The first Drug Pushers in history to lose money is the Canadian Government. Despite all their marijuana malfeasance and their legal manipulation, the illegal pushers can still market the pot significantly cheaper than the Government can: of course the government is simply bleeding the taxpayers dollars and not their own. Buying votes is the governmental priority and they certainly saw this as a cheap way to buy the youth vote. They also saw it as a vast source of income because everyone knows that selling drugs is the way to make a fortune (under honest crooks, in contradistinction to the dishonest ones in government). But when Ronald Reagan said, "The nine most frightening words in the English language is 'I'm from the Government and I'm here to help' he was right on the ball. No one but the government could lose money pushing drugs, but that is nowhere near the worst of the damages they have perpetrated. The medical consequences of long term use of pot are by no means fully known. The legalization of marijuana was passed by a government that had not adequately investigated either the health consequences or the business mechanisms necessary to produce the end product as a source of income rather than a liability. Our Prime Minister has probably had more experience of weed in his early years than most and HE thinks he's okay! By all accounts his mother was no amateur either!
After all it is only the taxpayers money that is at stake.Instead of replacing the black market marijuana that manages to produce and sells at about half the price of the legal product the Dope was not smart enough to realize that a government requires at least a rudimentary knowledge of the danger of a product that they are unleashing on the public and the necessity to produce the evidence that it is relativity safe to the user and not a hazard to the public at large. This government does not. The tragedy is that the Dope's move to hurriedly implement the program is going to encourage the illicit market to grow bolder, has no real safeguards against driving and other hazardous activities while high on weed, or worse still on a combination of weed and booze. The great pride that Canada Health has voiced in reducing tobacco smoking is likely to be overwhelmed by the increase in weed smoking which is just as damaging to the lungs as cigarette smoking. Smoke from pot contains the same toxins and carcinogens as tobacco and tends to be inhaled more deeply and held in the lungs for longer.
Other long-term effects of marijuana include such non benign effects as temporary hallucinations, paranoia and worsening of symptoms in patients with schizophrenia. Some studies have demonstrated that weed use is associated with reduced volume in certain areas of the brain that are involved with memory, learning and self control.
A large New Zealand study found that long term use starting in adolescence results in a loss of six to eight IQ points.
The endocannaboid system is known to play an important role in the proper formation of synapses during early brain development.
Memory impairment from marijuana use occurs because THC alters how the hippocampus, a brain area that is responsible for memory formation, processes information. As people age they lose neurons in the hippocampus which decreases their ability to learn new information. THC accelerates this loss in rats significantly.
There is considerable evidence that pot is a gateway drug and serves to introduce its users to other more potent drugs. There is also evidence of a link between pot and psychiatric disorders.
These are a few of the long term problems created by the premature legalization of marijuana. With the passage of time we are like to find significantly more.
Next time we'll take a look at the havoc and damage the short term effects can have.
Mainly events that occur in and around the medical world. Some you need to know about and some you don't. All to either inform or amuse you.
Tuesday, 6 August 2019
Sunday, 28 July 2019
Obstetrical days at the Rotunda.
Come along with me,
Down the river Liffey..........,
To the Rotunda, the oldest continuously functioning Maternity Hospital in the world.
Established March 1745.
We were sitting in Mooney's pub, right across from the Rotunda Maternity Hospital, where they maintained a phone line specially for the students, residents and doctors on call who could have a cozy meal and a beer, while they were waiting to be called to assist in the delivery of a new addition to the human race. Sometimes the wait was long.
In those days, before anesthesia and Caesarian Section was the rule, observation and patience were paramount and CS was reserved for emergency situations. So patience was a major part of the game.
"Team B report to District Maternity Gate 2 to go on home delivery immediately."
Team B was me, and a rather older rather aristocratic English guy, whose surname was 'English' (appropriately) and a midwife neither of us knew. We didn't drink very much mainly because even if we wanted to most of us couldn't have afforded it, so there was no problem in the fact that our waiting area was a pub, rather than the squalid cells that the Rotunda assigned to us as our living quarters.
We gathered at gate 2. We introduced ourselves to the midwife and we hustled into the ambulance. Five minutes later we were at a crumbling tenement and the midwife said to the driver, "you hold on for a few minutes while I assess the situation and decide whether I am staying here or going back to the hospital with you."
"Okay Mam."
A rather motley crew Anthony English, the upper class Englishman, the Midwife, Moira O'Connell and Smith, the Irish Jew disembarked from the ambulance.
"Wait here," ordered Moira, authoritatively.
The driver could see that she was middle-aged (over forty only by a bit, mind you) and was obviously in charge.
We entered a large, old dilapidated Georgian house that had obviously once been the magnificent home of some wealthy aristocrat, but was now a crumbling tenement, housing God knows how many families. Families with four and more kids often lived in one or two rooms, peeling wall paper, with filthy floor covering that might once have been linoleum. A fireplace was the only heating, an alcove with a stove for cooking was the only source of hot water, so bathing was rare and when the large man-sized corrugated metal basin that was used for bathing was eventually filled with hot water, once every week or two it had to be boiled by the kettleful. It was too precious to waste, so Mam and Dad bathed in it first and then the children in order of seniority. Hot or even luke warm water was precious. Thus it was in Sean McDermot Street and many more areas in the heart of down town Dublin, where the once magnificient mansions of the wealthy were then dirty slums.
We walked into the shabby two roomed apartment. It was noisy, with several yelling kids with snotty noses were racing around while an older sister of about nine was trying to control them. The husband was sitting by the fire reading the newspaper. His wife, Mary, was sitting in an armchair at the right side of the fireplace, puffing on a cigarette and in no obvious discomfort yet. They both greeted us warmly, and the husband stood up to welcome us.but before he had a chance to say a word his wife chipped in.
"I told him he shouldn't be calling the hospital so early. I only just started having a few pains an hour or two ago and nothing much at that. (We called labour pains just that - it was before the time when politically correct terminology called for everything to be seen in a euphemistic and unrealistic light. After all they were contractions, not pains. After a few hundred deliveries I still think of them as pains.)
"We'll do an examination now to see whats what," said the Midwife.
We went into the other room and after getting our stethoscopes out of our bag, examined the patient's abdomen to determine the position of the baby and listen to the fetal heartbeat. She questioned us at each step, "What's the baby's position? Is the head engaged? "
Then came the really difficult embarrassing part.
"Now it's time to do the pelvic examination." The expectant mother was completely unfazed by the proceedings. She'd been this route several times before and was chatting away affably as all this was going on.
We put our gloves on, only slightly used that were kept soaking in a huge basin of disinfectant, from which we recovered them, patting them dry before we left the hospital. Both of us went through the process of examining the woman under the expert guidance of the Midwife.
"Can you feel the cervix?"
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
"Er, I don't understand."
"It's very posterior, isn't it." she prompted.
"Yes." I agreed.
"Just starting to dilate, don't you think."
"Yes." I agreed eagerly.
"Oh, I knew it was going to be quite a while," said the patient. "The pains are just starting to get a bit regular but still a long time apart. It mightn't be until tomorrow.
At the end of all this the midwife decided that it was going to be quite a while before this lady delivered.
"I want you lads to get the bed ready. I want you to time the contractions and keep a log and I want you to check the fetal heart regularly. I'll be back in a couple of hours to see how things are going."
She placed a mysterious large black bag she had been carrying in front of us.
"You'll find all the stuff you need for preparing the bed right there in the bag. You've both done your required three deliveries in the hospital and observed many, so if she comes along much more rapidly than we expect, you'll know what to do."
We were getting more and more anxious by the minute and she succeeded in topping off our fears.
"If you were getting really worried that things are going wrong there is a public phone half a block from here. You can phone the hospital and have the 'Flying Squad' out in five minutes. Anyway, I'll be back in a couple of hours and from what I can see now it's unlikely we'll be much further along."
With those reassuring words, she took her leave and left it to Tony English and me to carry on. We started to unload the black bag. With each item, kept in place by an elastic band, we looked at each other, trying to figure out just what was what.
Mary, no fool and a veteran at this game, smiled at us, pulled out a Woodbine - a cheap cigarette that came in a paper package, (the good ones, like Players came in a cardboard pack).
"Would you lads like a cigarette?" she asked considerately.
"Have one of mine," said Tony, pulling out his packet of luxury brand fags."
She took one gratefully and so did I. We all lit up, sucked on the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
Mary said, "That first little package you unloaded is a rubber sheet, you put that over the mattress, so all the blood and stuff doesn't destroy it. The second package there is a bunch of old newspapers."
She was interrupted by her husband: "Mary, I just have to go down and pick up a few groceries and a bottle of milk for the kids breakfast in the morning."
Mary smiled wearily. "Okay, don't be too long."
She looked knowingly at us as he left, "He's just going down to Murphy's for a couple of pints. This is all very hard on him, being out of a job and all."
She eyed us unbundling the rubber sheet that was to waterproof the mattress. On top of that, to mop up the blood and fluid that would soak through the sheet we carefully placed layers of old newspaper and anothre sheet on top.
"Yes, that's right." she said approvingly. "Now how would you like a nice cup of tea? Oh I'm just gettng a contraction," she added, holding her back.
"We better have you lie down so we can check your abdomen and the baby's heartbeat."
"Ah there is nothing much happening yet, just finish up making the bed and then we'll have a nice cuppa and then youse can examine me."
She called her eldest daughter Una, the nine or ten year old who was obviousy taking over from her until this inconvenience was over. " Make the boys here a nice cup of tea."
That's exactly what she did and although the immaculate Tony looked at his not too immaculate, chipped cup anxiously, he had the good grace to take a few sips.
In an attempt to divert attention from his poorly disguised disdain I enthusiastically exclaimed,
"A really great cup of tea, just the way I like it! " I shoved a broken biscuit into my mouth and chewed noisily.
The eldest girl came into the room again. "Is the tea alright, doctors?" she asked anxiously.
Delighted at being mistaken for doctors, even by a nine year old, we assured her it was delicious!.
"Mammy, I told the kids that they have to stay in the other room because you are going to have baby soon, but they don't do what I tell them. You'll have to talk to them." said Una.
"Bring them in here," said Mary.
Nine year old Una herded three snotty-nosed kids and carried a one year old in her arms.
"Now you all do what Una tells you," she said sternly. "She's in charge until i have the new baby. Don't make me tell your father on you. Okay, now you can go out in the street and play."
In those days it was safe for the kids to play in the street. Una shuffled the three yelling kids out of the door and still carrying the little one said. "Don't worry Mammy, I'll keep an eye on them." as she followed them out of the room.
Down the river Liffey..........,
To the Rotunda, the oldest continuously functioning Maternity Hospital in the world.
Established March 1745.
We were sitting in Mooney's pub, right across from the Rotunda Maternity Hospital, where they maintained a phone line specially for the students, residents and doctors on call who could have a cozy meal and a beer, while they were waiting to be called to assist in the delivery of a new addition to the human race. Sometimes the wait was long.
In those days, before anesthesia and Caesarian Section was the rule, observation and patience were paramount and CS was reserved for emergency situations. So patience was a major part of the game.
"Team B report to District Maternity Gate 2 to go on home delivery immediately."
Team B was me, and a rather older rather aristocratic English guy, whose surname was 'English' (appropriately) and a midwife neither of us knew. We didn't drink very much mainly because even if we wanted to most of us couldn't have afforded it, so there was no problem in the fact that our waiting area was a pub, rather than the squalid cells that the Rotunda assigned to us as our living quarters.
We gathered at gate 2. We introduced ourselves to the midwife and we hustled into the ambulance. Five minutes later we were at a crumbling tenement and the midwife said to the driver, "you hold on for a few minutes while I assess the situation and decide whether I am staying here or going back to the hospital with you."
"Okay Mam."
A rather motley crew Anthony English, the upper class Englishman, the Midwife, Moira O'Connell and Smith, the Irish Jew disembarked from the ambulance.
"Wait here," ordered Moira, authoritatively.
The driver could see that she was middle-aged (over forty only by a bit, mind you) and was obviously in charge.
We entered a large, old dilapidated Georgian house that had obviously once been the magnificent home of some wealthy aristocrat, but was now a crumbling tenement, housing God knows how many families. Families with four and more kids often lived in one or two rooms, peeling wall paper, with filthy floor covering that might once have been linoleum. A fireplace was the only heating, an alcove with a stove for cooking was the only source of hot water, so bathing was rare and when the large man-sized corrugated metal basin that was used for bathing was eventually filled with hot water, once every week or two it had to be boiled by the kettleful. It was too precious to waste, so Mam and Dad bathed in it first and then the children in order of seniority. Hot or even luke warm water was precious. Thus it was in Sean McDermot Street and many more areas in the heart of down town Dublin, where the once magnificient mansions of the wealthy were then dirty slums.
We walked into the shabby two roomed apartment. It was noisy, with several yelling kids with snotty noses were racing around while an older sister of about nine was trying to control them. The husband was sitting by the fire reading the newspaper. His wife, Mary, was sitting in an armchair at the right side of the fireplace, puffing on a cigarette and in no obvious discomfort yet. They both greeted us warmly, and the husband stood up to welcome us.but before he had a chance to say a word his wife chipped in.
"I told him he shouldn't be calling the hospital so early. I only just started having a few pains an hour or two ago and nothing much at that. (We called labour pains just that - it was before the time when politically correct terminology called for everything to be seen in a euphemistic and unrealistic light. After all they were contractions, not pains. After a few hundred deliveries I still think of them as pains.)
"We'll do an examination now to see whats what," said the Midwife.
We went into the other room and after getting our stethoscopes out of our bag, examined the patient's abdomen to determine the position of the baby and listen to the fetal heartbeat. She questioned us at each step, "What's the baby's position? Is the head engaged? "
Then came the really difficult embarrassing part.
"Now it's time to do the pelvic examination." The expectant mother was completely unfazed by the proceedings. She'd been this route several times before and was chatting away affably as all this was going on.
We put our gloves on, only slightly used that were kept soaking in a huge basin of disinfectant, from which we recovered them, patting them dry before we left the hospital. Both of us went through the process of examining the woman under the expert guidance of the Midwife.
"Can you feel the cervix?"
"Yes."
"Where is it?"
"Er, I don't understand."
"It's very posterior, isn't it." she prompted.
"Yes." I agreed.
"Just starting to dilate, don't you think."
"Yes." I agreed eagerly.
"Oh, I knew it was going to be quite a while," said the patient. "The pains are just starting to get a bit regular but still a long time apart. It mightn't be until tomorrow.
At the end of all this the midwife decided that it was going to be quite a while before this lady delivered.
"I want you lads to get the bed ready. I want you to time the contractions and keep a log and I want you to check the fetal heart regularly. I'll be back in a couple of hours to see how things are going."
She placed a mysterious large black bag she had been carrying in front of us.
"You'll find all the stuff you need for preparing the bed right there in the bag. You've both done your required three deliveries in the hospital and observed many, so if she comes along much more rapidly than we expect, you'll know what to do."
We were getting more and more anxious by the minute and she succeeded in topping off our fears.
"If you were getting really worried that things are going wrong there is a public phone half a block from here. You can phone the hospital and have the 'Flying Squad' out in five minutes. Anyway, I'll be back in a couple of hours and from what I can see now it's unlikely we'll be much further along."
With those reassuring words, she took her leave and left it to Tony English and me to carry on. We started to unload the black bag. With each item, kept in place by an elastic band, we looked at each other, trying to figure out just what was what.
Mary, no fool and a veteran at this game, smiled at us, pulled out a Woodbine - a cheap cigarette that came in a paper package, (the good ones, like Players came in a cardboard pack).
"Would you lads like a cigarette?" she asked considerately.
"Have one of mine," said Tony, pulling out his packet of luxury brand fags."
She took one gratefully and so did I. We all lit up, sucked on the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
Mary said, "That first little package you unloaded is a rubber sheet, you put that over the mattress, so all the blood and stuff doesn't destroy it. The second package there is a bunch of old newspapers."
She was interrupted by her husband: "Mary, I just have to go down and pick up a few groceries and a bottle of milk for the kids breakfast in the morning."
Mary smiled wearily. "Okay, don't be too long."
She looked knowingly at us as he left, "He's just going down to Murphy's for a couple of pints. This is all very hard on him, being out of a job and all."
She eyed us unbundling the rubber sheet that was to waterproof the mattress. On top of that, to mop up the blood and fluid that would soak through the sheet we carefully placed layers of old newspaper and anothre sheet on top.
"Yes, that's right." she said approvingly. "Now how would you like a nice cup of tea? Oh I'm just gettng a contraction," she added, holding her back.
"We better have you lie down so we can check your abdomen and the baby's heartbeat."
"Ah there is nothing much happening yet, just finish up making the bed and then we'll have a nice cuppa and then youse can examine me."
She called her eldest daughter Una, the nine or ten year old who was obviousy taking over from her until this inconvenience was over. " Make the boys here a nice cup of tea."
That's exactly what she did and although the immaculate Tony looked at his not too immaculate, chipped cup anxiously, he had the good grace to take a few sips.
In an attempt to divert attention from his poorly disguised disdain I enthusiastically exclaimed,
"A really great cup of tea, just the way I like it! " I shoved a broken biscuit into my mouth and chewed noisily.
The eldest girl came into the room again. "Is the tea alright, doctors?" she asked anxiously.
Delighted at being mistaken for doctors, even by a nine year old, we assured her it was delicious!.
"Mammy, I told the kids that they have to stay in the other room because you are going to have baby soon, but they don't do what I tell them. You'll have to talk to them." said Una.
"Bring them in here," said Mary.
Nine year old Una herded three snotty-nosed kids and carried a one year old in her arms.
"Now you all do what Una tells you," she said sternly. "She's in charge until i have the new baby. Don't make me tell your father on you. Okay, now you can go out in the street and play."
In those days it was safe for the kids to play in the street. Una shuffled the three yelling kids out of the door and still carrying the little one said. "Don't worry Mammy, I'll keep an eye on them." as she followed them out of the room.
Wednesday, 10 July 2019
Ancient Obstetrics!
Obstetrics-the state of the art 70 years ago!
When I started learning how to deliver babies there was no ultrasound, there were no fetal monitors, x rays were considered dangerous and not very precise. Epidural anesthesia was unheard of. Most deliveries that were considered to be uncomplicated took place at home.
I recall coming into my office one Monday morning to find an X-ray pelvimetry report on my desk that stated, "There is gross disproportion between the baby's head and the pelvic inlet. This delivery will require a Caesarian section."
In fact I was called at three o'clock on Saturday morning and barely got there in time for the delivery which proceeded without difficulty.
Medical students in the world famous Rotunda Hospital got rigorous hands-on training, much of it in the slums of Dublin, 'on the district' as home deliveries were called. The 'delivery suite' might be half of a one room apartment with a sheet divider crudely hanging so as to divide the room in two. The pregnant woman and the 'delivery team were on one side of the sheet, while the husband and the kids (often several) were on the other side.
Behind the screen was the bed, often sagging and dirty and cleaning that up and preparing it for the forthcoming event was one of the duties of the medical students - usually under the watchful eye of the midwife, who ruled us with an iron fist. The bed needed to be stripped and a rubber sheet placed on top of the mattress and well tucked in so that the mattress, which may have to last a long time would not be destroyed with blood and amniotic fluid. To stop the fluids overflowing , on top of the rubber sheeting several layers of newspaper to sop up the excessive fluids. Over this was placed a single sheet on which the pregnant woman would lie and eventually give birth.
In those days, Caesarian Section carried a substantial risk and women often laboured for a long time. It was before the philosophy of "Never let the sun set twice on a contracting uterus" and it was not unusual for a woman to be in labour for two or three days or more, with all the attendant risks.
Once contractions started the husband or one of the kids would jump on their bicycle and race to the hospital. None of these patients had telephones.
"My wife (or Mammy) is going to have the baby. Send the doctor right away."
What they got was a midwife and a couple of students. The midwife was in charge and we were there to evaluate the situation. Was the woman actually in labour? Was the baby's head engaged (down into the birth canal)? What position was the baby in?
She taught us how to do the initial evaluation, how to do a proper pelvic examination, how to talk avoiding embarrassment for oneself and the patient. If the woman was not in well established labour the midwife would go on her way with a comment that she would be back in an hour or two after she called on some other patients in the vicinity who had recently given birth to see how they were feeling.
"I don't think she'll be doing much for a while but if the is any problem there is a public phone just half a block away and you can call the hospital for help. ".
This was long before the day of the cell phone and none of the patients had telephones. So two or three of us terrified students were left in charge barely aware of which orifice the baby might pop out of.
The midwife made sure we were instructed in the patient's medical history
particularly her obstetrical history. She would instruct and supervise each of us (2 or 3 students) in doing a pelvic examination emphasizing the need to assess cervical dilation and the necessity to determine the fetal position.
"She's not very dilated, is she?" inquired the Midwife. I had no idea.
"Er. I don't think so,". I tried to sound as though I at least had some idea of what I was doing.
"What about position?"
"Er. I'm not sure." I said stupidly.
She told me what I should looking for.
And so it went. We students learning all about the dramatic high forceps maneuvers in rare complicated cases that we would never be called upon to do, by high powered hospital Actor-specialists and learning the vital common everyday obstetrical skills which we would need as GPs from the midwife.
We also learned a great deal about life in the slums of Dublin and the influence of the Roman Catholic church that caused the poor and unfortunate to become even more poor and unfortunate. Ten, eleven, twelve and even thirteen children was not uncommon. I once delivered a woman of her seventeenth child and more than once I cared for a woman and daughter about to give birth at approximately the same time.
Come back in a couple of weeks and I'll take you with me on one of those adventures!
Thursday, 27 June 2019
The Pool without John.
The pool without John ain't what it used to be. Sure, I know lots of good folks and am friendly with a few but that exceptional relationship only occurs a very few times in the life of lucky people.
His son phoned me a couple of weeks ago to say that the hospice where John died was having a memorial evening and reception in memory of those who had died recently. He invited me to attend and I did. I know all his five children and they marveled as do I at the closeness of our late-life friendship. Not many people are fortunate enough to forge such a friendship at our advanced age.
"We all wondered how two such different guys could have such a close relationship?" his daughter said to me at the reception. It's true. He was an observant Christian (though I was never able to find out to exactly what specific order). I am an non-observant Jew, so we had some good religious discussions. He used to say to me ,"If you are right I have nothing to lose, if I'm right you're in big trouble!"
In politics he leaned left, I leaned right. We discussed those topics too, occasionally generating more heat than light, but that didn't matter either. We discussed other things too, that I'm not going to tell you about here and we were never, ever, Politically Correct.
We had a lot of laughs. He told me cop stories, I told him doc stories and we were old enough to laugh at our youthful mistakes and misadventures that had long since ceased to be sources of embarrassment. When recounting stories of some of the things that didn't work out he would say, "failure, the second best lesson!"
Most of those discussions took place in various inexpensive restaurants nearby wherever we had been swimming. (see above photo) For a while I took notes and when the waitress inquired what I was doing John would tell them, "my friend is a blog writer, he's probably going to write up your restaurant." Needless to say, he didn't tell them that my blog only had a half-dozen followers!
Given his talent for exaggerating a little in his story telling, John, whose surname was Dell, would maintain they were not exaggerations at all, they were just 'enDELLishments.
Sometimes when we were lunching out my daughter in Toronto would phone. I would immediately lose the phone while they chatted away for a few minutes. John and Rena never met, but when his son was playing in a production of 'Les Mis' in To, he presented Rena and Bill with tickets.
In the last few months when he wasn't up to swimming we played a lot of pool. He was quite a good pool player despite having very poor vision in one eye. When he played a particularly brilliant shot, he would turn to face me and triumphantly announce,"Not bad for a blind man!"
Despite multiple medical disorders, he never complained, (except to swear mildly when he couldn't do something he thought he should have been able to) He continued planning and doing for as long as he could.
In true Churchillian fashion he never surrendered; he never gave up.
t
Sunday, 16 June 2019
Pool Fools
We Pool Fools develop a strange, almost family-like relationship. We look out for each other and if someone doesn't show up for a while we ask anxiously:
"Have you seen X recently?"
We are not all old and not all hypochondriacal but we are mostly sufficiently 'with it' to recognize that a common reason for failing to show up is inability due to death or disease.
Now, don't get me wrong. We are not all living in fear of a visit of the Grim Reaper. Far from it. Most of us will do justice to our visit from him, when he catches up with us. No, we want to know that our erstwhile friends haven't found a better swimming pool or, (perish the thought), a more fascinating group of swimmers / bathers to immerse themselves in the water with.
As I stepped into the pool today I encountered a woman of about my own age who was a regular swimmer.
"How are you doing?" I asked.
"Oh not too bad," she answered. "It is getting a little harder to drag myself out of bed and get my joints moving. She laughed and added, "I think I'm going to try a little marijuana."
She wasn't joking.
"Better be careful, " I said. "Some of it can be pretty strong nowadays".
"Oh my friends and I have researched it pretty well." she explained. "Some of them have tried it out already. The just use the mildest stuff. They seem to think it's quite good. I haven't tried it yet."
None of us had seen Laura for months. She was well known to most of us. She was an exceptional swimmer with a lot of style who had put in forty laps of stylish and energetic swimming three days weekly. Not bad for a woman
with grown up grandchildren! Then I spotted her, but instead of cutting gracefully through the water as was her style, she was exercising carefully in the slow Lane and moving with great difficulty and discomfort.
"What happened to you," I asked. She looked awful.
"I was in an accident," she said. "I was nearly killed."
"What happened ?" I asked.
"We were going on a Trans Canada trip and I was riding on the back of his motorcycle," she said.
I gulped, (silently I hoped), at the prospect of this Grandma, no matter how young, riding pillion on a motorcycle on a cross Canada trip.
"We turned off the highway to check into a hotel, when the bike skidded out from under him and I flew off the back and that's all I remember. "
"You're lucky!" said I.
"Yes," said she, " I fractured vertebral bones in my neck. The doctor said I was really lucky that I didn't damage my spinal chord and become paraplegic! I'd rather have been killed outright than that."
"You were very lucky."
"Yes, I'm going to get a hundred per cent recovery no matter how hard I have to work!"
"Good," I said, noting that she had a long way to go . I moved on so she could carry on with her program.
I swam a few lengths and was just getting into my stride when Rick waved at me from two lanes to my right.. "Hey!" he yelled, "Haven't seen you for a while. Come over here and have a chat."
I sidled over two lanes. Rick likes to stay in the swimming lanes out of the line of vision of his athletic wife, pumping weights in the glass-walled exercise room upstairs from where she is able to keep an eye on him.
"She gets quite upset if she sees me just sitting chatting. She doesn't think I should stop swimming at all!"
Rick, probably in his early seventies now, went to University in the States on a football scholarship. He had done well but ended up with significant musculo-skeletal damage to his knees and ankles. He has difficulty walking but is quite comfortable pottering around in the water but is not committed to actually exercising. His wife keeps a strict eye on him to make sure he keeps moving, so he stays out of her line of sight as much as possible! I didn't keep him and just continued doing my laps.
Swimming laps can get boring at times so I have a few projects additional to elucidating the biographies of my fellow swimmers to keep me occupied while I complete my mandatory 'time'. I adhere to this quite obsessively, knowing full well that if I started wittling it down it would dwindle down to nothing in no time.
One of my favorite occupations is checking my cognitive prowess to reassure myself there is no significant deterioration setting in. I like to check my mathematical skills which were never great. As I watch the digital clock I do various calculations centering around how many seconds I have been swimming so far and how many more to go. Unfortunately the sequence sometimes breaks down mid-calculation and I have to start over again...... And again! When I succeed a couple of times I quit while I'm ahead and move on to something else, after congratulating myself appropriately.
I find learning a poem that I have been fond of particularly rewarding and useful. Firstly it is rewarding in and of itself, secondly, it is very much more impressive at Pen Club, when trying out someone's latest pen purchase to scribble a quatrain or two of Omar Khayyam rather than the traditional "The quick Brown fox jumps over the lazy dog."
My other diversion is thinking about my next blog. I have four or five regular readers who I would not want to disappoint.
So, thinking about my next blog content, Marathon Man and Dutch Jane spring to mind. I haven't seen them for a while.
So, perhaps next week - or next month, I'll tell you about them!!
Be sure to come back!! Or not!
"Have you seen X recently?"
We are not all old and not all hypochondriacal but we are mostly sufficiently 'with it' to recognize that a common reason for failing to show up is inability due to death or disease.
Now, don't get me wrong. We are not all living in fear of a visit of the Grim Reaper. Far from it. Most of us will do justice to our visit from him, when he catches up with us. No, we want to know that our erstwhile friends haven't found a better swimming pool or, (perish the thought), a more fascinating group of swimmers / bathers to immerse themselves in the water with.
As I stepped into the pool today I encountered a woman of about my own age who was a regular swimmer.
"How are you doing?" I asked.
"Oh not too bad," she answered. "It is getting a little harder to drag myself out of bed and get my joints moving. She laughed and added, "I think I'm going to try a little marijuana."
She wasn't joking.
"Better be careful, " I said. "Some of it can be pretty strong nowadays".
"Oh my friends and I have researched it pretty well." she explained. "Some of them have tried it out already. The just use the mildest stuff. They seem to think it's quite good. I haven't tried it yet."
None of us had seen Laura for months. She was well known to most of us. She was an exceptional swimmer with a lot of style who had put in forty laps of stylish and energetic swimming three days weekly. Not bad for a woman
with grown up grandchildren! Then I spotted her, but instead of cutting gracefully through the water as was her style, she was exercising carefully in the slow Lane and moving with great difficulty and discomfort.
"What happened to you," I asked. She looked awful.
"I was in an accident," she said. "I was nearly killed."
"What happened ?" I asked.
"We were going on a Trans Canada trip and I was riding on the back of his motorcycle," she said.
I gulped, (silently I hoped), at the prospect of this Grandma, no matter how young, riding pillion on a motorcycle on a cross Canada trip.
"We turned off the highway to check into a hotel, when the bike skidded out from under him and I flew off the back and that's all I remember. "
"You're lucky!" said I.
"Yes," said she, " I fractured vertebral bones in my neck. The doctor said I was really lucky that I didn't damage my spinal chord and become paraplegic! I'd rather have been killed outright than that."
"You were very lucky."
"Yes, I'm going to get a hundred per cent recovery no matter how hard I have to work!"
"Good," I said, noting that she had a long way to go . I moved on so she could carry on with her program.
I swam a few lengths and was just getting into my stride when Rick waved at me from two lanes to my right.. "Hey!" he yelled, "Haven't seen you for a while. Come over here and have a chat."
I sidled over two lanes. Rick likes to stay in the swimming lanes out of the line of vision of his athletic wife, pumping weights in the glass-walled exercise room upstairs from where she is able to keep an eye on him.
"She gets quite upset if she sees me just sitting chatting. She doesn't think I should stop swimming at all!"
Rick, probably in his early seventies now, went to University in the States on a football scholarship. He had done well but ended up with significant musculo-skeletal damage to his knees and ankles. He has difficulty walking but is quite comfortable pottering around in the water but is not committed to actually exercising. His wife keeps a strict eye on him to make sure he keeps moving, so he stays out of her line of sight as much as possible! I didn't keep him and just continued doing my laps.
Swimming laps can get boring at times so I have a few projects additional to elucidating the biographies of my fellow swimmers to keep me occupied while I complete my mandatory 'time'. I adhere to this quite obsessively, knowing full well that if I started wittling it down it would dwindle down to nothing in no time.
One of my favorite occupations is checking my cognitive prowess to reassure myself there is no significant deterioration setting in. I like to check my mathematical skills which were never great. As I watch the digital clock I do various calculations centering around how many seconds I have been swimming so far and how many more to go. Unfortunately the sequence sometimes breaks down mid-calculation and I have to start over again...... And again! When I succeed a couple of times I quit while I'm ahead and move on to something else, after congratulating myself appropriately.
I find learning a poem that I have been fond of particularly rewarding and useful. Firstly it is rewarding in and of itself, secondly, it is very much more impressive at Pen Club, when trying out someone's latest pen purchase to scribble a quatrain or two of Omar Khayyam rather than the traditional "The quick Brown fox jumps over the lazy dog."
My other diversion is thinking about my next blog. I have four or five regular readers who I would not want to disappoint.
So, thinking about my next blog content, Marathon Man and Dutch Jane spring to mind. I haven't seen them for a while.
So, perhaps next week - or next month, I'll tell you about them!!
Be sure to come back!! Or not!
Saturday, 8 June 2019
A WW2 Hero.
D - Day and other WW2 Heros.
I remember in 1944 when I was nine years old, my mother's distress when she received the news that her first cousin Monty Rosenfield. had been killed in the battle of Anzio in Italy. Monty had already been wounded and awarded the M M, the highest award for bravery a non -commissioned office could get no matter how valiant his actions. A few months later, as soon as he recovered he volunteered to return to the front line, when he could easily and honorably have served his country in a safe environment.
Monty was only nineteen when he left Manchester to join the International Brigade to try to save Spain from its fascist Church supported dictator, Francisco Franco. After resisting the British attempt to prevent him ('non intervention') he trekked over the Pyrenees to join the British Battalion. He was wounded while fighting to save Spain from a dictatorship that lasted for two generations.
At the beginning of WW2 although volunteering for active service Monty, a corporal in the British Army was obstructed from serving overseas until the International Brigade protested this as discrimination.
After his return to the front lines by his own insistence, this courageous man gave up his life for Britain, for Jews and for the 99 per cent in another act of bravery.
I never met Monty but I remember hearing about him from our mother when he was killed in action at Anzio in 1944. He had been wounded previously and I remember hearing how he joined the International Brigade and went to Spain to fight the Fascists.
I remember his brother Arnold (known as 'Arkie) who was a newspaper reporter and subsequently editor of one of the English Daily newspapers. He came to visit us when he was working on some story in Dublin and I, about sixteen at the time, was fascinated having a real live reporter telling us entertaining stories behind the stories. I also remember him tossing back a Scotch or two Dad poured him (just like they did in the movies!)
Monty was awarded the MM (Military Medal for bravery) and I believe another medal posthumously.
I became interested in the environment in which he grew up and found:
I became interested in the environment in which he grew up and found:
A PhD research thesis on Manchester Jewry, which I found very interesting and gave some acute insights as to what it was like to be a young Jew growing up in Manchester at the time
- BTW, Another WW2 hero in the Family was Arthur Cowan, RAF pilot who died in an air crash AFTER the war. He's buried in Dolphin's Barn Cemetery in Dublin.
Tuesday, 4 June 2019
Conscience & Medicine.
Here is an email I received just last week:
Dear ,
How would you like it if the government forced you to act against your conscience?
In the past, we could have this argument in an abstract way, likening that kind of behaviour by the state to totalitarian regimes that are distant to us in both geography and history. Today, however, this kind of tyranny is being forced upon the health-care workers of Ontario thanks to the highest court in the province.
The Court of Appeal for Ontario ruled on May 15th that doctors have to give referrals for euthanasia and abortion even if it goes against their deeply held religious or moral beliefs.
We pray that this diabolical ruling gets appealed and defeated at a higher court, but if it stays in force, it means that doctors across the province will need to refer their patients for abortions and euthanasia, thereby (in a very real way) taking part in these heinous acts.
TAKE ACTION: DEMAND CONSCIENCE PROTECTION LEGISLATION
We need to demand that the lawmakers in the House of Commons, our members of parliament, take this decision out of the hands of activist, left-wing judges, at least partially, and pass legislation to protect doctors from being forced to violate their consciences
Campaign Life Coalition recently launched an Action Alert Email campaign in support of MP David Anderson’s private member’s bill, C-418. This law will make it a criminal act, punishable by incarceration, for employers to coerce health-care workers into participating in euthanasia, including by forcing them to refer patients to another doctor who is willing to kill the patient.
You can visit our website, and, in under a minute, write your MP to ask that they support The Protection of Freedom of Conscience Act. This much-needed bill is expected to be debated around May 29th.
There are many great health-care professionals across the country who are deeply opposed to abortion or euthanasia for religious and ideological reasons. Unfortunately, because of this latest court decision, these good folks will have to find work in other professions in order to live with a clean conscience.
Conscience rights matter and so does your voice. Click here to send your email now.
For life,
Jeff_Gunnarson_sig_275px.jpg
Jeff Gunnarson
National President
Campaign Life Coalition
www.campaignlifecoalition.com
Campaign Life Coalition · Canada
This email was sent to sgsmitho@yahoo.com. To stop receiving emails, click here.
Created with NationBuilder, software for leaders.
Well, how would you like it if the Government asked YOU - no forced you, to act against your conscience? Perhaps, like many, you wouldn't care. But you better realize that once your Doctor is no longer allowed to exercise his conscience, you are not going to like it at all. Conscience is what keeps people, including physicians on the straight and narrow. It is what makes people undertake responsibilities that they might otherwise avoid. It is the judge that sits on our shoulder and adjudicates whether what we do is right or wrong. It is a cruel mistress and regardless of what the man-made laws of the land dictates it will punish relentlessly those who do not take it into account. Most, but not all of us, can discriminate between right and wrong. When the mob wants something, whether it is marijuana, freely available late-term abortion or physician dispensed death (and that's just the beginning!) they will do everything in their power to get what they want. When people of conscience stand in their way, they will do anything to undermine them. Not satisfied with physicians whose morals prohibit them from being a part of this movement, the rulers and the legal system wants to coerce physicians to submit or to get out of the profession. (an arbitrator actually said that.)
The Government and the administridiots who serve them are determined to suppress anything that might undermine their nefarious plans in the interests of cost cutting and votes. They will be quite happy to humiliate and expel from the profession anyone who dares to stand up to them, particularly when principal and ethics are the motivators. The Health Care system has been turned away from its humanitarian 'raison d'etre' into a political vote gathering game.
The Court of Appeal for Ontario ruled on May 15th that doctors have to give referrals for euthanasia and abortion even if it goes against their deeply held religious or moral beliefs.
From the Canadian Medical Association Journal.
Guidelines for withdrawal of life sustaining measures and Medical Assistance in Dying.
This is just the beginning. Amazingly, most folks don't seem to care until it involves them or their family. Comment if you have an opinion. Don't say I didn't warn you !!
Dear ,
How would you like it if the government forced you to act against your conscience?
In the past, we could have this argument in an abstract way, likening that kind of behaviour by the state to totalitarian regimes that are distant to us in both geography and history. Today, however, this kind of tyranny is being forced upon the health-care workers of Ontario thanks to the highest court in the province.
The Court of Appeal for Ontario ruled on May 15th that doctors have to give referrals for euthanasia and abortion even if it goes against their deeply held religious or moral beliefs.
We pray that this diabolical ruling gets appealed and defeated at a higher court, but if it stays in force, it means that doctors across the province will need to refer their patients for abortions and euthanasia, thereby (in a very real way) taking part in these heinous acts.
TAKE ACTION: DEMAND CONSCIENCE PROTECTION LEGISLATION
We need to demand that the lawmakers in the House of Commons, our members of parliament, take this decision out of the hands of activist, left-wing judges, at least partially, and pass legislation to protect doctors from being forced to violate their consciences
Campaign Life Coalition recently launched an Action Alert Email campaign in support of MP David Anderson’s private member’s bill, C-418. This law will make it a criminal act, punishable by incarceration, for employers to coerce health-care workers into participating in euthanasia, including by forcing them to refer patients to another doctor who is willing to kill the patient.
You can visit our website, and, in under a minute, write your MP to ask that they support The Protection of Freedom of Conscience Act. This much-needed bill is expected to be debated around May 29th.
There are many great health-care professionals across the country who are deeply opposed to abortion or euthanasia for religious and ideological reasons. Unfortunately, because of this latest court decision, these good folks will have to find work in other professions in order to live with a clean conscience.
Conscience rights matter and so does your voice. Click here to send your email now.
For life,
Jeff_Gunnarson_sig_275px.jpg
Jeff Gunnarson
National President
Campaign Life Coalition
www.campaignlifecoalition.com
Campaign Life Coalition · Canada
This email was sent to sgsmitho@yahoo.com. To stop receiving emails, click here.
Created with NationBuilder, software for leaders.
Well, how would you like it if the Government asked YOU - no forced you, to act against your conscience? Perhaps, like many, you wouldn't care. But you better realize that once your Doctor is no longer allowed to exercise his conscience, you are not going to like it at all. Conscience is what keeps people, including physicians on the straight and narrow. It is what makes people undertake responsibilities that they might otherwise avoid. It is the judge that sits on our shoulder and adjudicates whether what we do is right or wrong. It is a cruel mistress and regardless of what the man-made laws of the land dictates it will punish relentlessly those who do not take it into account. Most, but not all of us, can discriminate between right and wrong. When the mob wants something, whether it is marijuana, freely available late-term abortion or physician dispensed death (and that's just the beginning!) they will do everything in their power to get what they want. When people of conscience stand in their way, they will do anything to undermine them. Not satisfied with physicians whose morals prohibit them from being a part of this movement, the rulers and the legal system wants to coerce physicians to submit or to get out of the profession. (an arbitrator actually said that.)
The Government and the administridiots who serve them are determined to suppress anything that might undermine their nefarious plans in the interests of cost cutting and votes. They will be quite happy to humiliate and expel from the profession anyone who dares to stand up to them, particularly when principal and ethics are the motivators. The Health Care system has been turned away from its humanitarian 'raison d'etre' into a political vote gathering game.
The Court of Appeal for Ontario ruled on May 15th that doctors have to give referrals for euthanasia and abortion even if it goes against their deeply held religious or moral beliefs.
From the Canadian Medical Association Journal.Guidelines for withdrawal of life sustaining measures and Medical Assistance in Dying.
This is just the beginning. Amazingly, most folks don't seem to care until it involves them or their family. Comment if you have an opinion. Don't say I didn't warn you !!
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