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Saturday, June 10, 2017

Striking Benefits of Walking as an Exercise │ Lamentations by the Medical Profession That Too Many Seniors Refuse Blood Pressure Medication

Is this the fifth consecutive day in which I have been dealing with a vague eyestrain-style headache? ─ or at least a headache that feels like that?

I don't feel like making a post today. I am short on sleep, quite apart from not feeling hale; and I suppose these factors have helped put me into a depressive frame of mind. Suicidal, actually.

If not for so many responsibilities, I might just have let go today.

With my wife Jack home last evening from Vancouver, I knew that my vague headache was not going to have the chance to be put to bed early with the hope of a decent night's sleep as a restorative balm.

My younger brother Mark had arrived home ahead of her last evening by a few hours. In fact, she didn't make it home until just after 11:00 p.m.

And just prior to 11:00 p.m. ─ after Mark had roused from where he was passed out in his chair in front of the living room T.V. ─ he had staggered himself upstairs to his bedroom. I am sure that he just intended a pee after not having had the chance during his cerebral obliteration, but he must have entirely forgotten that peeing was his sole reason for being upstairs, and he just went to bed.

Neither of Jack's two sons were home when she showed up, and both slept elsewhere overnight.

I planned to hie myself to bed at one point while Jack was having an extended stay in the bathroom, but she emerged just before I made my play. Fortunately, she then was soon downstairs and doing something in the kitchen, so that was when I made my bid to 'hit the hay.'

It was 12:13 a.m., but I would not find it any kind of surprise if it was proven that I was still awake an hour later. However, I think that she went to bed before that. I just was not managing efficient sleep.

And so it went all night ─ far too many wakeful periods. I even rose once to use the bathroom and try to irrigate my sere nasal passageways, one of which was partially blocked.

It was in the neighbourhood of 7:30 a.m. this morning that I peered at the clock-radio and decided to get up, despite feeling ill-rested.

I am still involved in supplying content to a post at my Siam-Longings website, so I got busy with that. Mark was anon to rise and get a load of laundry begun downstairs.

Despite my late start on the post, I actually accomplished all of the work on it that I expected of myself for today before Jack had risen.

Yesterday I only managed half of what I should have gotten done that day, so I still feel that I owe myself that little bit more. However, this morning the eyestrain was too severe for me to care to inflict the extra burden upon myself.

Around 11:00 a.m. Mark returned to his bedroom for a nap; and I actually shut myself up here in the tiny bedroom that serves as my cramped computer room, and I lied down upon the floor with the thought in mind to try and nap. Jack had still not yet risen.

Unfortunately, I was unable to relax sufficiently. Instead, I decided to try and sit out in the backyard and just vegetate. The day was mostly overcast all morning, but there had been the occasional extended sunny break.

Once I was outside, though, I deemed it to be too uncomfortably cool.

So I finally settled upon having a mug of black instant coffee, and tuning in a movie via our Android TV Box. I wanted something light in nature, for such movies tend to be shorter than action or science fiction movies.

I settled upon Fist Fight. Jack had risen by this point; and soon, Mark was done with his nap.

I found the movie rather engaging, although none of the main cast are of any particular appeal to me. I thought that Mark might choose to sit in on the show, too; but instead, he readied himself and then left for the day. If all goes well, he will be spending tonight at the home of his girlfriend Bev.

After my movie, I did a little bit of backyard work, and found myself uncomfortable about how limiting the somewhat painful pressure within my head was anytime I had to bend over. My eyes are also bad ─ it is a struggle to bear the day, even an overcast one.

I returned to the house just ahead of a rain shower that may have lasted over a half-hour.

Jack was busy in the kitchen.

I knew that the day was a write-off for me where concerned any exercise at all, so I embraced the reality that I should just release any such burdensome notion, and maybe get back into another light movie.

This time I selected Table 19.

I was to find myself growing to like the main 'heroine' played by Anna Kendrick, and also got fond of the other characters at Table 19.

Two of the characters seated at that table were a married couple drifting apart who had not had sexual relations in at least three years. Naturally, late into the movie they were beginning to find one another and the love they both had thought was lost.

This sort of sentimentality affects me deeply. And although I was rooting for them, and then keenly happy when they were once more bonding, it made my own reality that much more painful.

I long for my own fairy-tale happy ending, but there is no trite way for it to ever happen without a financial miracle. So bittersweet as it was for me to enjoy the fictional happiness of the troubled couple, it only made me ponder my life's unhappy finish as being all the more inevitable.

I had to pause the movie just before it concluded in order to see my wife off until the next time she makes an appearance from Vancouver. If I remember correctly, she was on her way by 3:18 p.m.

That freed me up to witness the completion of the movie, after which I fixed up my third mug of caffeine-themed fuel to stave off any urge to foolishly nap and therewith ruin my chance of retiring reasonably early this evening and successfully sleeping.

And I began today's post here.

I leave this section now with this old image. The description beneath it is from the Google album where I have the image filed:

A scanned photo from my mother Irene Dorosh's collection.

She had something of a doll collection that she was quite proud of, and this was one of her population.

The photo was clearly taken around Christmastime, but I cannot estimate a year. I am unable even to certainly identify which home the setting for this photo is.

My inclination is to identify that the setting is the home that she shared with her husband Alex in Keremeos, B.C., in the final years of their lives, but I may well be wrong.

I need to soon turn my back upon wasting my days sitting here blogging for the hours that I do. I need to get back into at least walking, even though there is nowhere inspiring nor pleasurable to walk.

The following article speaks of two recent studies that found great benefits in walking ─ there should be sufficient inspiration for most people who are less active than they realize that they should be:


I was successful in locating a couple of further reports on each of the two studies referred to in that article, so let us begin with the first study that focused upon walking's effects upon vascular cognitive impairment (VCI):



And now a couple of reports on the second study detailing how walking enhances well-being in healthy adults ─ well-being that the adults themselves laid claim to:



Maybe I am just fooling myself. My locale is so unpalatable, I cannot seriously imagine regularly exposing myself to the unpleasant experience of being out there. I have no fields or wooded trails to enjoy ─ just miles and miles of busy streets in all directions, with homes and buildings and people of all descriptions everywhere.

There is no peace or serenity. Meditative thought is impossible.

And as I sit here listening to the brown hound barking and barking as it has been doing for several hours out just beyond our backyard fence, I feel less and less like carrying on with the life that I have. 

I am helpless and trapped, and it seems that there is really but one escape.

I would love to take a sledge hammer to that hound first, though. It has mercilessly abused me with its booming, intrusive noise for over four years, and I am losing my shaky grip on what sanity I have. The sorry truth is that this beast is one of the biggest stressors of my life in this house. 


I have one further Jack Harrison article ─ it's a commentary upon a recent report that he obviously read relating to a study on the large percentage of seniors who are not compliant about taking hypertension medication:


I had to do some digging to come up with the UPI.com article he was making reference to, but this would have to be it: Study: 1 in 3 hypertension patients don't take their medicine.

That $100 billion a year claim is not new. A 2005 study by Lars Osterberg, M.D., and Terrence Blaschke, M.D., titled Adherence to Medication cited it, and gave four even earlier references for the figure as footnotes to this statement:
Of all medication-related hospital admissions in the United States, 33 to 69 percent are due to poor medication adherence, with a resultant cost of approximately $100 billion a year.
These were the footnotes:
  • McDonnell PJ, Jacobs MR. Hospital admissions resulting from preventable adverse drug reactions. Annals of Pharmacotherapy 2002; 36:1331-6.
  • Senst BL, Achusim LE, Genest RP, et al. Practical approach to determining costs and frequency of adverse drug events in a health care network. American Journal of Health-System Pharmacy 2001; 58:1126-32.
  • Levy G, Zamacona MK, Jusko WJ. Developing compliance instructions for drug labeling. Clinical Pharmacology & Therapeutics 2000; 68:586-91.
  • Berg JS, Dischler  J, Wagner DJ, Raia  JJ, Palmer-Shevlin  N. Medication compliance: a healthcare problemAnnals of Pharmacotherapy 1993; 27:Suppl 9:S1-S24.
If that last footnote quoted the very same $100 billion annual figure, then we have gone back to 1993. Has the cost remained that stable since then?

Well, I don't care.

Heck, I don't even know what my blood pressure is, and I don't give a fig about it. Consequently, the Pharmaceutical Industry will never have my financial support for their toxic madness.


The second half of the afternoon became rather sunny.

I am in a foul place where mood and emotion are concerned today, as ought to be starkly apparent in the statements I have made through this post. The best thing for me would have been to have just tuned in various rousing adventure movies and lost myself in drunkenness, but I cannot afford to drink like that.

I will see how the evening progresses for me ─ that is, whether I need to break from the one can of strong (8% alcohol) beer I have allowed myself since about mid-February, and maybe have one or two more.

Why does that damned dog not get silenced?! Its owners are vilely criminal to subject a neighbour to this harassment and abuse.   

I am ending today's bleak 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 affair in a house located on Ninth Street, and about two houses up from Third Avenue.

I had recently begun working full-time on a three- or four-month contract with a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today known as Fraserside Community Services Society

Back in those years, S.A.N.E. ─ known to employees as "the store" ─ was housed in an old building on Carnarvon Street. The building no longer exists, but it was situated approximately where today's New Westminster SkyTrain Station spreads forth onto Carnarvon Street.

I was serving as a swamper on S.A.N.E.'s blue pick-up truck, which was usually driven by a wonderful woman in her early 40s named Esther St. Jean.

But before I offer that journal entry, I want to say that my mood has become a whole lot better. In fact, I feel almost lifted, and will definitely be having several beers this evening.


Well, at about 6:30 p.m. as I was finishing typing that sentence about "ending today's bleak post," my youngest stepson Poté spoke up from this room's doorway, saying, "Here you go."

I turned to see what he meant, and lo! He proffered me a dozen ice-cold cans of one of the two brands of the strong beer that I try and keep myself supplied with.

There was no reason for him to have done this ─ it was some spontaneous act.

And it makes me feel...well, cared about. Less alone.

As a result, I will be finishing out today in far better spirits than I dreamed could be possible for me. The day is actually finishing in a most positive fashion.

Maybe I'll give the 19-year-old a hug a little later.

Okay, that journal entry now:
THURSDAY, June 10, 1976

I got up nigh 5:45 a.m., quite rested, I guess ─ at least for me.

I laundered, buying ($1.50) the Bantam pocketbook The Seedbearers by Peter Valentine Timlett

I feel secure in predicting periods of rain today. (It turned out very sunny in the afternoon.)

Dwayne & I, at his instigation, took off about 2:30 p.m. to his place; he wanted to borrow $10 from Eugene. Anyway, the upshot was I bought 3 cases of beer for them, and resisting their offers to join them and skip returning to S.A.N.E., I went back and found Esther (it was past 4:00 p.m.) reasonably upset.

Dwayne was docked half a day's wages, I guess.

So Took & I finished the last calls. I told him from now on I'd alternate swamping duty with him.

I picked up some books, including one on vitamin E for Bill's mom.

I'm leaving for mom's via Scott Road so as to buy a chuck steak at International Meats, and hoping mom coming home from work will see and pick me up; departure, 7:25 p.m. 

Phyllis with Sherry and an unseen guy saw me at 6th St; she asked me to the Pyrogy House with them, but I declined, requesting in turn she pick me up while going home if she saw me.

So I had 2 ride possibilities.

And last night Bill impressed me with the possibility of picking me up tonight at mom's.

But my Scott Road trek was for naught, the meat store being closed, no sight of Phyllis, and my getting to mom's before she. Alex said I had just missed Mark & Jeanette.

My mail were stamp offers, a $5 course offer for the $20 Tensile Contraction body-building system, Canadian Big 4 Amateur Football Conference lottery ticket coupons, and Howard's Black Vulmea's Vengeance from S.&S.F. Book Co.

Apparently mom's infection has been paralleling mine, and jogging was inconsiderable. My weight seems to be hanging near the 190 mark, suffer though I do. I'm sore.

Bed about 11:35 p.m.
I would have laundered that morning at a laundromat that I think was up on Sixth Avenue near the public library.

Dwayne Johnston or Johnson was a good-looking young fellow who was apparently younger than I remembered, if he was not old enough to buy his own beer ─ the age to do so was and still is 19. I have no memory of "Eugene." 

"Took" was an older-than-me Indigenous Canadian ─ there were actually quite a few working at S.A.N.E., and I liked the lot.

The references to Bill were of my old friend William Alan Gill, who was renting a bachelor suite maybe four blocks from my room.

My mother Irene Dorosh was an evening office janitress, so my thought was that she might see me on her way home once she had finished her cleaning.

Normally, the hike to her home out in the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey would take me about 1½ hours. The little home she shared with her husband Alex was my main mailing address; and although it no longer exists today, its address was 12106 - 90th Avenue.

It was my older maternal half-sister Phyllis who crossed my path early into that hike long before I had even left New Westminster or gotten to the Pattullo Bridge. Sherry was and still is her daughter. I guess there must have been some male presence deep into the car whom I noticed but never clearly saw. 

My usual route to my mother's home involved taking the railway tracks soon after I crossed over the bridge into Surrey ─ the tracks were just a short distance along Scott Road from the bridge. I would take to them and follow them all the way to where they met the intersection of 99th Avenue & Scott Road, probably saving me one or even two miles of highway hiking ─ Scott Road was dreadfully busy.

By taking to the railway tracks after entering Surrey and then accessing Scott Road at 99th Avenue, I would enjoy a hike through quiet, mainly wooded, terrain instead of braving the infernal highway.  

However, I have no recollection of where International Meats was located.

Anyway, this day I ended up having to do the full Scott Road hike, and would not have enjoyed it.

When I arrived at my destination, Alex told me that my younger brother Mark and Mark's girlfriend Catherine Jeanette Gunther had just recently left from a visit.

As for my mail, the notices of stamps were notifications of new Canadian commemoratives ─ I preferred to use commemorative stamps on my mail instead of boring definitives. I still own that Robert E. Howard hardcover.

My usual body-weight for most of my adult life has been in the lower 180-pound range, although yesterday I registered around 186 pounds ─ fairly close to my weight 41 years ago.

Interestingly, I do not actually say whether or not Bill showed up as he said he might, driving me back to New Westminster. Did I ride...or walk all the way back to my room?

Okay, time to proofread this, publish it, and then get at that beer and some Android TV Box entertainment!

By the way, that damned hound has still not been quietened. 
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