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Wednesday, July 26, 2017

💀 ☠ Takotsubo ─ or 'Broken Heart' ─ Syndrome

My wife Jack went off to have lunch with her friend Fanta in Langley yesterday, and never returned here to our home in the Whalley area of Surrey. Neither did she text nor phone me.

After my younger brother Mark got home in the evening, he probably spent about a half-hour unconscious during an episode of Wynonna Earp that I had tuned in; but he went up to his bedroom around 10:40 p.m., which isn't particularly late for him.

He still has to work, so he keeps his clock-radio set of 4:30 a.m.

Just before he left the living room, however, my youngest stepson Poté texted me and asked that I not lock the front door ─ he would be arriving home in about 15 minutes, he said.

Then once Mark removed himself for the night, I threw all self-esteem out the window and sat up late here at my computer, not finally getting to bed until somewhere between 1:30 a.m. and 2:00 a.m.

Perhaps I truly am a lost soul, and of no intrinsic worth in the eyes of God.

It was 7:00 a.m. when I checked the time this morning and rose for the day. I was to find that Poté had gone to work; but although the door to his older brother Tho's sleeping area was closed ─ the sure indicator that the bum hadn't gone to work ─ the laundry facilities are also beyond that door, and they were in use.

The brothers tend to shut the door when they are running the washer and / or dryer because the noise interferes with anything they might be doing in their den area, such as using their computer.

So it was a toss-up as to whether or not he was also shut in beyond that door.

I busied myself with the editing I started yesterday of an old post at my hosted website Siam-Longings. And then at 9:44 a.m. I heard him ─ Tho ─ scrounging about in the kitchen.

He had indeed stayed home to rob me of my day home alone.

I never got any exercise yesterday because I was too sleep-deprived after he rapped on my bedroom door at 6:10 a.m. to rouse his overnighted mother to get her up and drive his lazy ass to the SkyTrain.

He works off in Burnaby.

But I think that it's disgusting that a 22-year-old who's into bodybuilding still would do this to his mother, rather than be bothered to catch his usual bus to get to the SkyTrain.

Hell, I got myself to the SkyTrain for over 15 years when I had to use it to get to work in Vancouver and then in Burnaby. I walked to get to it. And for about a year in the latter 1990s, I even cycled to it, and then back home again at the end of a long day ─ just about a five-mile trip, one way.

But that young lout won't even walk the mile to reach it.

Yes, it disgusts me.

But I need to drop this subject ─ it's riling me up too much.

As I said, I never exercised yesterday, so I wanted to do so today. And thus at about 11:45 a.m., I was out in the backyard tool shed for that essential activity.

It had almost gotten too warm and muggy.

Once the exercise session was done, I smartly moved on to a sunning session on the backyard sundeck. This was commenced at 12:17 p.m., and I called it quits at 1:31 p.m. However, I seemed to have lost tabs on between five to 10 minutes, for I sunned longer than I had expected to be sunning.

In fact, I actually expected that I was going to be lucky to have endured an hour out there, and I anticipated that I was probably looking at having to put in two or three further minutes; I never dreamed that I would have racked up the 74 minutes that I did.

Regardless, I was then cleared to have my first meal of the day ─ some of the fare that had been prepared by my wife Jack yesterday.

It was good that I sunned when I did. Towards mid-afternoon, I saw that the sky was largely clouding over, and sunning was to have become unfeasible.

I recollect from yesterday that the weather forecast for Wednesday was that it would be marked with considerable cloud, if not even some rain showers; but Thursday was to be sunny again. This made Wednesday seem to be an ideal day to be making a beer replenishment hike.

Anyway, that about brings me up to the present at 4:23 p.m.

I want now to post the following scan of a photo ─ the description beneath it is from the Google album where I have the scan saved:

This is a photo from the collection of my mother Irene Dorosh.

There are no details giving any clue as to dating or location.

I am unsure even of the subject ─ she may be a friend of my mother's whose only name I can recall was 'Ida.'

If I was pressed to date the photograph, I would speculate that it was taken anywhere from about 1975 to 1985.
It is profoundly painful to lose a parent or any other immediate family member. My nuclear family only consisted of my parents, and my younger brother Mark and I; both of our parents are gone, so there remain just he and I.

We have both a living older maternal half-sister and half-brother, but they were unfortunately not a part of our nuclear family when Mark and I grew up because our father wanted little to do with another man's children.

Foster care was their fate.

Due to that separation from them over so many key years in the lives of Mark and I, their kinship is at the same emotional level as would be cousins.

As a result, if Mark was to die today, I would consider myself the final member of my nuclear family, and I would also feel quite alone in the world.

I never had a child; and Mark's only child is a 23-year-old daughter who only rarely visits. She lives in Washington State, and has for many years. That is where her social world is.

With Mark's passing ─ as bloody annoying as he tends to be to me ─ I would not feel to have much in the way of ties to this world anymore.

Yes, despite being married.

Oh, I love my wife, but she is no longer the best friend I originally deemed her to be. She has distanced herself from me, and I have assisted in developing that chasm that now exists between us.

Unfortunately, neither of us are 'talkers,' so differences have pretty much just been left to fester.

There are other issues at play that I have no intention of touching today.

I have to admit that Mark's existence is the main tether keeping me alive. If he dies before I do, then my familial responsibility where he is concerned is done, and I will not feel obligated to continue living my pointless life.

This is a very roundabout introduction to the topic of a condition known as Takotsubo syndrome (TTS), but which is better known as broken heart syndrome.

It's now accepted as a 'real thing' ─ people can literally be so overcome with loss in their lives that their hearts will fail. I read one claim that of all the heart attack cases that result in a trip to a hospital and its cardiac section, maybe as many as 6% to 7% are due to this condition.

The following two reports concern themselves with the most recent research:



It certainly seems logical to me that losses can have a cumulative effect on any one person's heart; and the older that person grows, the more likely the damage.

If Mark and I were not living under the same roof, then I think that we would grow apart. For example, if he insists on breaking up the household once he retires by pushing to have the house sold, then I believe that it would define a distinct forking in our lives' pathway.

I would certainly not get an apartment with him; nor would I get one with my wife and her sons ─ I have had enough of living 'cheek and jowl' with those two young men. It's bad enough living with them in this house ─ an apartment would be impossible.

If I find myself living entirely on my own, I expect that it will be how my days will end.

I would have no reason to be visiting Mark, nor my stepsons. And Jack spends almost all of her time downtown in Vancouver; so even if she had an apartment with her sons, she wouldn't likely be home at all often for me to visit even if I wanted to.

So if the house is to be sold, then I feel that there would be an irreparable rift or tear in the combining fabric which presently commingles the whole of our lives within this household.

Mark has his girlfriend and his drinking buddies. Jack has innumerable friends ─ many I have never even met. And my stepsons have their girlfriends and all of their various friends.

I would only have myself...and that is not enough. Heck, it's not enough now ─ I detest myself, I'm so unspeakably weak.

Enough of this talk for now.

I finish today's post with a journal entry of mine from 41 years ago when I was 26 years old, and living in a basement housekeeping unit in New Westminster.  

I was renting in a private home located on Ninth Street, and about two houses up from Third Avenue.

I might have been five or six weeks into a three-month contract of full-time employment with a New Westminster charitable organization called S.A.N.E. (Self Aid Never Ends) that is today called Fraserside Community Services Society.

I was employed as a swamper on their blue pick-up truck, which was generally driven by Esther St. Jean ─ an endearing woman in her early 40s.

Back then, S.A.N.E. was housed in an old building on Carnarvon Street. That old building has long since been demolished, but in those years it was situated where today the New Westminster SkyTrain Station opens up onto Carnarvon Street.

My associations with S.A.N.E. stretched back into 1974, I believe, for I sometimes worked for them on a very part-time basis.
MONDAY, July 26, 1976

I had a very interesting night, sleeping as well as if I were ill, and sweating and dreaming; it was nigh 7:40 a.m. when I got up.

I'll get my two letters mailed on my way to S.A.N.E.

I've been thinking that a gymnast would be an ideal mate physically, but I've come to feel attraction for track & field athletes ─ Dianne Jones in particular, Canada's Pentathlon hope.

Gilles chose this cloudy morn to put in time (it cleared in the afternoon).

I did a bit of work before lunch, and that was it.

Dave Prince came around; he won't be moving to 1st St.

I felt pathetically weak by the time I got home ─ as usual; so I went to bed and napped till about 6:45 p.m.

The Pentathlon ended, and Dianne Jones was 6th.

Though only Alex is there, I'm leaving for a mail check at 7:40 p.m.

It was perhaps 9:10 p.m. when I arrived, at dusk; the lights were all out, and the car garaged. I deduced Alex to be abed, so didn't get to my mail. Instead I went to the back and ate some black currants and raspberries, then at 9:30 p.m. I headed home, arriving after considerable running about 9:18 p.m. [Obviously I meant 10:18 p.m.]

After catching my breath I performed 57 push-ups.

A couple weeks back on at least 2 occasions I managed 18 chin-ups; but 17 has lately been my best.

Bed at 11:15 p.m.
I had been quite caught up in those Summer Olympics. I see that I misspelled Diane Jones's first name, but of course there was no Internet back then to check these things out. Nor did I have a newspaper subscription so I could have possibly referred to the sports section.

It is interesting to me that I was feeling drawn to an athletic woman. Just today while I was out in the backyard, I was thinking about how profoundly blessed it would be to become involved with an athletic-minded woman who would easily be the catalyst to getting me back on my feet (so to speak) and into an extremely active lifestyle like I once had.

I don't think I have it within me to go it on my own any longer ─ I have grown too old and sedentary. I need a companion, even though I never did before. I always pursued all of my athletic endeavours entirely on my own because I had no friends of a like mind.

There seemed to be days at S.A.N.E. where I did little else but read.

"Gilles" was a French Canadian lad whom I had worked with in the past at S.A.N.E., but he tended to talk far too much for my comfort.

Philip David Prince was an old friend I had first come to know back in the 1962 / 1963 school term when we both started Grade Ⅷ at Newton Junior High School out in Surrey.

Despite being so sleepy (once I was back at my room for the day) that I had to nap, I then undertook the long trek out to the Kennedy Heights area of Surrey to check for mail at the home of my mother Irene Dorosh and her husband Alex.

My mother was away on a holiday to visit her family back in Ontario where she grew up. I always felt awkward around Alex when it was just the two of us, but I evidently decided to make the hike anyway.

Although their home no longer exists, its address was 12106 - 90th Avenue. To hike there from my room at a goodly pace would take about 1½ hours. Such was the case that evening, but it was all for naught ─ all of the indications were that Alex had gone to bed.

Even if I had a telephone, I probably would not have phoned him first. But at least I got some delicious berries from the lush backyard garden they had.

I did some running to get back to my room, cutting my time down to about 48 minutes from the typical 1½ hours the walk would have taken.

I am glad that I mentioned those totals for push-ups and chin-ups. I was always a stickler for doing them using a full range of motion ─ no cheats for me. I was in it for the strain of a perfect performance.

Yes, it would be priceless to have an athletic female involved in my daily life now. I would literally owe my life to her, for she would be my salvation.

And I know it.
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