a Remembrance Day parade at school that culminated in an assembly in the gym, where we all recited 'In Flanders Fields' and sang 'O Canada.'  We had visits from those who had fought valiantly in battle, then we coloured our own paper poppies in class, pinned them to our coats, and marched down to the Cenotaph in Gore Park for two minutes of silence - back when it was a full two minutes of silence - to honour the fallen and to give thanks to the veterans who were still alive to share their stories with us.  


But it seems as I get older, Remembrance Day does not hold the same clout it once did.  Is it just me?  Not having kids in the public school system, I am totally oblivious to what is being taught about the subject in school today, if anything, so please excuse my ignorance if I am totally wrong.  It just seems that now, or even by the time I was in high school (and was proud secretary of the History Club, thank you very much), students are not presented with the same volume of information they were when I was in my formative years, and if they are, learning about such important events is often optional.  When you are fourteen, are trying to be 'cool,' and are confronted with the choice between spending a couple hours in the library talking to a bunch of old dudes about wars that happened decades ago, or going home early for the afternoon to veg out in front of the TV or hang out with friends, unfortunately, for all but a few of us, the pull of after-school programming wins out every time.  With recent pitches to declare Remembrance Day a statutory holiday, I fear for the future of this solemn day of reflection.  It should not be a day to sleep late, or nurse a hangover, or go shopping, of all things.  The attempt by companies like Sears and Eddie Bauer to make a buck from someone's courageous loss of life with the advent of a 'Remembrance Day Sale' is an insult to our vets.


I remember my mom giving Justin and I a poppy each fall.  When asked why we wear our poppies, she would tell us the story of Onkel Arne, my MorMor's brother.  Arne Poulsen, 18 years old, was killed in Hans Christian Andersen Park in Odense, Denmark on 5 May 1945.  Arne dreamed of being an agricultural consultant and running a farm some day, and worked on a farm in a little village just outside of Odense to gain the experience required to get into agricultural college.  During the Second World War, MorMor - who was 14 or so at the time of his death - didn't see very much of Arne.  She thought it was because he was away at school, and he was... but he was also a freedom fighter; a member of the Danish Resistance Movement (Modstandsbevægelsen... don't ask me how to say this) that fought the occupation of Denmark by Nazi Germany and helped transport Danish Jews out of the country to safety.  In fact, Arne was part of the group that received and decoded secret messages sent from the Allies via BBC Radio and Danmarks Radio, notifying the Modstandsbevægelsen of where and when the next drop of weapons and munitions would be to help them fight the common enemy and regain Denmark's freedom from the Nazis.  MorMor didn't see very much of him, because Arne could have been arrested at any time for his involvement and imprisoned, sent to a concentration camp, or worse, as would anyone else in his company at the time.  He stayed away because he did not want to endanger his parents, two sisters and two brothers.  The last time MorMor remembers seeing her brother was the evening of May 4th, 1945.  The next day, May 5th, Denmark was liberated from German occupation by the Allies, but in a cruel twist of fate, Arne would never get to see a 'free' Denmark.  While ridding Odense of the last fleeing Nazi soldiers, Arne's friend was gunned down in HC Andersen Park.  Arne ran out to try to save him, and was killed on the spot.  He died beside his friend in the park on what is now celebrated as Liberation Day in Denmark.  When I was there in 1998, MorMor, Onkel Svend and I visited HC Andersen Park and saw the plaques that mark the places where Arne and his friend fell on that day, along with many other brave men and women who fought to keep their country free.  


On Remembrence Day, I wear my poppy for Arne Poulsen.  I will never forget his story, and I will share his story with my kids some day, so they never forget either.  If it weren't for people like Arne who fought so bravely, I wouldn't be here today, and neither would you.  This Remembrance Day, please pay proper respect to those who fought and died to defend their country and stand up for what is right.  Don't 'celebrate' by buying a sweater, or sleeping in... speak with a veteran.  Listen to their stories and hear the first-hand account of what it was really like to fight for what you believe in.  Hear about the sacrifices made and the lives lost and the victories won.  Because there will come a time when we won't be able to do that anymore, and sadly that time isn't all that far off.  According to Veterans Affairs, there are only 143700 Canadian veterans from the Second World War alive today, at an average age of 87, and 12000 veterans from the Korean War, at an average age of 78.  Twenty thousand Canadian vets die each year.  At that rate, by the year 2018, there will be no one left to share with us the stories of war such as we have never heard before in our lifetime.   At 11am today, take two minutes - a full two minutes - out of your busy day to think about what Remembrance Day really means to you.  To me, it means having the freedom to think, choose, and believe whatever I want to think, choose or believe, and live a life that is free of tyranny and oppression - thanks to brave souls like Arne who did their part to uphold these basic human rights.   

I hope I did the right thing... *sigh*

I always have such a hard time with euthanasia.  Not that putting a loved one 'to sleep' (how quaint!) should ever be easy, but I am always completely torn asunder when one of our beloved beasties is in so much pain or distress that there is nothing else to do but say goodbye.  While I would love to be writing about how much fun I had on my little adventure to see Billy Connolly at Massey Hall on Saturday night, I am just so darned sad today.  I can't even muster a single chuckle when I think about seeing my favourite comedian for the third time, this time at one of the world's most beautiful and historic venues.

Yesterday morning I had to have Norrie put 'to sleep'.

For those of you who are not familiar with my furry family, Norton (Norrie) was a beautiful, elderly tortoiseshell cat.  My gran adopted Norrie an amazing SEVENTEEN years ago from a cat rescue agency here in Hamilton.  A victim of population explosion, little Norrie (I named her Norton... gran and I were watching 'The Honeymooners'... ha ha) was looking for a quiet home after being an abused, neglected barn cat for the first year of her life.  Gran took her in and she lived a quiet happy life for many many years from the comfort of the back bedroom.  When I moved home from Kingston five years ago, and moved in with gran to help her out, Norrie and I became really good buddies.  It took her a while to trust me (it took her a while to trust anyone) but once we got to know each other better, we became the best of friends, so it was no trouble at all when Norrie officially became 'my cat' after gran moved into the nursing home.  She was so sweet and meek and timid.  She feared loud noises, sudden movements, and thunderstorms (among other things... ok, who am I kidding, she was afraid of everything).  She had the richest, most beautiful, most luxurious purr I will ever hear in my life.  She was such a good listener.  She used to mutter under her breath in a weird, rusty, squawky meow.  She used to sleep under the covers beside me.  She was a beautiful combination of black and brown and marmalade tabby that I have never seen the likes of before.  She had one orange toe that I just loved to bits.

But late Saturday night, when I got home from Toronto, I was confronted with a scene of pure carnage.  There were pools of blood on the carpet in the bedroom, and drops and splatters all over the hall and bathroom floor.  I thought Matt had cut a finger off in my absence, quite frankly, that's how much blood there was.  (The fact that he was sleeping peacefully didn't really register at the time... ha ha)  After coming to my senses a bit, I thought it was a rabbit fight, which can be pretty brutal.  But after counting long-eared heads and checking for obvious wounds, I checked the cats, and found where all the blood was coming from.  Poor Norrie.  She was trying to pee, and she couldn't.  Instead of peeing, she was bleeding; it was matted in her tail and all down her pants.  She wasn't complaining, or crying, just wandering around bewildered, trying to go to the bathroom.  And she was purring.

When I saw what was wrong, I felt just awful.  I had seen blood in Norrie's urine off and on for a little while, but Norrie was so timid and easily freaked out that invasive veterinary procedures would have been so stressful for her, and I fear would have done more harm than good at this point.  She just couldn't handle it.  After much research, we thought it was her food, and had been slowly changing foods to try and get to the bottom of her urinary issues (and to prevent similar issues in Black and Frank), with varying degrees of success.  Believe it or not, most commercial cat food is completely unsuitable for cats.  Unlike dogs, cats are strictly carnivores, which means they should eat nothing but MEAT.  Cats should not eat corn, or rice, or 'chicken by-product meal'.  Cats should eat meat.  Commercial pet foods do not provide this for cats, and it just isn't fair.  In fact, most feline health complaints are the result of improper diet, even when cat owners believe they are providing nothing but the best for their cats.  I am currently researching switching Black and Frank to the BARF diet (bones and raw food) for cats, but that is a blog for another day.  When it came to poor old Norrie, I realized that it was too late.  I had failed her.  On Saturday night, I cleaned her up as best I could, and gave her something good to eat, and we spent the night sleeping on the floor together, just camping out.  She got under the covers with me, and I patted her, and she purred and purred, just like she always did.

First thing Sunday morning, Matt and dad and I bundled up Norrie and took her to the Hamilton Wentworth Emergency Vet, and I held Norrie while they gave her the injection that would end her life.  I am just beside myself with grief.  Did I do all I could?  Did I do the right thing?  She seemed so healthy just days ago.  What if I could have saved her?  She wasn't crying or acting funny.  I know cats purr when they are in pain, and I know that Norrie was not the kind of cat to cry and wail, but she must have been in so much discomfort.  Right?  I know that at nearly eighteen, she had the longest, happiest life a cat could ever hope for or wish for, but euthanasia has always been the sort of thing that scares the shit out of me.

There are times when there is nothing else that can be done for a pet, and at times like that I am thankful that euthanasia is an option, because the alternative - watching a pet suffer and suffer until they die - is  positively unthinkable.  I myself have had to make this decision to end an animal's life way too many times, and it never gets easier, nor should it.  But so many people see it as such an easy choice to make, when their pet could be easily saved by a simple operation and/or medication.  Pets are not disposable.  Potential vet bills from illness and old age should always be taken into consideration when opting to welcome any furry critter into the home.  I understand that these things are not cheap and that, since there is no legislation determining the cost of veterinary medicine or procedures, vet clinics can pretty much charge whatever the hell they want for their services.  Vet care is expensive for any animal, and it is so hard to put a price on one's love for their pet.  Because of this, I always feel just awful when I have to make the decision to end a life.  What if I could have done something to save Norrie?  She didn't have a voice to tell me how she felt; if she was in pain, or if she was uncomfortable, or if she wanted me to take 'drastic measures' to save her.  Did she understand that I loved her and that I wanted to do what was best for her?  Did she know she was not 'disposable' to me, and that I wasn't taking the easy way out?

aaarrgghhh.  I hope so.  I'm so sorry Norrie-cat.

You know she is sick if you can take her picture; she used to think you were trying to steal her soul if you had a camera in your hand