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Sunday, June 4, 2017

Indigestion Medications and Kidney Failure │ Monsanto (and Roundup) Legal Battles │ Type 2 Diabetes Medication: Amputation Warning

It was a little strange that both of my stepsons were home when I finished with T.V. for the evening and went to bed just ahead of 11:00 p.m. last evening.

I never have a solid night's sleep, but last night's was nevertheless a comfortable one in that I do not recall being awake for long at all, nor ever curious enough to check the time ─ doing so is always a bad indicator of how my sleep is daring.

The sole time I checked the time was in the morning when I decided to rise, but I now cannot recall just precisely when that was. Definitely, it was well before 7:00 a.m. I just don't know if it was before 6:30 a.m.

My youngest stepson Poté's mobile phone tends to make various sounds ─ alarms and whatever else ─ as he sleeps, apparently unperturbed. But he finally rose well after 7:00 a.m., and at 7:58 a.m. headed out the front door to his car to most certainly head away for work.

That left me home alone with slumbering eldest stepson Tho.

I spent most of the morning adding more content to the new post I began a couple of days ago at my Siam-Longings website, but I took a break before 9:00 a.m. to have some exercise in the backyard tool shed before my younger brother Mark arrived home from his night at his girlfriend Bev's home. It was otherwise going to be too hot for exercise if I had to wait until he left this afternoon to rejoin her and his drinking companions.

Early into the exercise, I noticed activity just beyond our backyard fence in the property housing the damned noisy brown hound that I so detest. The backyard of that property has no lawn ─ it is cemented. And someone ─ a man ─ was using a broom and something like a scoop.

At one point, I saw him empty the scoop over a very low blockade into a yard-wide gap existing between that barrier and our backyard's high wooden fence ─ a string of largish cedar trees stretch along that enclosure.

I can only suppose that he had deposited his dog's excrement there for my household to enjoy the scent of, for he was otherwise sweeping up material ─ mostly debris from the trees, and dust ─ that he was dumping into a large trash receptacle he was hauling about.

He also seemed to be doing some weeding, for I have no doubt that wild plants are working their way through cracks and such in the cement covering his backyard.

There is a long-unused swimming pool set into the backyard that until just two or three years ago had all manner of plants growing wild in it ─ some were young trees that were probably as tall as an adult. But those had finally been cleared out.

I see that I am getting distracted ─ I shall speak no more of the neighbouring property in this post. Suffice to say that I had my workout and was back at work on my post before Mark had gotten home, nor Tho risen for the day.

It was after 11:00 a.m. before I had completed the work that I wanted to get done on the Siam-Longings post, but I had also taken a break to have my first meal of the day. Mark ─ who had earlier come home and showered ─ announced in the latter morning that he was going out for a haircut.

By then I had grown most weary from working on the post, as well as the burden of my meal; and so at 11:39 a.m. I was back in bed seeking a nap.

It seemed a very good nap. I had donned earplugs and blindfold, and undressed for it. By my reckoning, it was about 75 minutes by the time I checked the time again once I had regained consciousness, and it took me a few minutes before I was able to rally sufficiently to get myself to forsake my bed.

Did Mark return home while I was napping? He always likes to clear away hair cuttings that have fallen down his neck. I would also think that he would have appreciated a nap. But it is 2:32 p.m. as I type these words, and for all I know he has yet to return home since I was last aware of him being here this latter morning.

I know that he has plans to enlist Tho's help in replacing two or three foundation posts in our backyard fence ─ a section bordering the alleyway that runs past our property and connects our cul-de-sac with a main avenue. The alleyway is blocked off in two places to vehicles, but pedestrians freely use it as a shortcut.

So is Mark still away seeking the support timbers and whatever else he feels will be required? Or did he perhaps just get shanghaied by a call from one of his friends?

Obviously I have no idea.

My uncertainty is keeping me in the house as opposed to enjoying the sunshine out in the backyard...but so, too, is this blog post holding me back. As far too usual.

I shall leave this section detailing my day thus far by posting this image ─ the description beneath it is from the Google album where I have it filed:

A scanned photo from my brother Mark's album circa 1975.

Crouched at the left is Al Cotts; I am seated in the background, my head propped onto my fist; the very lovely lass is Mark's girlfriend of the time, Catherine Jeanette Gunther; and the blonde chap is Darrel Porteous.

Back when I was a young man as in that photo above where I was probably 24 or 25, I used to eat gluttonously when there was a big spread of food because I could not afford to eat all that well on my own ─ the 'feast or famine' mentality.

And so I was very familiar with heartburn / indigestion, and the commonplace medications to alleviate it that were available in the marketplace.

I stopped overeating like that once I was older, and indigestion has only ever rarely beset me, but only mildly.

As far as I know, back then there were no over-the-counter indigestion medications like the dangerous proton-pump inhibitors so many people gullibly resort to today.

I have posted warnings about this often enough, but the message needs to get out and be recognized and understood:




Yes, you may have taken PPIs with impunity in the past ─ as have many other people. But I bet every one of those victims of kidney failure also had no signs of trouble previously, either.

Just keep it up, and you'll probably get there. 


Will Monsanto never be fully taken to task for the harm it is doing to the entire world?

I don't have the will or time to belabour this today, but we have got to get away from the willy-nilly use of herbicides and pesticides:



We need to also get back to responsible farming methodology.


This final health topic is also one I recently posted about ─ a warning that use of a class of type 2 diabetes medications knows as SGLT2 inhibitors such as Invokana are leading to amputations:




The trend of late where just about all medications seem concerned is that newer is not better!


I am closing out today's post with a journal entry from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster. I was renting the little unit in a house located on Ninth Street, and about two houses up from Third Avenue.

For just a few weeks, I had been employed full-time on a three- or four-month contract with S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends), a New Westminster charitable organization for which I had worked in the past on a part-time basis as a truck swamper on their blue pick-up.

This time, however, I was one of less than a handful of hirees who were supposed to be getting trained to reupholster haggard donated furniture, but as yet that training had not been instituted ─ and we were dreadfully bored, for we had barely anything to do. It was sometimes nearly unbearable whiling away the hours.

S.A.N.E. is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society; back then, "the store" (as we referred to it) was located in an old building ─ now long demolished ─ that used to exist where the New Westminster SkyTrain Station presently spreads out onto Carnarvon Street. 

The day prior to this entry, an older former co-worker ─ Art Smith ─ had come by in the morning and lured me off from work on the pretext of a beer or two, and I ended up letting him commandeer me for the entire day. Art was most adept at dominating my will with his own to impress me into drinking with him.

I wrote in my journal that I had no idea when it was that I finally got back to my room and bed.
FRIDAY, June 4, 1976

I awoke about 6:45 a.m., without a hangover ─ I'm still drunk! But I had sense enough to vow ─ I shall not have even so much as one sip of any alcoholic beverage as long as I remain employed! 

Nor a toke! 

I swear!

I missed my allotted exercises last night, and this morning (the first skipping of my 400 abdominals since I regained my ability to perform after the operation).

When I got to S.A.N.E. Esther said I was going to be a regular on the truck hence; but I only laboured during the afternoon, and with Mike & Dwayne.

David dropped around for a while there.

I skipped lunch.

Art phoned to check me out.

Probably I lost yesterday's wages.

I felt kind of ill all day, and sleepy.

I picked up a $1.50 giant Spider-Man and a hardcover Ayesha by Haggard.

I came home, and plan now to try to sleep till Bill comes.

Bill came around 8:30 p.m.; he was going to visit Mark & Cathy, I guess, but took me to his place to watch TV. I cooked my mince pie there for tomorrow's breakfast.

Bedtime 11:15 p.m.
Back then, I had a morning ritual of performing 400 leg-raises. However, I had experienced a badly ruptured appendix in the latter part of February, I believe, that kept me in the hospital until into my 13th day. And even then, I had a drainage tube extending from my incision for at least a couple further days.

Thus, it was a fair while before I was capable of even doing a leg-raise, let alone building myself back up to 400 of them. 

Esther St. Jean ─ a very dear woman in her early 40s ─ generally drove the S.A.N.E. pick-up truck. I am now unsure, but Mike may have been Mike Schutz, a very tall, lean fellow about my age; and Dwayne Johnston or Johnson was a nice, good-looking young man whose sister and I had almost become a couple back in 1974, I believe. The sister ─ Evelyn ─ was a beautiful young creature. Virginal, I have no doubt, for she was at least seven years younger than I was at the time.

I cared too much for her to allow myself to become physically intimate with her, and ultimately my hesitancy in such commitment was misinterpreted ─ with some meddling assistance from Heinz Kirchner, an older German chap who got me to admit to him one time while we were drinking that I did sometimes wonder if Evelyn might have a predisposition to her mother's weight problem. Evelyn's mother Shirley was well over 300 pounds, I would say.

I wondered of the predisposition, sure; but I never worried about it. I had no doubt that Evelyn had no intention of ever ballooning up to her mother's size.

It was the fact that I was 24, and she possibly as young as 16 ─ how could I possibly trifle in a sexual dalliance with someone so vulnerable and trusting of me? I could not.

But Heinz trotted back to the pair of them and said that this weight-gain was my great fear, and it was what was keeping me from commitment.

I could not deny that the conversation had come up when I was confronted over it, but it was impossible for me to clarify what I had actually said. Their own doubts of me were far too enormous to accept that anything else could be true.  

And so, hurtful and uncomfortable as it was for me, I had to walk away ─ with mother and daughter believing the negativity about me that they had been imagining, and which Heinz had falsely confirmed.

Anyway, back to the journal entry. It was my old friend Philip David Prince who stopped by "the store" to see me. David had a room he rented in New Westminster, but we didn't see too much of one another ─ I tended to avoid him, even though I had known him since junior high school.

I expect that Art Smith realized that we had done one heck of a lot of drinking, so he made a call to see how I was faring.

I still have that hardcover book Ayesha that someone had donated.

After I was back at my room for the day, it was my old friend William Alan Gill who was to stop by and take me back to the bachelor suite he was renting, probably little more than four blocks from my room. Apart from a car, Bill had a nice colour television, so it was a treat to watch shows on it ─ I only had a smaller black & white model.

He had planned to go and visit my younger brother Mark and Mark's girlfriend Catherine Jeanette Gunther ─ the couple were renting a home together in Whalley; but I suppose that finding me willing to spend time with him back at his suite was a better option.

Well, here it is 4:45 p.m., and Mark never did come home and get a nap. Consequently, when he comes home later on from the bar, there is no doubt in my mind that I can expect him to be passing out once he seats himself in his chair in the living room to watch some T.V. with me.

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