As a kid, whenever Laverne would dump a small bottle of Pepsi into her milk, I would instinctively gag. Don’t get me wrong, I love milk. I’ve come down to Skim milk after years of weaning. I wish we had 1% when I was going through kicking the whole milk habit.

The last big meal I had at my mother-in-law’s, she brought out a plate of salad that was swimming in a pale white liquid. I nibbled a leaf. Delish! Much like a Japanese salad dressing… I asked what it was. “Milk and vinegar” I was told and suddenly my stomach flipped.

I have a thing about curdled milk. If I think that any additive will make milk turn into solids, I can’t eat it. I can’t look at it. It comes from my childhood, gobbling down milk that was so chunky, it was 99% curds. Growing up in our house meant you scrambled for food, oblivious to the taste. As soon as the first blobs hit my teeth, I sprayed milk and whey across the kitchen.

I chewed through it. It wasn’t bad, in fact I enjoyed the taste. But my brain was hotwired to reject it.

Milk should have no additives!

(Except for chocolate)

Christ I am going to invest in a bed at St Mikes. Dad went back in at 3pm yesterday and I met up with him and Brother Mike after work. By the time I get there, he’s on his second dose of Demerol (one just before coming into the hospital) and he’s groggy with pain and fatigue. Mike sticks around for a while and we shoo him home around 7pm.

Around 9pm, into his cube curtain comes a 5th year orderly and a first year orderly, two petite women with smiles and rosy cheeks. They inform Da that he’s going to have a Ultrasound on his heart to make sure his pain isn’t upsetting his aorta.

“Can I get a nice wallet sized photo?” I ask as she fires up the machine.

“What?” the first year asks, utterly bewildered.

“Ignore him,” offers Da.

With much wand waving, the fifth year manages to point out a blurry image of a …black… blob? I get to see the villainous lump in Da’s pancreas tube. I curse you, you vile lump of excrement!

The image on the screen shifts. “I can see the head!” I exclaim.

The fifth year turns on me, “Stop stealing my jokes!”

“Forget it,” Da croaks, “Nothing is taboo to him.”

They slather more jelly on his tummy to look for Da’s aorta and they run out of lube. The container makes that end-of-ketchup blbllblbork-ak-ak noise. I start thinking of responses:

“No more? That’s ok. Do you have Barbecue sauce?”
“Well that sounds like a Saturday night!”
“MMmmm a hot dog would be great about now…”
Etc etc…

…but I don’t say a word because you shouldn’t trump a fifth year’s comedy routine when she has a cold wand in her hand. This was at 10:15pm.

at 11pm or so, a cute orderly comes in to re-take blood. The careless vampyre at the onset of Da’s current visit failed her task of finding a good vein. Yes, 6 hours after the fact. I’m not pleased, but this time was a charm as that the orderly was swift and painless in his duties. Shortly after, Da gets yet another IV drip with Demerol. They take him to get a CT scan on his chest to see if there are blood clots causing the pain (just to be sure – thankfully none). He comes back close to midnight.

At 12:30am, the night Gastro doctor comes into his curtain cube. Da is whacked out on Demerol and tries to answer questions best he can. The doc decides that he’s going to admit him into a bed and with a sigh of relief all around, I take my tired leave. Total time at this point: 9 hours in St Mike’s Emergency. I go home to bed and promise to return in the morning to see if he needs anything.

8:30 am and I stroll up to St Michael’s reception and ask what room my dad is in. “Still in Emergency,” says the receptionist, “You get to it by going-”

“I KNOW.”

I’m pissed. At this point he’s been in that noisy cesspool of human suffering for 16+ hours getting the oh so urgent rest he needs while whiny people yell and cry all around him. But I also know that getting mad at the doctors or nurses in the Emergency is likely to get me a security guard’s baton up my ass and a nice trip to the curb (as one whiny person experienced just in front of Da’s cube curtain the night before). I go to the nursing station, keeping my anger in check and ask about my dad. No beds came available last night and they may need to “borrow” beds from other wards. Any idea when? Nope.

“I have here a crisp, new, $2 Tim Horton’s coupon that might accelerate that,” I say, taking the slip of paper out and snapping it like it was a Sir Robert Borden. Laughs all around, but of course, all that gets me is a better class of juice and some ice chips for Dad.

I go back to the cube. He’s been told he’ll go for another Ultrasound specifically for his pancreas. He’s not in pain anymore (probably because he’s not eaten anything in 24 hours) and he’s bored. I go get him a National Enquirer (Oprah to Dr Phil – You’re Fired!).

There was nothing more I can do so I go off to work. My sister calls from Calgary on my phone while I’m steps away from my office and she tells me that she called the nurses herself and with her superior knowledge of all things medical (she works at Calgary General) she tells me that Da doesn’t have a heart problem and that he’ll be ok for the pancreatic operation.

“Oh great!” I Pause. “BUH! WaaaaaaAAAuuurrrr!” I suddenly let loose with a choked stream of tears that would make Belize Howler Monkeys jump back in fear. Right in front of my office on Yonge Street. Nice. Composure, Ted!

Anyway, as it stands, he’s in line for a bed and he’s ok.

Update: 1pm and still no bed.
Update2: he finally got a bed around 5pm Thursday, 26 hours after entering the hospital.

Da is back home and is on solid foods again, FYI. Thanks all for your comments and emails.

He’s gingerly trying to figure out what makes these flare ups happen (ha ha, ginger… geddit?) and is eating a lot of bland foods.

Now to try to gain some ground on the waiting list the surgeon keeps. I’m hoping that he’ll go under the knife soon so we can avoid the Emergency room again. Wish us luck that we cut in front of someone not as deserving*.

* I am, of course, kidding.

Hey fucking neighbours who think it’s ok to have 3-4 friends over at 3 fucking a fucking m on a fucking Monday morning. What. The. Fuck? You may have shift work jobs (how nice for you) but where do you get off thinking it’s party time for the entire apartment building at that hour? Eat hot fuck!

Yo Fucked Weather. Fuck you dismal January. Save it for February and stop being so crappy.

Hey fucktard on the subway sitting across two seats with your bag and big puffy coat during fucking rush hour. Fuck yourself raw.

Hey smoking fuck. Smoke somewhere else. Third moon of Jupiter is good with me. Because no matter what time I venture out onto the sidewalks, I have to walk in your smoke-wake cloud. I hope they make smoking illegal, you inconsiderate twit.

Hey Craigslist troll. Fuck you for responding to my ad by bombarding me with dickless questions that you could have answered yourself by taking two seconds and actually reading the ad. No I won’t knock a couple bucks off it just because you asked. Give me a reason. It’s called negotiation, twit-wit.

Hey Rogers. Oh fuck where do I start? How about FUCK YOU, FLABBY FUCK FUCKERS! Just because you’re greedy and you smell like fuck. Get the fucking iPhone to Canada and stop being circle-jerk groupies.

*burp*

That’s better.

I was reminded of my grade ten drafting teacher, Mr Darling (I think that was his name), when someone bemoaned that everything is done by computers these days. I took his class because I didn’t want to take history or biology and it was another reason to draw, of sorts.

We were jammed in the back of Brockvegas Collegiate Institute, in a dusty shop class, hunched over angled tables. I did pretty good in his class and I enjoyed making technical drawings with their thick and thin lines and crisp lettering. Mr Darling said that I could have a future in tech drawing, but sadly, computers killed that.

Mr Darling was a bit of a joker. He was the kind of teacher that taught with one-liners, flippant puns and laisser faire elan. Of course this kind of teaching doesn’t work on some kids and I remember one guy mumbling under his breath repeatedly during Mr Darling’s classes on how unfunny he was. Obviously, these two were going to butt heads.

A few months into the class, this kid, let’s call him David, decides he’s going to laugh loudly with an edge of fakeness at all of Mr Darling’s jokes. Mr Darling started the class by reminding us on shop safety (we actually never used equipment, it was drawing class, but I do remember him starting the class this way) with a long winded rant about losing appendages and proper maintenance of equipment that blended into a monologue about how his wife never puts the toothpaste cap back on the tube.

All the while, he’s getting more and more angry. We’re looking at each other, wondering if he’s kidding. His rage is palatable and our unease is thick. Mr Darling comes to the end of his rant. His fists are knuckle down on his desk, his eyes are staring past us to the back window.

And David starts to laugh.

Mr Darling is startled out of his zoned out state and asks David if he thought that was funny. Of course! Mr Darling grabs David by the shirt collar and lifts him out of his chair. David continues the laughter. Mr Darling then clamps his big shop-worn leathery hands around David’s throat and drags him from the room. By the throat.

Like the $20 drafting pen I had to get special for that class, I never saw Mr Darling again.