Grandfather update plus another death in the family and it’s really hot (Updated 11pm)

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My grandfather’s youngest brother died Friday morning. It wasn’t a surprise.

My granduncle had a stroke last week, which led to the heart attack on Friday. But he had been… ‘damaged’ for a couple of years. He lost most of his vision three years ago, his hearing went last fall, he could barely walk, there were other heart problems.

Their oldest sister died a few months ago. So that’s it, my grandfather has outlived the family he was born into.

He was sad to hear about his brother’s passing, but not really surprised. He and his brother had their final phone call a few days ago, and they knew it was probably their last. They talked about golf for about an hour… my grandfather did all of the talking because my granduncle couldn’t speak at the time, but his oldest daughter was on the line, translating.

They played golf together until they were both into their 80’s, five years ago the Ottawa CTV affiliate sent out a reporter to cover the story of the two retired +80-year old brothers who played golf two or three times a week from May until October.

They were in competition with each other their entire lives. When they were kids they played on the same hockey team, and alternated leading their leagues in scoring every year. My granduncle flew bombers over Germany during WW2, my grandfather — who initially resisted conscription — was training to be a tail gunner when the war ended.

When he retired from the military, my granduncle was a major in the air force, and went to work for the government. During the 70’s he was working (Associate Deputy Minister of Finance?) for Trudeau’s Minister of Finance (who, I think, was John Turner), and then went on to work with the IMF, the World Bank and CIDA.

My grandfather, meanwhile, went to work in the private sector and spent every year of his life thereafter hating the IMF, the World Bank and CIDA.

I didn’t get to visit with my granduncle very often, but we always had great conversations and, of all of the elders in my family, he laughed the most. He spent a lot of his time away from his family, due to is overseas work, but managed to raise five daughters who are all mostly sane and successful.

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My grandfather walked around the hospital ward on Friday. He had my mother with him, and he was using a special walker, but he made it all the way around without stopping.

He’s getting healthier, he’s eating, laughing more, he’s less… morbid about his chances of survival. I think some of it has to do with the doctors promising there will be no more invasive testing.

The doctors have ruled out cancer, and they can’t find any growths or lesions or whatever. So this week they’ll be moving him to the “rehab wing” of the hospital, where he’ll continue to get physio for his legs and all the attention from the nurses that he can absorb.

The problem is, he’s still incontinent — and they don’t know why — and now there’s a catheter involved. Which means, because he needs nearly-constant help getting changed, or getting in and out of the bath, the retirement home can’t accept him back. The hospital will allow him to stay there for up to three months, but after that either he’s living with us, or he’s in a nursing home.

And there just aren’t many nursing home spots available anywhere.

My grandfather is making plans for his return to the retirement home. He really misses his special chair (it’s plush and it has a remote so it can lift you out of it), and his LCD TV. But the doctor doesn’t see any chance of that happening.

My little younger brother and his wife and child came up from Toronto for a day-visit on Thursday. My grandfather was excited to see all three of them, especially his youngest great-grandson, who is seven months younger than my son.

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I’m going to see my grandfather tonight, hopefully the nurses will let my son in to see him. My grandfather really gets a kick out of being a great-grandfather. He keeps asking how long until the two great-grandkids start playing hockey.

Anyway… it’s really, really freaking hot. So I’m going to post this, head over to the splashpad and hang out with my girlfriend and our son. Maybe I’ll update it later.

We’ve been close to 40C (104F) everyday for a week now. It’s 37C right now… which is nuts.

So, if it’s hot where you are, and you’re taking Lithium, make sure you get your blood tested. Heat + Dehydration = increased risk for a Lithium overdose.

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11pm UPDATE: My girlfriend and I took our son to visit my grandfather. My mother and grandmother were already there, so we didn’t stay long. Victor shared his chips with his great-grandfather — he just walked up to the bed, pulled out a chip, and held it out for my grandfather and said “…chip?”.

Which made my grandfather smile.

A few days ago, the president of the engineering firm my grandfather worked for showed up. They had been feuding since the company was sold for parts to a French firm back in the low 80’s. But his daughter, and my mother, conspired together to get the two of them in the same room together.

They spoke about the old days for a couple of hours.

My mother contacted the family of an engineer my grandfather hired back in the 70’s, and he showed up today. He brought some of his work books, which had photos of all my grandfathers friends and colleagues going back to the 1950’s.

That was in the morning, my grandfather was still crying when we got there this evening.

It was a good day for him.

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...thanks.

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Posted in Bud, Clinical Depression, crazy people with no pants, Depression, Health, Lithium, Living With Depression, Living With Manic Depression, Mental Health, No Post Day | Tagged | 2 Comments

I waited forty-two years for someone to take this photo

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I could stare at this photo for days. Maybe longer.

Last week my girlfriend and I got tired of being stuck in our little village. So, while her oldest son was with his father on their court-mandated visit, the two of us packed up Victor and headed for Ottawa for shawarma at Shawarma King on Bank Street.

It’s kind of our place. I introduced my girlfriend to the delights of a beef plate when we first started dating. Now she’s addicted to the garlic.

Before we got to the restaurant we walked up Bank Street to Parliament Hill. The four of us go for regular walks in our village, but there are only so many variations on ‘there and back again’ here. And we’ve pretty much done all of them twenty times over.

It was the first time she’d walked that far down / up Bank Street, which still seems weird to me. I lived in Ottawa for ten years before moving to Toronto, and then back here — with a few stops in between, so Bank Street between the Glebe and The Hill has been ‘the back of my hand’ familiar for most of my life.

There’s even a building on the corner of Bank and Something that my step-father (the architect) designed. So it was fun to play tour guide.

When we got to Parliament Hill we sat around the Centennial Flame — Victor managed to toss a few chicken McNuggets into the flame, which I thought was hilarious — and I took some photos of my girlfriend and our son sitting on the edge. Then she insisted on taking one of us, and this photo happened.

And I think it’s just… awesome.

I have a few other photos of the two of us, which my girlfriend also took, that I really like. Including one that I like almost as much as this one. But most of the shots of us are… not good. Either my gut’s in the way, or it looks like I haven’t washed in a week, or something’s just wrong.

But this one… that’s what the two of us look like all the time in my head.

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...thanks.

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Posted in crazy people with no pants, Health, Little Victor, Living With Depression, Living With Manic Depression, Mental Health, No Post Day, Photography | Tagged , , | 11 Comments

The time my grandfather taught me how to build a dam

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When we were kids, and we were lucky, it would rain. And the parking area of my grandfather’s mountain farm would fill up with streams and rivulets. The farm house was in a small valley, near the top of one of the mountains in the chain. So, after a hard rain, the water would pour through from the forest above us.

We knew my grandfather built dams for a living. Maybe we didn’t know, at the time, it was a job. Maybe to an eight-year old it was just something he did. But never talked about. It was always other people who talked about the massive hydroelectric projects he worked on as an engineer.

But my little brother and I would go out after the rain had stopped, sometimes while it was still coming down, and make little dams in the little streams. Pretending to be our grandfather.

We would squat, like only children can, out in the yard molding the wet dirt and clay into six-inch high blockades that were quickly overrun by the water.

They always failed — water over the top of our dam, water around our dam… mostly they collapsed, but always they eventually turned into islands.

I don’t know why he did it, I know he almost immediately regretted doing it, but one afternoon my grandfather stopped and watched my brother and I creating islands in his yard.

I can’t remember what he said, but basically it sounded like “…no. You’re doing it wrong.”. And he bent over to pick up a stick before walking towards us.

“First,” he said, “you need to find a better place to start.”

And he brought us to a spot where several of the rivulets came together to form a larger stream.

“Then,” he said, “you’ll need a reservoir.”

And he used the stick to sketch out an area we needed to dig out.

“And,” he said, “you’ll need to reinforce the dam.”

And he taught us how to weave sticks together to use like steel reinforcement bars.

Then he left us, walking to his machine shed to continue working.

So we dug a reservoir, as deep as we could before hitting the bare mountain. Then we made it as wide and long as the length of my arm. And, as the rivulets filled the reservoir, we found sticks and wove them together. And we used clay instead of dirt, and built the dam up around the sticks.

But we didn’t stop there. We built the dam long and high. We extended the reservoir. We built smaller dams further out to channel the water from other rivulets to the reservoir. Once we knew how, everything just made sense.

When we were done we stood up and looked at our dam, and were so proud to have flooded out a third of my grandfather’s parking area.

And then we realized we had flooded a third of our grandfather’s parking area. So we drilled holes at the base of our dam to let the water out. And then we built channels around the dam, and the engorged reservoir gradually emptied.

And then we left, as children do, to find something else to do.

And our clay, stick reinforced dam dried into a concrete, stick reinforced foot-high wall.

For us the hardest part wasn’t being forced to take the dam apart with hammers and a shovel. The hardest part was never being able to build another one.

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YouTube Alert: The driveway to his farm house, mostly we talk about the 20,000 trees we planted…

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YouTube Alert: The road back, we stop so he can look at an epic engineering project…

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My grandfather turned 90-years old just a few weeks ago. His health has been… poor since fire nearly destroyed the retirement home he was staying in. Two of his close friends died, but he and my grandmother made it out. Unfortunately he was injured in a way, a pinched nerve in his thigh, that makes it almost impossible to walk.

Something else went wrong on Friday afternoon, and he has been in the hospital ever since. It’ll be at least another three to four days until they let him out.

If that happens, if he can get out of the hospital. The painkillers, and the intestinal problems, are causing him to lightly hallucinate. He has lost his days. He’s convinced he’s been the hospital for days. That the nurses are conspiring against him. I think most of us are just waiting for something inevitable to happen.

Healthy people recover from what he has. But the chances get a lot slimmer when the patient is frail, and old, and breaking down.

There’s just a feeling that he might have gone as far as he can go.

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...thanks.

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Posted in Bud, Clinical Depression, crazy people with no pants, Depression, Father, Health, Living With Depression, Living With Manic Depression, Mental Health, No Post Day | Tagged | 5 Comments

Neuroplasticity: it’d be so much easier if our brains were made from Play-doh

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I’m poor. Constantly broke. I’ve lived in poverty my entire life. I was raised, first by a political collective of people who believed poverty was a virtue and an ideal, and then by a single mother who had no support from her ex-husband or her family.

For years we survived on store credit. When I moved out I lived on social assistance for four years before taking on student debt to get through college, and then spent two years working for less than $14k/year.

I spent two years making $40k/60k, but was constantly broke before finally collapsing again into social assistance, under-the-counter labour and finally back on to social assistance and then on to a disability pension.

Poverty, long ago, had become a behaviour in my life. Like the motions associated with a two decade, two pack a day smoking addiction. Like a dog salivating at the sound of a bell. Poverty is something I’m programmed to be, something I’ve been programmed to live in.

As a behaviour, poverty is one of the most destructive ones in my life, and of those it predates the manic depression.

Actually, I think all of my self-destructive behaviours predate the manic depression, the onset of the bipolar just amplified them… and wouldn’t allow me to deal with them properly or in a healthy way — I had thought about suicide before the manic depression, but the manic depression gave me days and days of non-stop suicide fantasies.

How I was raised gave me a tutorial in how to be poor, but the manic depression prevented me from finding and keeping a job, or the training necessary to break the short cycle of idealized poverty in my family.

So how do you change behaviours, especially ones that lead to destructive ends, when those behaviours are all you know?

Turns out there are small scale experiments being performed on people with schizophrenia using gaming technology to change behaviours, and the results are, basically, just this side of miraculous.

That the brain is plastic, the idea that it can be reprogrammed, is not new. It’s called neuroplasticity:

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…they glimpsed a revolutionary idea about the brain: the ability of mere thought to alter the physical structure and function of our gray matter. For what the transcranial-magnetic-stimulation (TMS) test… revealed was that the region of motor cortex that controls the piano-playing fingers also expanded in the brains of volunteers who imagined playing the music — just as it had in those who actually played it. [T]he discovery showed that mental training had the power to change the physical structure of the brain.

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This isn’t new, the above quote was taken from a 2007 feature in Time Magazine. From what I’ve read some of the therapies I’ve used, and had success with in the past few years, like EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing), resemble the therapies being discussed in neuroplasticity.

What does seem to be new is the research has switched from three decades of looking at neuroplasticity as a way to recover from brain damage — sensory function, phantom limbs, chronic pain — and into mental illness, including the behaviours left from decades of untreated manic depression or schizophrenia.

This isn’t meditation. It’s not a replacement for medications or talk therapy. It’s an additional tool that’s coming online for us to use in our treatment. What it is, it seems to me, is a way to direct treatment specifically on the behaviours associated with the disease.

Activists in the anti-psychiatry movement were quick to adopt the idea that brains could be reprogrammed, but no one involved with neuroplasticity as a treatment for people with a mental illness has suggested it replace psychiatry.

I think what I’m saying is, over a long period of time, as poverty becomes a behaviour, it has the capablity to cause brain damage. My behaviour as an adult, whether I was on social assistance, or making $60k/year was no different than the behaviours I had as a teen when I was working summers as a farm hand for $3.50/hour.

At the end of the day, I was poor because, possibly, that’s how I was programmed.

For the first eight years of my life I lived in a political (communist) collective, where people tried to prove their loyalty to the group by making the most sacrifices. The individuals would go out, work in factories or wherever, and bring their paychecks back to the collective.

The money would go into a pool and be doled out according to need. One man took $0.08/week to satisfy his candy craving. Another took just enough for a few cigarettes. These were people working long and hard hours, bringing home decent wages, but giving it all up for the sake of poverty as an ideal.

Another behaviour is my inability to look after my health. Growing up, I was left to the care of the collective — one of the more bizarre tenets of Maoism is children should have no greater connection with an individual over the group. In other words, I had no parents, I had individuals assigned to take care of me on a daily or weekly basis.

Then toss in the added unique form of nihilism that comes from fourteen years of untreated manic depression — it’s not a disease that allows for healthy behaviours.

I think this is how my brain has become wired in a way that makes being poor and self-destructive… normal. But these are just two of several harmful behaviours I’ve adopted, or been taught, over my life.

It’s possible that I’m comparing apples to cats, but the behaviours that have plagued my life are very similar to those exhibited by the test subjects in the documentary I’ve embedded below… as are the needs that cannot be met without the added treatment, such as the need for steady employment, the need to take care of myself, the need to be healthy.

I’ve been (mostly) suicide-thought free for a few years, and that’s almost entirely due to the medications giving me the ever increasing time and space between depressive episodes I needed to understand the power of the disease comes solely from its weight as an anchor.

So, with treatment, I am healthy. But I’m still trapped by the remaining behaviours associated with the disease, and all of those years of being unable to deal properly with the behaviours associated with how I was raised.

…anyway, the documentary originally aired on “The Nature Of Things”, a weekly CBC program now in its 50th year. It features information and stuff originating from studies of things performed by people who know more about my brain than I do. Duhr.

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Links:
1. The Brain that Changes Itself;
2. The Brain: How The Brain Rewires Itself;
3.Neuroplasticity (Wiki);
4. Impaired Neuroplasticity in Schizophrenia and the Neuro-regenerative Effects of Atypical Antipsychotics;
5. Neuroplasticity and Experimental Treatment Paradigms;
6. Neuroplasticity and psychiatry;
7. Antidepressants and neuroplasticity;
8. Neuroplasticity Studies Give Hope for Treatment Advances;
9. Brain-derived neurotrophic factor and neuroplasticity in bipolar disorder;
10. Eye movement desensitization and reprocessing (EMDR);
11. How I fight manic depression (mine).

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...thanks.

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Posted in Bipolar, Bipolar Disease, Bipolar Disorder, Clinical Depression, crazy people with no pants, Health, Living With Depression, Living With Manic Depression, Manic Depression, Mental Health, Neuroplasticity, Psychiatry | 3 Comments

A few photos a video and a song or two because it’s too hot for words

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For the past few days the thermometer has been pushing towards 40C (104F), which is stupid hot.

It’s starting to cool off tonight, and it’s supposed to get much nicer for the weekend, but it’s still +30C in my apartment.

So… all of the words that normally fill my thinking thing are gone. And I’m really, really tired. So here are some photos, some videos and a song or two.

Remember, if you’re taking Lithium, get your levels checked. Heat + Lithium = bad.

And now, all of your bandwidth is belong to me…

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Posted in crazy people with no pants, Health, Lithium, Living With Depression, Living With Manic Depression, Mental Health, No Post Day, Photography, Photos, YouTube | Tagged , | 2 Comments

My daughter gets her gravestone

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I don’t believe there’s an ‘afterlife’. I believe this is it, there is nothing after.

I do believe we are made of atoms. We are a collection of pieces that makes us each unique. Other than how they’re grouped together, there’s no difference between me, you, your pet.

Somehow we came together and, when we’re done, those pieces go back to wherever, where they become something else. Or tiny pieces of a million other things.

That’s what I believe is happening to my daughter right now, that she’s slowly becoming a tiny piece of a million different things.

I don’t believe in an afterlife, I don’t believe we’ll ever take this form again, but I don’t think we really ever die.

My daughter was, for a brief moment, a unique collection of atoms. And now she’s becoming pieces of something else.

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The headstone is in the ground. As soon as the worker guy left the boys started planting daisies they ripped out of the ground from a nearby field.

…I guess that’s it. I’ll start sending out the photos tonight so, if you offered to help, you’ll be receiving one. I can’t afford to print and mail them, but they’ll all be a high enough quality that you can make anything from a 4×6 to a poster-sized enlargement that looks great.

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…I screwed up the headline in the original version of this post. All three of my sisters are doing just fine.

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...thanks.

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Posted in Bipolar Disease, Bipolar Disorder, Clinical Depression, crazy people with no pants, Health, Living With Depression, Living With Manic Depression, Manic Depression, Mental Health | Tagged | 4 Comments