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Monday, August 29, 2016

✹ A Study Finds That Nearly 20% of Patients Are Discharged from Hospitals Prematurely

Sometimes I question whether my younger brother Mark is competent to live by himself due to the extent of his drinking.

My eldest step-son Tho alerted me last evening that a tray of food Mark had put into the oven appeared to be well-done ─ Mark was passed out in front of the T.V. that he had been watching.

There have been a few such instances in very recent months, one of which involved a stove element burning low and slow-cooking something.  I had to turn that off.

In the case of the oven, I just turn it off in these instances and leave the oven door open to release the pent-up heat.

He is welcome to avail himself of whatever he was cooking whenever it is that he next regains consciousness.

At least he awoke and watched the entirety of last evening's Fear the Walking Dead that I tuned in at 9:30 p.m.  He headed on up to his bedroom at 10:40 p.m.

I should have followed suit.

Instead I wallowed in utter corruption, and did not make my way to bed until perhaps 1:47 a.m.

I remained abed until I checked the time at 7:14 a.m. and decided that I should rise and try to make something of the day despite my low self-regard.

My youngest step-son Pote ─ who was still up last night when I retired ─ was sleeping, but  he was soon to rise.  He left the house well before 8:30 a.m. to catch his bus to take him to work over at Guildford.

It was a rare night in that his girlfriend was not here sleeping with him. 

It was foggy out, and I assumed it to be cloudy as well.  However, later in the morning I realized that the sky was cloud-free.

I got considerable work done on the new post I am working on at my Lawless Spirit website.  I will be most surprised if I fail to have it finished and published by Wednesday.

Things must soon radically improve in my life.  I am becoming far too marginalized socially, and in my own esteem.

I am in a deep, deep hole that I cannot escape unaided. 

Unfortunately, the hole too often seems to be in the midst of a deleterious cesspool.

By the time I knocked off work on that post I was involved with, the noon-hour had expired, and I was into a state of some anxiety.

Fortunately, I ventured out on the backyard sundeck and commencing at 1:11 p.m., spent over 70 minutes sunbathing in brief shorts.  It seemed to help restore something essential which I was lacking.

My wife Jack had a dental cleaning appointment scheduled for noon today a mile from here at Surrey Place (Central City), and I rather thought that she would make an appearance home.  But she did not.

I expect that she simply returned to whatever it is in Vancouver that has her heart.


Here is a fairly old family photo I wish to post ─ the description beneath is from the Google album where I have the scanned image saved:

My mother Irene Dorosh.

This looks like the front yard of the home she and her husband Alex shared for so many years in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey.

The house no longer exists, but its address was 12106 - 90th Avenue.

I would estimate that the photo was probably taken in the 1970s.

Anytime I was hospitalized as a younger man or even a kid, I cannot say that it was not an enjoyable experience.

I don't recall ever thinking I was being ill-treated or neglected; and I never had a problem with the hospital meals.

Those hospitalizations were of course back when patients tended to stay for quite some while.

Few patients today get a chance to 'enjoy' a lengthy hospital stay.

In fact, a recently-published study declares that almost one out of every five patients who does get released from hospital has at least one unstable vital sign.  In other words, the patient is released when his or her health is still in some jeopardy.

Believe it or not, sometimes patients are released who have three or more unstable vital signs ─ these people have nearly four times the risk of death as a discharged patient whose vital signs were all stable.

So why are people being released if their vital signs are unstable, for Pete's sake?     

That link only provides the abstract of the study ─ the general public has to pay a fee to access the full study.  But even so, I did manage to bring it up for free as a seven-page .pdf document at Sci-Hub.ac.

Here are a couple of reports on the study, if you are interested:

Maybe I was fortunate to have been hospitalized back when I was, and not rushed out and sent home before it was safe for me to be released.

Still, there are so many deadly germs developing and spreading in hospitals today ─ perhaps the longer one's stay is extended, the riskier it becomes that some antibiotic-resistant 'superbug' will find its way to that unfortunate man, woman, or child.  

Is there a sure answer or solution?


The time has come for me to close off now with an entry from my journal of 41 years ago when I was 25 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.

I was renting the room in a house located on Ninth Street at Third Avenue.

I worked but one day a week ─ usually a Friday ─ as a truck swamper at a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that today is called Fraserside Community Services Society

Back then, they were located on Carnarvon Street in a building that existed right where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station now spills out onto Carnarvon Street.
FRIDAY, August 29, 1975

I'd been awake for a little, but did not arise till 4:45 a.m., feeling tired and stiff.

I am going to take to S.A.N.E. 3 jackets that are too small.

Esther is still ill, so Bill, Howie, and I sat around till Verna got hold of someone to drive the truck; Gary, as it turned out.  As a bonus, it developed that 3 young guys hanging about were to work today too.

We made a couple light collections (and were given $2 by an old guy for coffee, which we all had), then rapidly moved Howie to a place in the alley just below David.

Perhaps it was as early as 1:30 p.m. when our day ended.

The young guys at one point were calling out to a pair of girls as I sat in the box with them; I received some pretty appreciative attention from the girls as we sailed by.

And coming back to the store for the final time, as we crossed 8th St on Carnarvon, there were two lovelies in a Volkswagen behind us making a turn; I received a fabulous smile from the lovely driver as we separated.  What a tragedy my life is as it is!

Before coming home, I shopped at Safeway and got some Greenaway Granola, 2 stewing chickens (I'll not smorgasbord tomorrow), envelopes, and, that was it, I guess.

I came home and ate some Harvest Crunch (raisin & date).

Oh yes, at one place today I recognized and spoke with Amy.

Next I shall go cash my $160 cheque (Samantha & Rossie were at S.A.N.E. today, and thereafter while cruising up Columbia, Angie noticed and waved to me); but first I shall mail another label to the Bank Account Contest (Dial soap).

I left a note on Bill's car saying I planned to tomorrow eat at mom's.

My bank girl handled me, complimenting me to the girl she charged me to.

I bought some dates, raisins, and baking powder at Safeway; a girl in the line-up behind me tried vainly to make small talk, for I could think of nothing to keep the conversation  propped up; I saw Angie in there, but I believe she missed me.

I came home with 3 money orders to be mailed now as I head to Woodward's; one for an Olympic ticket, one for a Western ticket for Cathy, and one for a La Cotta Steak Maker.

At Woodward's I bought 3 more money orders:  $2.50 for a Western ticket; $4 for last Christmas' stamps; and $12 A Witch Shall Be Born; I also bought a can of peanut butter.

Bedtime at 8:00 p.m.
Esther St. Jean ─ a sweet woman in her early 40s ─ normally drove S.A.N.E.'s blue pick-up truck.

I know that my co-swamper's name was Bill Sevenko, but I do not remember him nor "Howie."

Verna (Williams, I think) seemed to manage S.A.N.E.  The "Gary" she got to drive for us that day may have been the boyfriend of Esther's youngest daughter, Melodie. 

"Howie" was evidently being moved to a location very near to where my old friend Philip David Prince was living ─ but alas, I can no longer recall where David's Fraser Apartments were located.  The building was demolished many, many years ago.

I itemized my shopping with such detail because money was dear to me ─ I had so little of it.

My hopes were on winning a sweepstakes or lottery ─ the Olympic Lottery and Western Lottery were two important ones sanctioned by the federal government.  However, back then, there was nowhere a person could go and buy lottery tickets like we can do in practically any store whatsoever today.  The tickets had to be mail-ordered.  

I now have no memory whatsoever of any "Amy."

I mentioned Samantha Smith and her friend "Rossie" ─ I don't remember the latter.  Samantha was the eldest daughter ─ maybe 12 at best ─ of another S.A.N.E. co-worker of mine back then:  Art Smith.  And the "Angie" I twice saw that day was Art's wife and thus Samantha's mother.

My old friend William Alan Gill and I regularly got together on the weekends to have a big feed at a smorgasbord in New Westminster; the eatery was located in a shopping plaza at Eighth Avenue & McBride Boulevard.

I left a note on Bill's car alerting him to my alternate Saturday plans.  He didn't live too far from me, renting a bachelor suite; but I cannot remember anymore just where it was. 

This is the La Cotta Steak Maker I was mail-ordering ─ along with a Western Lottery ticket ─ for my younger brother Mark's girlfriend, Catherine Jeanette Gunther ("Cathy").  Her birthday was still at least three weeks away.

The Christmas stamps were most probably commemorative Canadian postage stamps, but I don't know now why I wrote "last Christmas' stamps."

If I came into possession of A Witch Shall Be Born as a Donald M. Grant book, I no longer remember it.

By the way, I always cashed my cheques at the Royal Bank on Columbia Street because that was where the account was that the cheques were written on.  I had no bank account of my own anywhere, and never owned any photo identification.

Yet a wonderful young woman at the Royal Bank had basically adopted me ─ that is why I referred to her as "my bank girl."  Anytime she saw me come in to cash one of my cheques, she would do her best to serve me, for she knew that I didn't have the required identification.

Sometimes she failed to notice me in time, and someone else would deal suspiciously with me.  Yet if she did see that I was in trouble, she would come to my rescue by vouching for me ─ she would always claim that she knew me, even though she did not.

I never knew why she was so kind to me, and all I can recall is that her name may have been "Mary" just like a fictitious friendly Royal Bank employee in their commercials. 

I have to stop here ─ my wife Jack came home less than half an hour ago and is presently busy in the kitchen cooking.  I cannot remain shut up here in my 'computer room' upstairs.
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